MEMORIES

Jared Adamsom comes to town, singing The Way We Were, making people forget each other

Jonny, Lonny, and Ronnie Parkhurst were strolling down Howard Street, a fairly modern street of Glen Hartwell, lined with blue, red, and sweet-smelling lemon-scented gum trees, on the 7th of June 2025, when they saw the Scruffy old man dressed in a long navy blue military-style coat. As he approached, they could hear him singing:
"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"Hey, old scrote!" called Jonny Parkhurst, at nineteen the oldest, dumbest, and most ruthless of the three tall, raven-haired brothers. "What's that screeching you're doing?"

Without stopping, the old man, Jared Adamson, touched each of the Parkhurst brothers gently upon the neck while singing:
"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

"What the Hell, did ..." began Lonny, usually the least irrational of the Parkhurst brothers. Then, seeing Jonny and Ronnie, he demanded, "Who the fuck are you two geeks."

"Don't call me a geek, you freak!" said Ronnie. He pulled a pearl-handled flick knife from his coat pocket and started waving it toward the other two teenagers.

"Two can play at that game, Bozzo," said Jonny.

He pulled a rusty-looking, home-made Bowie knife from a scabbard, concealed under his dirty, grey jacket.

"Oh, a tough guy!" said Lonny. He pulled a half-metre length of steel pipe from his belt. Thrusting it around like a sword, he demanded, "Which one of you homos wants to die first."

"You're the homo," said Jonny, tossing his Bowie knife at Lonny.

Unfortunately for Jonny, the Bowie knife hit Lonny in the chest, handle first. Hurting the eighteen-year-old, but not enough to stop him from running forward to swing his steel pipe down hard upon his oldest brother's head.

"Gotcha, sissy boy!" cried Lonny, laughing loudly.

Until Ronnie lunged forward and stabbed him in the back with his pearl-handled flick knife.

"Jesus!" cried Lonny.

Spinning round, he whacked the pipe down upon Ronnie's right hand, crushing it, then whacked him in the throat with the pipe, shattering his Adam's apple, killing him from asphyxiation.

"Not so tough ..." began Lonny.

Before falling dead to the bitumen footpath, beside Johnny and Ronnie.

Not far away, Jared Adamson, the scruffy old man, was still singing:
"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, in the Victorian countryside, they were sitting down to one of Deidre Morton's magnificent lunches.

"What's for lunch today, Mrs. M.?" asked Sheila Bennett. A tall, athletic Goth chick with black-and-orange striped hair, Sheila was the second in command of the local police force and Deidre Morton's favourite member of her extended family.

"Bouillabaisse since you all loved it so much last time," said Deidre, a short, plump sixty-something woman, the owner of the Yellow house, so named since it was painted and decorated in yellow inside and out. "Then for dessert, some raspberry Pavlova."

"Oh, I love Pavlova," said Freddy Kingston, a tall, stocky, balding retiree. "The dessert that is, not the opera singer it was named after."

"I love both kinds of Pavlova," said Terri Scott. A tall, beautiful ash blonde in her thirties, Terri was the top cop of the area and was engaged to Colin.

"That's right, you are a bit of an opera nut," said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman. After working as a top London crime reporter, Colin was now a constable for the Glen Hartwell Police Department.

"That's right, she dragged you two saps off to see The Flight of the Valkyries at the Playbox Theatre," said Tommy Turner, before laughing. A short, chubby blond retiree, Tommy was a reluctantly reforming alcoholic.

"Playhouse Theatre, not Playbox," corrected Natasha Lipzing, a tall, thin, seventy-one-year-old lady. "And it's Ride of the Valkyries, not the flight ...."

"No one likes a smart Aleck," said Tommy.

"And didn't they solve that case due to Terri dragging Colin and Sheila along to the opera?" asked Leo Laxman, a tall, thin nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. [See my story, 'Ride of the Valkyries'.]

"Who asked you, smartarse?" said Tommy.

"Language, please, Mr. Turner!" said Deidre Morton. "I won't have swearing at my dinner table."

"That's right, Mrs. M., you tell him off," teased Sheila, loving to see Tommy squirming.

"I hope there's a generous amount of brandy in the Pav?" demanded Tommy.

"No, there is no brandy in the Pavlova," corrected Deidre. "Most of my extended family are not chronic alcoholics."

"I'm not a chronic alcoholic, either!" said Tommy. "I just like a drink."

"He really doesn't know, does he?" asked Freddy.

"Doesn't seem like it," agreed Leo.


"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

Sang the old man, Jared Adamson, as he walked along Boothy Street, Glen Hartwell, enjoying the sweet smell of the lemon-scented gum trees, while occasionally touching passersby gently upon the arm or neck.

"What was that?" demanded Leroy Lexxie, a tall, forty-five-year-old, burly farming type, feeling a light touch on the back of the neck.

Just ahead of Leroy, feeling the same touch, a tall redheaded man, Angus Marsh, looked back, saying. "Hey poofy bois, was that you?"

"Was what me, homo?" demanded Leroy.

"Touching my neck, fag boy?"

"Don't call me a fag boy, you queer boy!"

"Oh, yeah," said Angus, swinging a punch at Leroy.

"Oh, a tough gay!" sneered Leroy, throwing a harder punch, which flattened Angus' already deformed nose across his face.

"Bastard!" snorted Angus, throwing a punch, which broke two of the other man's ribs.

Despite tasting blood, Leroy refused to back down, and the two men were soon going hammer and tongs, punching the daylights out of each other. Until both men lay broken and bloody upon the footpath.

"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...." sang Jared Adamson as he continued down Boothy Street.


Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, they had just started to scoff down their raspberry-topped Pavlova when Terri's mobile phone rang.

"Oh no!" cried Sheila, almost choking as she tried to force down a large slab of Pav.

"Slow down, Sheila," warned Deidre Morton. "I'll lock away some of the Pav for you to have when you get back."

"So Tubby Tommy can't scoff it all," teased Natasha Lipzing.

"How dare you!" demanded Tommy Turner. "I am the perfect weight for a man of my age and height."

