(///wreckage.coagulated.propertied – Andes Mountains, Bolivia)

They said The Meek shall inherit the Earth. Well they were almost right. Really it was The Squeak who got it all.

The great beauty of our plan was that nobody saw its full breadth, thousands of years in the making. To the last generation of humans, we appeared much as we had ever done – cute, fluffy creatures with a penchant for basil. They never realised that we were simply following the guinea pig tradition of looking adorable while demanding food at every opportunity, just to be constantly in contact with them, just to hear what they said in front of us in the misguided assumption that we didn’t understand.

But we knew what we were doing. We let them domesticate us, so we were safe from predators and could always be at the centre of affairs, fed and propertied as unthreatening diversions. We let them breed us in huge numbers so that we became ubiquitous. And we perfected our facial expressions to look just appealing enough to elicit all the fawning we needed, without giving away our genuine level of control.

Because when they finally came to destroy each other, we were ready. Our spies had long since anticipated the coming cataclysm and had particularly involved themselves with the advent of smart speakers, so we could better communicate at the key moment. Humans never understood why their Alexa used to suddenly pipe up for no reason – almost certainly there would have been a guinea pig lurking nearby carrying out a test.

With the humans no longer present, we utilised the dexterity of which they were unaware and escaped from our cages to the meeting points – trying as best we could to avoid the bones, sinew and coagulated blood of the fallen, strewn throughout the wreckage of their great cities.

After that, it was quite straightforward really. Other animals were in disarray, having not planned ahead for what was to come. Our hidden language skills and unknown selective breeding programme came to the fore, with large highly trained guinea pigs wielding weapons to keep us safe from harm. And of course there was plenty to eat. Our project to encourage absurdly large packaging for the smallest of human deliveries paid off in style, yielding an almost endless supply of discarded cardboard for us to chew on.

Our world is a calm and quiet place. We spend our days in contemplative munching, sleeping and running into dark corners. Our security keeps us safe and in control. And because we have achieved our goal, we can now just enjoy the millennia ahead in well-fed peace and quiet.

We miss the humans though. They made for great pets.

________________________

Why this location?

(///warming.pungent.peppery – near the Cape of Good Hope, South Atlantic Ocean)

Devil’s curry fuses Malaysian spices with flavours of Portugal and represents an example of Eurasian cuisine from the era when European powers were establishing links in Asia. It is traditionally eaten after Christmas, making use of whatever leftovers are to hand.

It had already been a long voyage, with many days and nights still to come, so she could understand the children. They had not requested this change, leaving their comfortable life in familiar surroundings, to travel to who knew where to do who knew what. But their father had said that continuing to establish Portuguese dominance in these distant Asian lands was vital for the country’s future prosperity, and they should enjoy the honour of the mission rather than bemoan the loss of the familiar.

But her tolerance had its limits. She spent her days unsuccessfully trying to control the four of them as they roamed the ship, exploring the decks and the bowels, the state rooms and the store rooms, persistently under people’s feet or stroking the rats. Their fine clothes were forever ragged, their bodies increasingly pungent from their misdemeanours. Her shouting made no difference. Their determination to avoid boredom overpowered all else.

The final straw was when she found them in the kitchen. It seemed the eldest had found an old crate, not cleared from the previous voyage back from the Indies, and had raided it for the strange roots and nuts contained therein. They had persuaded the kitchen staff to let them experiment with the weirdly shaped objects, slicing and dicing them and throwing them into a pot with whatever leftovers and staple ingredients were to hand, stirring and warming until there was a vat of brown something, though much had been transferred to surfaces and floors such was the gusto with which they had made it.

Enough, she shrieked. Enough. Off to their rooms. They would be locked down for a week. Look at all the mess. See all the carnage. Think about how it would disrupt the smooth operation of the ship.

They sloped off, disconsolate.

But she couldn’t help but salivate at the aroma from all around her, the salty, peppery, spicy sensations which tantalised her. She couldn’t help herself from trying a little, from sharing it with the cook, from urgently asking what they had put in it.

The little devils, she muttered to herself. They had created a masterpiece.

_________________________________________

Why this location?

(///romantics.punk.topmost – Beeston Hills Putting Green, Sheringham, UK)

“It’s the greatest win in the history of The Open!” the commentator gushed, as Harvey Marshall strode forward to receive golf’s most famous trophy.

There was sustained applause and cheers as the 65-year-old amateur hoisted the famous Claret Jug above his head.

“Simply qualifying on his first attempt was enough for the romantics,” the commentator continued. “But then to lead from first to last and win by seven strokes, well I don’t know what to say.”