"The perfect weight for a hippo of your age and height," corrected Leo Laxman. "Don't forget, I'm a nurse, so I know what a healthy weight is. And you are grossly overweight for a pygmy of your height."

"How dare you!" repeated Tommy, as everybody else laughed.

Disconnecting, Terri said, "That was Tilly Lombstrom. They've discovered the bodies of three youths in Howard Street, Glen Hartwell.


Half an hour later, they were standing over the bodies of Jonny, Lonny, and Ronny Parkhurst, while Sheila took the crime scene photos.

"No real mystery here," said Tilly, a tall, attractive, fifty-something brunette surgeon from the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. "Clearly they killed each other fighting."

"Agreed," said Terri as they started searching through the three men's pockets. Taking out his wallet, she read out, "This one was Jonny Parkhurst from 56 Calhoun Street."

"That's strange," said Sheila, "I don't know any of them, and normally I know the names and addresses of everyone from BeauLarkin to Willamby."

"Yatzy!" said Colin. "We've finally caught her out."

"And a Chinese couple, Lia and Noal Ng, live at 56 Calhoun Street," said Sheila.

"Okay, good comeback," conceded Colin.

"This one's Ronny Parkhurst from the same address," said Sheila after searching his wallet.

"And the lucky last," said Colin, checking through the final corpse's wallet, "was Lonny Parkhurst, from the same address."

"But Lia and Noal Ng live there," reminded the Goth cop chick.

"Okay, you can take them away now," said Terri to the paramedics, then to Sheila, "nonetheless, we'd better check out 56 Calhoun Street anyway."

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in the living room of 56 Calhoun Street, which was decorated in yellow and red, traditional Chinese colours.

"Noal, Lia, it's great to see you both again," said Sheila, hugging them both.

"Great to see our favourite Goth policewoman," said Noal.

Sheila smiled for a moment, then, looking puzzled, asked, "How many other Goth policewomen do you two know?"

Lia tittered while Noal admitted, "None."

"Ah, you blokes," said Sheila, laughing.

"So what can we do for you?" asked Noal.

"This may seem a strange question," said Terri, showing the Ngs headshots of the three Parkhurst brothers. "But have you ever seen these men?"

"No," said Noal.

"Ooh, I'd hate to meet them coming down a dark alley at night," said Lia.

"Unless they come back as zombies, that's not very likely," said Sheila.

"So, they've never lived at this address?" asked Colin.

"Not in the last twenty years, since we moved in," said Noah. "And none of them look that old."

"So, what's next, Chief?" asked Sheila as they piled back into the Lexus.

"Around to Mitchell Street, so we can check out their names on the police database," said Terri.


Twenty-five minutes later, they were inside the Mitchell Street Police Station, and Suzette Cummings, an attractive eighteen-year-old ravenette, was typing the names into the database. She pressed Enter, then said:

"Sorry, Chief, no matches."

"So what now?" asked Sheila.

"We could always check the Australia-wide census name list," suggested Suzette.

"What?" cried Sheila and Colin as one.

"I thought that info was secret?" asked Sheila.

"Yeah, right," said Terri, giving Suzette the go-ahead.

"You two still believe the Australian Government?" said Suzette, shaking her head in dismay. She hunted around the census lists for the last three censuses, then said, "Plenty of Parkhursts around Australia, but no three brothers with those names, and no one named Parkhurst has lived this side of Melbourne during the last three censuses. Should I look back further?"

"No point," said Terri. "Even if they had hidden from the censuses, Miss Know-It-All, Professor Sheils, would have noticed them hanging around the Glen during that time."

"I do know my citizenry," boasted Sheila, not for the first time.

"So what now?" asked Paul Bell, a tall, lean, dark-haired sergeant.

"We could always try the Australian Medical Association's database," suggested Suzette.

"Can we access that?" asked Terri.

"Not legally," admitted the teenager, "but give me a couple of minuets and we'll be in there." She typed rapidly for a minute or two, then said, "Okay, we're in."

"Sometimes I wonder which side of the law we're on," teased Colin.

"We're the good guys," said Sheila, "'cause we dress in blue. The bad guys always dress in black."

"Not according to Chuck Norris in 'Good Guys Wear Black'," corrected Suzette, typing away furiously. Finally, she stopped typing and said, "Same result as the censuses, plenty of Parkhursts, but none have ever lived in the G.H. region."

"So the three idiots were carrying fake IDs, with fake addresses?" said Terri.

"Clearly they didn't know about Mega-Memory Sheila," teased Colin. "Or they would never have tried getting away with it."


"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?" sang the derelict, Jared Adamson, as he continued walking slowly around Glen Hartwell, touching people on the neck or arm, making people forget who they were, and sending many of them into a rage.


"So, what's next, Chief?" asked Colin.

To Suzette, Terri asked, "Can you scan the three photos and put them up on the police databases as John-Dos, using their Parkhurst names as aliases?"

"Will do, Chief," assured Suzette, taking the three photos.

While Suzette was scanning the pictures into the PC, Terri's mobile shrilled again. The blonde talked for a few minutes, then said, "There's been a punch-up in G.H. This time no one was killed, but both need to be hospitalised."


"What are their names?" asked Sheila as they looked down at the two men.

They were being attended to by Tilly Lombstrom and two nurses, Leo Laxman and a gorgeous, thirty-something, platinum blonde, Topaz Moseley, who was dating Leo.

"Their wallets identify them as Leroy Lexxie and Angus Marsh," said Topaz, "but no one can recall ever having seen them."

"Leroy Lexxie? That's an alias if ever I've heard one," said Sheila. She studied both men for a minute or longer before declaring, "Nope, never seen either of them before."

"Sheils, you were at my apple orchard, buying a crate of Granny Smiths in January," reminded Leroy.

"I remember buying a crate of Granny Smiths cheap in Jan," said the Goth chick. "But that was from that orchard, twenty Kays outside LePage."

"Yes, the Lexxie Orchard!" insisted the burly farmer.

"Unless my mind has gone senile, that orchard is still owned by Jemima Coalman and her three daughters."

"Who?" asked both Leroy and Angus.

"Yeah, right," said Terri, "even I've heard of the Coalman Orchard. They grow the best Granny Smiths anywhere this side of Melbourne."

"No, no, I do!" insisted Leroy. "At the Lexxie Orchard. Ask my wife, Viv, if you don't believe me?"

"Viv Lexxie?" asked Terri, writing the name down on a small notepad.

"Vivienne," said the farmer.

"So, just to keep us laughing," said Sheila, "where do you live and work, Angus?"

"I work at the Department of Building and Works," said Angus.

"So you know George, Eunice, and Rodriguez?" asked Colin.

"I know George, the foreman, and Eunice, his fiancée, but who the Hell is Rodriguez?"

The three cops exchanged looks, then, while writing, Sheila said, "Doesn't know the manager, Rodriguez."

"Who?" repeated Angus.

"And where do you live?" asked Terri.

"At Mrs. Miggins's boarding house in Wilson Street, Lenoak."

"So you know Suzette Cummings and Anthony Nowland?" asked Colin.

"Suzette, I know, she's a cop, like you lot. But who the Hell is Anthony Nowland?"

Again, the three cops exchanged a hard look before making a note of that fact.

"So, if we bring Suzette here, she can identify you?" asked Terri.

"Of course, we have breakfast and tea together every day."


"Nope, never seen either of them before," said Suzette Cummings forty minutes later, looking down at Angus and Leroy.

"But we both live at Mrs. Miggins'!" insisted Angus. "I live in the room on the left side of yours, Suzette."

"Anthony Nowland lives in the room on the left of mine!" insisted Suzette.

"Who the Hell is Anthony Nowland?"

"We can always bring Mrs. Miggins here to identify you," offered Colin.

"What for, so someone I've known for a dozen years can say she's never seen me before?" asked Angus. Then, guessing correctly, "It's as though I've somehow been erased from history, despite physically still being here."

To Paul Bell, who had brought Suzette from Mitchell Street, Terri said, "Take Suzette back to the station so she can run the names Leroy Lexxie, Vivienne, Lexxie, and Angus Marsh through the various databases."

"Will do, Chief," said Paul, and the two cops headed into the corridor.

Whispering to the three cops and two nurses, Tilly Lombstrom said, "Maybe we should shift them both to the psych ward."

"Before they attack anyone else," agreed Terri.

"Sounds good to me," said Topaz, who went outside to get some orderlies to move their beds.

"Where are you taking us? asked Leroy as they started shifting them, beds and all.

"Somewhere, where you'll be more comfortable," lied a grinning orderly as they started to move the two beds.


"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...." sang Jared Adamson, as he enjoyed walking around Glen Hartwell, starting fights.

Seeing two leather-clad bikers whose jackets proclaimed them Hell's Rejects, Jared went across to them, singing, and touched them both.

"What you doin', old man?" demanded the first biker, Constantine Garcia.

"My apologies," said Jared, smiling broadly, before starting to sing again.

"Well, watch it," said Con.

"Who the Hell are you to tell the old scrote to watch it?" demanded Carlos, Constantine's younger brother.

"And who the fuck are you, Fuckhead?"

"I'm a Hell's Reject."

"What! I founded the Hell's Rejects, and I've never seen you before, Shithead!" said Constantine.

"Tough shit, Shithead! I've never seen you before, and I'm a founding member of the Hell's Rejects with ..." He strained for a moment, almost remembering that he had a brother, before saying, "I'm a founding member of the Hell's Rejects, arsehole!"

"Rubbish, I founded the Devil's Rejects," insisted Con, taking a motorbike chain out of an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

"Oh, yeah, arsehole, two can play at that!" cried Carlos Garcia, also taking a bike chain from his jacket.

Deciding to take the lead, Carlos shrieked, charging his older brother while swinging his bike chain wildly.

Shrieking just as wildly, Constantine started swinging his chain like a mace, racing at his younger brother.

Soon, the two brothers were slashing at each other, across the back and sides, without doing much damage, until Constantine's chain whacked Carlos hard in the face, breaking his nose, and smashing out six of his front teeth.

"Baskard!" slurred Carlos, through broken teeth and bloody gums.

Swinging his chain from point-blank, he ripped off Constantine's left ear and knocked him unconscious.

"Take this, cum faze!" shouted Carlos, lashing his unconscious brother repeatedly in the head with his chain. Smashing his face and brain to pulp, killing Constantine.

"Not show touch now cum faze!" shouted Carlos, before passing out from shock.

"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were," sang Jared Adamson, vanishing into the crowd of horrified onlookers.


Terri and the others were at the Mitchell Street Police Station when telephoned about the chain fight in Wentworth Street.

"A chain fight?" asked Suzette.

"Motorbike chains," explained Terri. "Some idiots calling themselves the Hell's Rejects."

"That's almost as bad as the Hell's Arseholes from an earlier case," said Colin. [See my story, 'Sabine'.]

"What's next?" asked Sheila. "The Hell's Idjits? The Hell's Morons?"

"Isn't that what you're in, Sheils?" teased Terri. "The Hell's Morons?"

"Yeah," said Sheila with a straight face. "They're also called the Glen Hartwell Police Department."

"Burn, baby, burn!" said Colin, waving his fingers at Terri, unable to resist laughing.

"Yep," agreed Paul Bell, "she definitely zinged you, Chief."

"Shut up, both of you," said Terri as they headed outside. "But you're right, I got zinged badly."

"Never take on the mad Goth chick, honey," said Colin, as they stepped out into Mitchell Street.

"Shut up, honey," said Terri, as they climbed into her Lexus.


At Wentworth Street, they found Tilly Lombstrom, Elvis Green, Topaz Moseley, and a blonde nurse, Annie Colfax, standing over the two dead bikers.

"So what's the story, Tils?" asked Terri.

"According to a dozen witnesses, they were walking along like the best of mates, then, for no discernible reason, they started shouting insults at each other."

"Then the next thing you know, they were lashing each other with bike chains," said Jerry 'Elvis' Green, nicknamed due to his long black sideburns, and devotion to the late King of Rock and Roll.

"And let me guess," said Colin, "nobody has a clue in Hell who they are."