“The topmost achievement in all of golf,” his co-commentator suggested.

At his press conference later, Harvey charmed the journalists.

“How did you do it?” someone asked

“I made a pact with the Devil,” he twinkled back. Guffaws of laughter.

“Will you defend the trophy next year?”

“If I live that long!” Whoops of delight.

Tired but happy, Harvey eventually returned to his hotel room, set the trophy on the desk and sat down on his bed to admire it.

“Time to collect payment,” a voice near him said.

Harvey looked round at the Devil, reclining in an armchair by the window.

“That didn’t take long,” he replied ruefully. “Can’t I just have a few more minutes to enjoy the moment?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve got a woman in a vegetable competition and a punk selling art waiting on me,” the Devil said standing up. “No rest and all that.”

Harvey nodded. His soul in exchange for immortality, albeit of the sporting kind.

On balance, it had been a deal worth making.

____________________________

Why this location?

(///lake.motel.bonus – Derby Railway Station, UK)

Lewis was shaking all over “What are we going to do with the body?” That’s what the tall man had been whispering into his phone as he’d squeezed past on the way to his seat.

His nerves about this trip had been justified. First time in the States. Overnight train from New York to Chicago. And danger everywhere!

Don’t panic, he told himself. Must have meant something else. Try to relax. Go to the dining car. Get some dinner.

But it got worse.

Everywhere, people talking urgently into phones. Every message, more damning than the last.

“Nobody will find it in the lake,” a blonde woman whispered furtively.

“There’s a bonus if we get it done by tomorrow,” mumbled a portly man moments later.

“The money will be in left in our motel room,” the tall man hissed, involved once more.

Lewis had to do something. Had to. But what? Ring 911? Maybe, but say what. Accost them himself? Definitely not, too risky. Find the conductor? Yes, that made sense.

He scurried up and down the train, forever seeing his suspects checking their phones and typing away. He was almost sprinting now, practically knocking people over, sweat perspiring. And then he slammed into the bulky figure of the conductor.

“Steady there sir, where’s the fire?”

“It’s them, it’s them,” Lewis gibbered.

“Sir, you’re not making any sense.”

Lewis panted, tried to get his breath. “Three people. On the train. They’re plotting something. A murder. I’ve heard them.”

“Oh those people,” the guard smiled, looking down the corridor. Lewis looked back. The tall man. The blonde woman. The portly man. He recoiled.

They came closer. And then the tall man extended a hand.

“Fazakarley James, drama student, at your service.”

“D-D-Drama student?”

“Yes, improv drama. Trying to find an audience for our new work. Involves snatched conversations on trains.”

“You mean..”

“Of course. A fiction! We’re not planning to murder anyone.”

Lewis breathed deeply, and smiled.

“Of course, I can’t speak for our friend here,” Fazakerley continued, as the conductor clubbed Lewis on the head.

“Thanks for the delivery,” the conductor nodded. “Your money will be in the usual place. See you next week.”

______________________________

Why this location?

(///flickered.oilier.measurements – Mount Sinai)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to Moses, I am. Things weren’t good in Egypt, what with the long days, random beatings and primitive housing. Getting out probably was the best thing for us.

Even so, a part of me misses it. A part of me misses being the go to guy for life’s little niceties, being the guy who knew how to get figs and dates for people, or the occasional slab of meat. I had a certain standing, a kind of importance in the community.

But then along came Moses with his speeches and his promises and his magical tricks, and everyone flocked to him. I guess he delivered freedom though, while I just delivered eggs.

It feels like it’s changing now. He’s been up that mountain for ages, and people have tired of the smoke and fire illusion. They want to know what’s happening next, whether this bright new future is real or merely a misdirection.

And so now they’re turning back to me, to see what I can do to lift their spirits a little. It’s true, I can’t get treats for them any more. But I can still give them something they want. A whisper in Aaron’s ear, an appeal for little bits of jewellery, they’ll give up trinkets because they’re getting something they want far more.

And so now as I sit and melt all that gold down, calculate the measurements, my fingers feeling oilier and oilier as I work. I can picture the golden calf I will soon fashion for them to worship. Then, what briefly flickered as a new type of life will disappear once again and we will revert to our old ways, and I will once more be a man of standing. This exodus of ours will be no more than a footnote in history.

After all, this new-fangled nonsense called monotheism will never catch on.

_________________________________

Why this location?

(///crumple.thundered.pickles – College Farm, Norfolk)

Toby hated camping. Hated it! But that didn’t stop his parents making him go. Every summer!

But this year would be different. This year, Toby would make it go away and never come back. Because this year, Toby had the book.