"You must be psychic, Colin," teased Annie Colfax, a forty-year-old nurse. "Either that, or a psycho."

"So, we keep having people beat each other up, and or kill each other," said Terri. "Except that officially none of them ever existed."

After taking the crime scene photos, Terri and Sheila checked their pockets and found their IDs.

"The older one is Constantine Garcia," said Terri, "he lives at something called 'Devil's Acres'.

"This one's Carlos Garcia," said Sheila. "He also lived at 'Devil's Acres', which is a cross between a hippy commune and a biker stronghold, in the forest not far from Bromby township."

"Trust the memory woman to know where it is," said Colin. "But why isn't it called Devil's Hectares?"

"I'm guessing, because like the Americans, they're very strong, and very backwards," said Sheila, making everyone laugh.


Devil's Acres turned out to be a walled community, fenced in by corrugated walling and a fifteen-centimetre-thick cast iron door.

Pulling up outside the community, Terri, clearly concerned, asked, "Should we wave a white flag or something?"

"Um," said Sheila, for once lost for words, "let's try it without one first."

Hesitantly, the three cops walked up to the iron door and prepared to knock, when it suddenly opened enough for a two-hundred-centimetre-tall biker dressed all in black leather to step outside.

"Hey, is that real leather, or some kind of vinyl?" asked Sheila, regretting it as soon as she had spoken.

"We're the Hell's Rejects, not the Hell's Sissies!" said the biker. "We only wear real leather. So, who are you, and what can I do for you?"

"We're investigating the deaths of two bikers in a bike chain fight in Glen Hartwell," said Terri.

"And you think we were involved?"

"No, dozens of witnesses confirmed that they suddenly attacked and killed each other, for no reason," said Colin.

"We just wanted to know if they lived here," said Sheila.

"Their IDs say they do," said Terri. "But we've had several strange cases lately, involving people with fake IDs."

She handed him two large, glossy, colour pictures of the dead bikers' faces.

The tall man stared at each picture for a couple of minutes, then handed them back, saying, "No, never seen either of them."

"Perhaps someone else here might know them?" asked Colin tentatively.

"I was one of the founding members of the Hell's Rejects and helped to physically build Devil's Acres. No one's ever been here, without me knowing."

"Okay, thanks," said Terri, taking back the photos. After they climbed back into the Lexus, she said, "I'm just glad that nobody asked him why it's not called Devil's Hectares."

"I did consider it," said Sheila, starting the engine, "but sanity kicked in just in time."

"Well, let's get back to Mitchell Street and run the Garcia brothers through the various databases," suggested Colin Klein.


"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget," sang Jared Anderson, really enjoying the chaos that he was causing around Glen Hartwell.

Without planning to, he found himself outside the car park of the Glen Hartwell Mall in Boothy Street. No more than a two-storey supermarket in reality.


Luella "Lulu" Wellins, a petite pixie-cut brunette teen, was sitting at the checkout counter near the door when they suddenly opened, and an elderly man, dressed in a long navy blue military-style coat, entered, while singing:

"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were."

"You're cheerful, Mister," said Lulu, smiling at the man.

He smiled back and kept singing:
"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

As he sang, he gently touched first one shopper, then another, missing very few as he went down one aisle, then another.

He had walked down most of the ground-floor aisles before the chaos broke out:

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" demanded a pink-rinsed old lady, slapping a young man across the face.

"Who are you, Granny Nobody!" taunted the young man, punching the old lady in the face.

Staggering backwards, the old lady crashed into a pyramid of canned dog food, falling through the pyramid, which crashed down on top of her.

"Or should that be Granny Dead Body?" asked the youth.

Behind him, however, the old lady continued to squirm under the cans, swearing at him, showing that she was not quite dead.

Cackling like a wicked witch in Macbeth, the youth picked up one of the cans of dog food and hurled it down the aisle, whacking a burly farmer in the back.

"Jesus!" cried the farmer.

Looking round, he saw the youth laughing and pointing at him. A former high school baseball pitcher, the farmer picked up the can of dog food and hurled it straight back at the youth, cracking his skull and killing him, so that he staggered backwards and fell onto the collapsed can pyramid, finally killing the pink-rinsed old lady.

"Yes, strike!" shouted the farmer, as though he were back in Minnesota in his glory days around the turn of the century.

He picked up another can, looked down the aisle to where Lulu Wellins was serving a customer and wound up his pitching arm, ready to try to bounce the can right off the pixie-cut brunette's head.

At that moment, two thirty-something housewives ran down the aisle toward him, cackling like wicked witches, while pushing loaded trolleys straight toward the farmer.

"Strike two!" called the man prematurely, just before the two trolleys slammed into his back, making him cry out and fall face forward.

Giggling like school girls, the two housewives reversed direction and ran him over with the trolleys, breaking his back, then snapping his neck, killing him.

Still giggling like schoolgirls, the two women raced down the aisle toward the front of the mall, not stopping at the counter to pay for their items.

"Wait! Stop! You have to pay for ..." began Lulu, stopping as the first woman's trolley crashed into the sliding doors, which did not open fast enough for her.

The second trolley crashed into the back of the first woman, breaking her spine. As the first housewife screamed and fell to the mall floor, the second woman stood there, giggling hysterically as if the agony of her friend was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

"Oh my God! Mrs. Barrymore! Mrs. Neumann!" cried Lulu, racing around the counter to see what she could do to help the two women.

"What is going on here, Lulu?" asked her supervisor, Hiram P. Brody, a tall, bespectacled, balding man who looked like a librarian or bookkeeper.

"Mrs. Barrymore forgot to pay and crashed into the doors before they could open, then Mrs. Neumann crashed into her back."

"Well, ring for an ambulance, while I do whatever I can for them."

"Yes, Mr. Brody," said Lulu, racing back behind the counter to use the phone.

Down the aisles, the chaos continued with more and more people throwing cars of pet food, beetroot, baby peas, baby carrots, or glass jars of gherkins or pickled onions

Seeing his mother-in-law, whom he had always hated, a tall brown-haired man picked up a kilo jar of gherkins and hurled them at the back of her head, from barely two metres away.