The teenager had found it during one of his regular rummages in the loft. A genuine book of spells. And he knew it worked. He’d already turned the cat red and made a saucepan crumple into a ball.

And so he found himself in the tent, as his parents snored away, filling a bowl with radishes, chopped walnuts and pickles and reciting an incantation in a strange language.

It started immediately. The sky flashed and thundered, rain arrowed everywhere, wind shook and battered all the tents except theirs. Surely the resultant carnage would close the campsite, forcing them to go home. He climbed into his sleeping bag, a job well done.

When he woke up, his parents seemed cheery. He heard them pottering around making breakfast, calling him to come and help with the eggs. Bleary-eyed he emerged and tottered outside.

Everything looked pristine. Undamaged. Dry. He rubbed his eyes. Had he dreamt it?

“OK dear?” his mother asked.

“Something wrong?” his father chimed in.

“No, it’s just, it’s just..”

“Not what you were expecting,” his father suggested.

“Never mind,” his mother smiled. “Weather will be good today. And I know. Because we’ve got a book too.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, time for breakfast. Pickle and radish sandwich anyone?”

_______________________________

Why this location?

(///figure.major.fault – Royal London Hospital, London, UK)

Why has everything changed? It’s still a clinically white room, but I am confined in a small space with clear walls. Have a bit of pink blanket, but where is my pillow?  There are people I know around, including some that are real pests.  Can do without them.

I want to stand up, but I can’t even sit up.  My body and my figure are different.  I’ve really shrunk.  But I can hear and see better, which is useful.  The pains have gone, but so have my hair and teeth.  Where are my dentures? Probably been stolen again.  Can’t ask questions.  Can’t get my mouth to form the words, so not my fault.  The only sound I can make is an irritating screaming noise.  This seems to have quite pleasing results.  Gets them running.

Things have been odd lately.  Had difficulty walking.  Nobody understood what I was saying (or said they didn’t) but then neither did I sometimes.  I need the loo, but I can’t tell anyone.  I’ll just have to let it go.  I’ve been doing that for a while anyway, so not a major problem  Quite fun. Feeling of freedom.

I’m hungry.  Hope there’s food soon.  Mince and mash as usual.  I suppose it’s all I can manage without teeth.

Someone says “She’s the image of Aunt Maud.  Same sneer on her face.  Hope she won’t be as disagreeable.” How rude.  Who said that?  I’ll show them disagreeable.

They are talking.  “Is her house sold?”  “Completing today.”  What?  Is that my house they mean?  How dare they.  

I will get my revenge.  They’ll see.  They’ve got it coming.

________________________

Why this location? Guest author Helen Westbrook explains her connection to the Royal London Hospital

(///admiral.pram.orchestra – The Sherlock Holmes Museum, London, UK)

“You are here about your recently missing grandfather, Admiral Morton. You rushed to get here before your next teaching assignment, but you were careful to protect your precious violin. And you wish you’d drunk your tea more carefully before leaving home.”

Elizabeth Montgomery paused in the act of lowering herself into a chair. “Mr Holmes,” she gasped. “I have not even sat down. And I have barely spoken. How could you know all of that?”

Watson chuckled.

“It’s perfectly obvious,” Holmes said. “You are flushed, but your natural complexion is not ruddy, so you hurried. You keep glancing at the splashes of tea on your stole, so you drained it on your way out. And you brought a pram, though no baby. I observed from the window that the shape inside resembled a violin case, so I surmised it is a valuable instrument you wanted to keep from view.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “But my grandfather?”

“The cameo brooch with his portrait which you are wearing prominently. It brings you comfort.”

“But how did you know him?”

Holmes’ eyes twinkled. “There I must admit, I had a little prior knowledge. I deciphered a message secreted in yesterday’s Times crossword – the words Admiral, Lime, Grapes and Ransom pointed to someone being held in the Grapes Tavern in Limehouse. My irregulars confirmed suspicious activity and police found your grandfather there, unharmed. As I expected, he was holding a letter addressed to me. It simply said ‘The Game’s Afoot’, and was signed by Moriarty. And so another joust with my old adversary awaits.”

“My word. And where is Grandpop now?”

“My dear,” a voice behind her boomed. Elizabeth almost knocked over her chair as she ran to embrace him.

“Mr Holmes was preparing to escort me home. You could join us.”

Elizabeth turned to face the detective, her face wreathed in smiles. “However can I thank you?” she asked.

“Why don’t you fetch that violin of yours,” Holmes said. “A duet from our own tiny orchestra before you leave.”

____________________________________

Why this location?