"Urk!" cried the woman, falling face down, with the back of her skull carved in, her brain clearly showing through.

"Hope you enjoy Hell, you old battle ..." began the man, stopping as a tall old man threw a can of pickled onions into the back of his head from point-blank.

As the brown-haired man fell to the floor, the old man cried in delight, "What's good for a goose is good for a gander."

He bent double laughing, which saved him from a can of beetroot hurled at him. Instead, it smashed into the face of a young man on his first solo shopping trip since leaving home recently.

"What?" said the old man, straightening up, having felt the large can whoosh past him.

Seeing his next door neighbour, and lifelong best friend, behind him, the old man picked up a large can of asparagus and smashed it into his friend's face.

"Cop that, Young Harry!" cried the delighted old man, although his friend's name had been Terence.

Laughing with glee, the old man skipped like a child toward the front of the mall and danced out into the car park. Only to be run over by a delivery van before it could pull up.

Racing outside to check on the old man, Lulu said, "What in God's name is going on here today?"

Around the aisles, and at the back of the store, people with loaded trolleys had formed into gangs, racing full pelt, running down everyone they could. In aisle four, a young boy of ten was standing, looking at bottles of cream cheese.

"Target spotted!" cried a redheaded woman leading the charge, and half a dozen trolley-pushers raced down the aisle toward the boy, screeching like Banshees as they ran.

Hearing the trolley pushers shrieking, the boy looked around, just in time, and managed to climb up the shelves to sit on top of some cans.

Expecting to hit the boy, the redhead had been forging ahead with all of her might. When he suddenly vanished, the trolley got away from her, and she fell face down on the grey-lino covered floor.

Still screeching like Banshees, her mother and younger sister happily ran over the redhead, breaking both of her legs in several places and shattering her coccyx.

"Yatzy!" cried the mother, not caring that she had just crippled her oldest daughter for life.

"Yatzy yourself!" cried her husband, slamming his trolley into his wife's back, making her shriek far louder than any Banshee this side of Ireland.


Outside, three ambulances had arrived to take away Lana Barrymore, Angie Neumann, and Horace Bettaman, who had been run over by the delivery van earlier.

"I think you're gonna need all six ambulances here," said Hiram P. Brody to Derek Armstrong, a tall fifty-year-old black American born paramedic.

"Lemmy, get poor Horace into the back of the ambulance first," said Derek.

Not bothering with a stretcher, the big man gently picked up the old man and carried him into the back of the ambulance. Then, as the ambulance pulled away, Derek used his mobile phone to ring through to the Glen Hartwell Hospital for the remaining ambulances.

By the time Terri's Lexus, and Don Esk's rusty blue Land Rover arrived at the doors of the mall, the chaos had finally died down and the ambulances were racing back and forth between the mall and the hospital, taking the injured first, before worrying about the thirty or so dead shoppers inside.

"So what started all this?" demanded Terri Scott, once the last of the injured had been ferried to the hospital.

"Darned if I know," said Lulu Wellins, "everything was going fine, then suddenly chaos broke out in the mall."

"We heard the chaos, screaming, crashing, shouting threats," explained Hiram P. Brody, "but we didn't dare go back inside until things calmed down."

Walking slowly through the mall, Terri was startled when a voice from overhead called, "Hey, can you help me down?"

Looking up, she saw the ten-year-old boy seated on top of one of the aisles.

"Here, let me," said Colin. Reaching up, he grabbed the boy and lifted him down.

"Can you tell us what happened here?" asked Sheila.

"Everybody just went mad," said the boy. "Some ladies wanted to run me down with trolleys, but I climbed up here, and they ran over each other instead."

"Clever you," said Terry, patting his head.

"I'll take him outside," volunteered Sheila, taking the little boy's hand. "I'm Sheila, who are you?"

"Kevin Jameson," answered the boy as they walked outside the mall.

It was late afternoon before the last of the dead had been transported to the morgue. As they left, the crowd of gawkers had mostly vanished; however, an old man in a navy blue military style overcoat stood around singing.

"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

"Hey old man," said Sheila, walking up to him, "what is there to sing about?'

"We're still alive," said Jared Adamson.

Taking her right hand, he shook it while singing, before turning and walking away:
"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"What a weirdo," said Sheila, following Terri, Colin, and Suzette Cummings across to the police-blue Lexus.

To the Goth chick's surprise, Colin got in behind the steering wheel.

"Hey, Col, whatcha doing?" asked Sheila.

"Sorry, who are you?" asked Colin. "And how do you know my name?"

"Very funny, Col, now shift across so I can drive."

Terri and Suzette Cummings turned around to stare at her.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" demanded Terri.

"I'm Sheila Bennett!" stated an amazed Goth chick. "Your best friend and second in command."

"I've never met you in my life!"

"Then how do you explain the police uniform that I'm wearing?" asked Sheila.

"You're not wearing a police uniform," said Terri.

Startled, Sheila looked down at herself and saw that she was wearing navy slacks and an orange T-shirt, with a black jacket over it.

"Where the Hell?" asked the Goth chick, "I have never owned, let alone worn anything like this in my life."

"Well, you're certainly wearing them now."

"Then, if I'm not your second in command, who is?"

"Leslie Harrison, of course." As she spoke, a short, wiry black-haired policeman, aged in his forties, climbed out of the rear of the blue Lexus GX.

Startled to see him in uniform, Sheila asked, "Les, when did you come out of retirement?"

Terri, Suzette, and Leslie exchanged puzzled looks.

"I've never been in retirement," said the policeman. "I've still got over twenty-five years to go to reach retirement age."

"But you took early retirement under the stress of the BeauLarkin Slaughter House, two years ago," reminded Sheila.

"I remember the BeauLarkin Slaughter House case, with seventy-odd bodies," admitted Leslie. "It was quite a shock to my system. But I certainly did not take early retirement over it!"

"Yes, you did!" said Sheila, almost crying from the need to have them remember her.

"I think I would know if I had taken early retirement."

"And he couldn't be my second in command if he had retired," pointed out Terri.

"Tezza, surely you remember me?"

"I've always hated the nickname Tezza."

"So you remember me calling you Tezza?"

"No, I remember Totty Rampling and a few others calling me Tezza, until I threatened to arrest them unless they stopped."

"But you must remember me, we went to kinda together, then primary school, then the Glen Hartwell High School. I used to copy off you during exams. And in return, I beat up boys who got too cheeky to you."

"Well, you certainly look tough enough to beat up boys, or men for that matter," said Terri, staring at the bodybuilder, "but I'm certain we have never met."

"But we have," insisted Sheila. "If this is a joke, please stop!"

"It's not a joke, we've never met."

"But we live together at Mrs. Morton's boarding house."

"Colin, Leslie, and I all live at the Deidre's boarding house," said Terri, "but I've never seen you there."

"But you have! I'm Mrs. M.'s favourite of her extended family members."

After considering for a moment, Terri said, "Get in the front of the car, next to Colin. We'll take you around to see if Deidre knows you."

Sheila raced around to sit in the front passenger seat, still half hoping that this was some bizarre joke that the others were playing upon her.


"Oh, you're back at last," said Deidre Morton, opening the door to them. "I've held dinner until you arrived." Then seeing Sheila, she asked, "And who is this, a possible new boarder for me?"

"What?" demanded a shocked Sheila. "Firstly, you don't call us boarders, Mrs. M., you call us your extended family. Secondly, I've lived at the Yellow House for nearly two years."

"The Yellow House?" asked Deidre, leading them into the dining room, which was now painted lime green. "Why would you call it the Yellow House?" She shivered, then said, "I hate the colour yellow."

"Well, sit down for dinner, we're all starving," complained Tommy Turner, "we shouldn't have had to wait for them."

"Can I sit down and eat too?" asked Sheila, crestfallen. "I'm starving, and if you don't remember me, I have nowhere to sleep tonight."

"Don't worry, dear, you can sleep on the second storey, I have an empty room there," offered Deidre.

"So, what's for tea tonight, Mrs. M.?" asked Colin.

"Duck à L'orange," said Deidre.

"Oh boy, my favourite," said Sheila, cheering up a little, "hopefully followed by Cherries Jubilee?"

"Heavens no!" said Deidre, sounding shocked. "Cherries Jubilee has brandy in it! I won't allow alcohol of any kind into my boarding house, we're all temperance here."

Looking startled, Sheila said, "Next you'll be telling me that Tommy is a teetotaller!"

"Of course," said Tommy, "never touched a drop of the demon drink in my life."

"What?" cried Sheila, looking toward the short blond man, shocked again, when she saw that he was at least thirty kilogrammes lighter than he had been that morning. "Tommy, what the he ... heck has happened to you?"

"My father was a chronic alcoholic, as were my two older brothers. The demon drink killed them all! But I saw the light in time."

"Hallelujah!" cried Natasha Lipzing.

"Hallelujah!" cried Terri, Colin, Freddy, Leo, and Deidre.

"Oh ... my ... Lord!" said Sheila, starting to wonder if she was in a coma in the hospital, dreaming all of this.

After eating, they went to the lounge room, painted in a lilac shade, except for the ceiling and skirting boards, which were a very pale blue. They watched the news, A Current Affair, then a couple of feeble reality TV shows. However, Sheila took in none of it, too stunned to take in anything much.

Eventually, yawning widely, Terri stood up and said, "I think it's time for us to go up to bed, honey."

"Okay, babe," said Leslie Harrison, standing up and taking her hand.

"What the he ... heck?" asked Sheila. "Terri, you're engaged to Colin."

"Engaged to Colin?" asked Terri. "Don't be silly, I'm married to Leslie." She held up her left hand to show both an engagement and a wedding ring.

"Since when?" asked Sheila.

"Since two years ago," said Terri, laughing at her surprise.

"Certainly since before Colin came to the area to research his still unfinished book on Australian ghosts and legends," said Leslie Harrison.

With that, Leslie and Terri shared a long, lingering, closed-mouth kiss, to the applause of everyone, except gob-smacked Sheila Bennett.

I now know what's happened, thought Sheila. I've somehow fallen through a dimensional rift and landed in a parallel universe ... Where nothing makes any bloody sense!

"Nightie night," said Terri, before she and Leslie traipsed upstairs, kissing, cuddling, and giggling like newlyweds.

Yes, that's definitely what's happened, I've fallen into a parallel universe, somewhere in the Twilight Zone! Or, perhaps, I've slipped into a lost episode of the Outer Limits!

"Are you all right, dear?" asked a worried-sounding Deidre Morton. "Maybe you should head up to bed too?"

"Good idea, Mrs. M.," said Sheila.

Standing, Sheila followed Deidre Morton up to the first storey, then turned right to walk down to her room.

"Where are you going, dear?" asked Deidre.

"Down to my room, next to Terri's," said Sheila.

Looking puzzled, Deidre said, "No, no, dear, that's Colin's room. You're room is up on the second storey."

"Oh," said a crestfallen Sheila, following after the chubby brunette. "I don't suppose there's a Venus Flytrap in my room on a table near the window?"

"Oh, goodness me, no!" said Deidre. "I would never allow something so nasty in my lovely home!"

Poor Venice, thought Sheila, following Deidre up to the second storey. Lost somewhere in the swirling mists of the Twilight Zone.

Opening the door to the small room, a third smaller than the room the Goth chick was used to, Deidre said, "I hope you like it. You can stay as long as you like, until you remember who you really are."

"I'm starting to think that I'm Anne Francis, lost in the swirling mists of the Twilight Zone," said Sheila, looking around at the lime green walls of the small room.

"Oh, dear," said Deidre, closing the door behind her.

"Oh dear, indeed," said Sheila, undressing to climb into the warm bed in her underwear.

This must be why the Parkhurst brothers, Angus Marsh, Leroy and Vivienne Marsh, and the two Garcia brothers have no existence in this world! thought Sheila just before falling to sleep. They've somehow also fallen into whatever alternative reality that I've fallen into.

Then she was asleep and snoring.


At breakfast the next morning, Sheila risked telling everyone her theory.

"So we're living in the Twilight Zone, with you and Anne Francis?" asked Natasha Lipzing, looking worried.

"No, no, that was only a mixed metaphor I was using," said Sheila. Then to Terri, Leslie, and Colin, "But doesn't it seem strange to you that Jonny, Ronny, and Lonny Parkhurst don't seem to exist, when you have the physical evidence of their corpses. Then the same with Leroy Lexxie and Angus Marsh. Officially, they don't exist, yet they are physically there in the hospital. Likewise with Constantine and Carlos Garcia. Officially, they never existed, and yet you have their dead bodies. Then there's me. You can't remember me, and I'm guessing there will be no record of me anywhere, yet I am sitting here, physically beside you all. So I do exist. It's starting to become an epidemic of people who, according to the records, never existed, although physically we're all still here."

"So, there's been some kind of a reality slip?" asked Freddy Kingston, who as a science fiction fan was the most likely to believe Sheila's wacky theory.

"Yes, something like that," said Sheila, sensing that Terri, Colin, and Leslie were all still sceptical. "So, where are we going first today?"

"We," said Terri, waving her hand around herself, Colin, and Leslie, "are going to spend another possibly fruitless day looking for records that the Parkhursts, Leroy Lexxie, Angus Marsh, and the Garcia brothers really exist somewhere."

"And don't forget me," insisted Sheila.

"Okay, and also to try to track down evidence of who you really are," agreed Terri.

"I've told you who I really am: Sheila Bennett, age thirty-six, the same as you, because we went to kinda together, then primary school, then Glen Hartwell High School," insisted Sheila. "But I meant, what am I going to do all day?"

"Stay here and watch DVDs all day," suggested Leslie.

"But my massive collection of classic horror films and the complete series of 'The World's Stupidest Stuntman', don't exist anymore. I'm sure I could be some help to you. Even if you don't remember me, I have worked for the police force for sixteen years now!"

Terri, Colin, and Leslie conferred for a moment, then Terri said, "Okay, you can come with us. But if you start going psycho, it's straight to the funny farm for you."

"I'm not about to go wacky, I'm the victim here, not the villain."

"Okay, follow us," said Terri, waving a hand to call her after them.


At the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, Paul Bell and Suzette Cummings were startled to see Sheila entering the station.

"What is she doing her?" asked Suzette.

"I work here!" protested Sheila. "Even if it's in a different dimension."

"A different dimension?" asked Suzette, looking concerned.

"Don't worry about that," said Terri. "Take down everything she tells you about herself, and run it through the police database."

"And the AMA's database, and the census database," added Sheila.

Looking shocked, Suzette said, "We're not allowed to access either of those."

"Although," said Leslie Harrison, "if we asked Tils at the hospital, she can access the AMA database for us."

"Good thinking, Les," said Terri, smiling. "See, that's why he's my second in command."

"No, he's ..." began Sheila, realising that there was no point arguing about it. "So, how do we access the census database?"

Looking shocked, Colin said, "We don't, naturally. That would be a violation of people's trust."

"Oy vay!" said Sheila, "I may have to convert to Judaism before this is out."

"I hope not," said Suzette, "Deidre Morton only allows good Catholics into her boarding house."

"Since when?" asked Sheila. "She's always been a Baptist."

"A Baptist?" asked Terri, as all of the cops turned to stare open-mouthed at Sheila. "Since when?"

"Well ... I thought she was."

By late afternoon, they had got nowhere with the databases, including the AMA database, which Tilly Lombstrom had checked for them. As Deidre Morton was bringing them afternoon tea with hot buttered crumpets and blueberry jam, Sheila suddenly had an epiphany:

"Why don't we consult with Magnolia?"

"With whom?" asked Terri.

"Magnolia ... our Wiccan friend in Calhoun Street."

"You mean Mavis McCready?" asked Leslie.

"Mavis?" demanded Sheila. "I've always known her as Magnolia."

Looking puzzled, Terri said, "Okay, let's go see our witchy friend."

"Yatzy!" said Sheila as they headed out into Mitchell Street. "Hey," said the Goth chick, noticing for the first time, "what happened to all the trees?"

"The trees?" asked Colin. "They're out in the forest."

"No, Building and Works have been planting wattles and sweet-smelling lemon-scented gum trees in the verges of all the neighbouring towns for the last couple of months."

"That's news to me," said Leslie as Colin started the Lexus. "Although it sounds like a great idea. Maybe you could suggest it to them, babe?"

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to have a pile of extra work to do," said Terri.


1/21 Calhoun Street was the right-hand side of a subdivided white weatherboard house. Inside lived Mavis McCready, a tall, busty, fifty-something redhead with electric-blue eyes. Opening the door, Mavis said:

"Terri, Leslie, Colin ... and who is this lady with the multicoloured hair?"

"Aaaaaah!" said Sheila in frustration.

"Well, come into the living room all of you, including you, Aaaaaah!"

"As they were sitting down in the turquoise coloured living room, with cups of coffee and plates of ginger nut snaps, Sheila asked:

"So your first name is Mavis?"

"Yes, of course."

"Actually Magnolia would be a better name for a Wiccan."

"Magnolia?" said Mavis, considering. "Magnolia McCready, yes, yes, I like it. It is a very mysterious, Wiccan-sounding name. Thank you very much, Aaaaaah!"

"Actually, my name is Sheila," said the Goth chick. She hurriedly told the Wiccan everything that had happened to her over the last twenty-four hours.

"It sounds like you've been the victim of a memory thief," said Mavis-Magnolia.

"You actually believe her?" asked Leslie Harrison.

"Of course, why wouldn't I? I deal with the supernatural ... well, not quite every day, but a couple of times a week at least. If Sheila says we all know her, but have forgotten her, then I believe it's the truth."

"Thank you, thank you!" said Sheila, almost crying from relief. "So, how many simoleons will it cost us for you to fix this?"

"Simoleons?" asked an astonished Wiccan.

"Smackers, greenbacks, how much cabbage, lettuce, buckeroonies ..."

"I don't even know what language you're talking," said the astonished redhead. "I only accept payment in Aussie dollars."

"How much?" asked Sheila.

"The usual. Fifty dollars."

"Fifty?" asked the startled Goth chick, used to them paying her $200."

"I'm sorry, I can't go any lower. So, when exactly did everyone forget you?"

"After the massacre at the Glen Hartwell Mall. I came outside, and there was this guy dressed up like a returned soldier singing, and he shook my hand. Then everything went goofy."

"Singing, eh? Singing what?"

"Memories, by Barbara Streisand."

"Memories, by Barbara Streisand?" asked the puzzled Wiccan.

"Yes, you know, 'Memories, like the corner of my mind ..."

"That's not called Memories, it's 'The Way We Were'!" said Mavis, considering for a moment. "Although the references to the word memories could be significant."

"You mean. by singing about memories, he somehow altered our memories of Sheila?" asked Colin Klein.

"Yes, that's exactly what I think."

"So what can we do about it?" asked Terri.

"I'll have to call him here. Then you'll have to coerce him into giving you all back your memories, then into leaving Glen Hartwell forever."

"Being careful not to touch him, if he's singing Memories," added Sheila.

"If he's singing, 'The Way We Were'!" corrected the Wiccan.

"When can you start this calling ritual?" asked Terri.

"No time like the present," said Sheila and Mavis McCready together.


Over in Blackland Street, Glen Hartwell, late shops stopped to stare at the Scruffy old man dressed in a long navy blue military-style coat. As he approached, they could hear him singing:

"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were..."

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?


Over at Calhoun Street, Mavis-Magnolia was going flat out, chanting a calling spell while mixing herbs in an earthenware pot with a wooden spoon. After twenty minutes or so, there was suddenly, not so much an explosion as a loud poof sound, then smoke began billowing in the living room, making everyone cough. When the smoke finally cleared, Jared Adamson was standing there, singing:

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."

"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."

He suddenly stopped and looked around in surprise, demanding, "Where the Hell am I?"

"In my living room, you memory-stealing vagabond!" cried the Wiccan.

"How dare you bring me here against my will?"

"How dare you steal the memories of almost everyone in Glen Hartwell?" demanded Mavis-Magnolia.

"It's how I stay alive! I live off other people's memories."

"A memory vampire?" asked Sheila.

"If you like, mad Goth chick."

"See, he remembers me," said Sheila.

"Restore the memories of everyone in Glen Hartwell. Then I will send you to the United States, where there are plenty of people, for you to feast on their memories."

"Donald Trump, for starters," said Sheila. "He's virtually senile already, so he won't even miss his memories."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will send you to the bottom of the Challenger Deep, located within the Mariana Trench. It is nearly eleven thousand metres deep. Even your powers, magical as they may be, won't allow you to survive that!"

Jared Adamson considered for a moment, then said, "Very well, I release all of the memories I have stolen in Glen Hartwell." He reached into his navy blue veteran's coat and took out a flask, which looked like a brandy flask, and opened it, releasing swirling masses of grey-white smoke. Four of the memory ghosts raced across to Terri, Colin, Leslie (who promptly vanished), and Mavis-Magnolia. The rest raced out through an air vent to find their owners.

"I have kept my part of the bargain, Wiccan Witch, now keep yours," insisted the memory thief.

"Very well, said Mavis-Magnolia," she started mixing her powders again while chanting, finally saying, "Memory thief, leave this place and go ... to the Challenger Deep, within the Mariana Trench!"

"What, you lying ...!" shouted Jared Adamson, just before vanishing with a poof.


Only to reappear at the bottom of the Challenger Deep, in the Mariana Trench, surround by massive glowing red jellyfish, deadly goliath squids, and pretty, red Dumbo octopi with elephantine ears.

"Noooooooooo!" he tried to scream, drowning from the effort.


"Well, I couldn't really unleash him onto the United States," said Magnolia. "They're suffering enough with Donald Dum-Dum and Dum-Dum Vance, without having a memory thief to contend with."

"Well done, Mavis," said Sheila, hugging the Wiccan.

"Mavis? Ugh, I hate that name. I changed my name to Magnolia twenty years ago, mad Goth chick. Never again refer to me as Mavis!" Then holding her right hand out toward Terri, "That will be two hundred simoleons."

"I thought you only accepted payment in Aussie dollars?" asked Sheila, as Terri counted out the money.

"What made you think that. I accept dollars, greenbacks, simoleons, smackeroonies, buckeroonies, cabbage, lettuce, whatever?"

"So if we bring you a cauliflower next time, will you accept that?"

"Same old mad Goth chick, whom we all know and tolerate," teased the Wiccan.

"But you definitely all know who I am?"

"Of course, Sheils, we've been friends since kinda, which is why I recommended you to be my second in command," said Terri.

"I thought Leslie Harrison was your second in command?"

"Sheils, have you gone bonkers? Leslie took early retirement before I was even promoted to Senior Sergeant of the area. Although technically, we are two cops short, since when we were promoted after the deaths of Danny Ross and Terry Blewett, they never hired anyone to replace us in our old pozzies."

"And when Paul Bell retires in December, then Drew Braidwood next January, we'll be four down," added Colin.

"Yes, although the Assistant Commissioner has agreed we can keep Suzette Cummings when she passes her final exams in December. So, we'll be three down. So I was thinking, if I could lure Leslie Harrison out of retirement by offering to make him my third in command. Perhaps as Assistant Chief Constable, we'd ...."

"Still be two short," Sheila finished for her. "And Stanlee Dempsey won't be happy. You told him that he was third in charge and up for the next promotion if and when it becomes available."

"Oh, did I?" asked Terri. "Anyway, I hoped that I could convince Wendy Pearson and Alice Walker, our youngest two pro rata policewomen, to become full-time."

"Then we'd have girl power, plus all the cops we're budgeted for," said Colin.

"Exactly," said Terri. "Wendy and Alice are only in their mid-forties, so they can work full time for another twenty years ... if I can convince them."

"Leave Alice to me," offered Sheila, "she works out every Saturday at the Muscle-Up Gym with Derek and me. So if I slip Derek the word, we might be able to talk her around."

"Excelente!" shouted Terri, making everyone laugh.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia