Extract from “3:21” by Eric Shapiro

 Sanders has gone off the deep end. He used to be an agreeable man; even-tempered, dry-witted, quick to smile, slow to complain. Despite his status as the boss, he never stood out too much at first. He has one of those cloudy, inconclusive faces, somewhere between handsome and bland-looking. I guess you could say that I ‘liked’ him, but perhaps that’s taking it too far. He was agreeable, nothing more. So I agreed with him. We all did at first.
            Then the worst thing happened. Usually when people say, ‘The worst thing happened,’ they’re exaggerating, of course. The worst things – bombings, rapes, shootings, suicides – rarely happen to most of us. But you had to hand it to Sanders, because the worst thing did really happen to him. And it happened to all of us, too. And it hasn’t stopped happening. As a matter of fact, it happens every day.
            Sanders had a wife. Mrs. Sanders – I’m sorry to report – had a lover. The lover, Mr. Hawks, wanted Mrs. Sanders to be Mrs. Hawks. Mrs. Sanders refused, so Mr. Hawks repeated his desire, again and again, over the course of seven months. But Mrs. Sanders couldn’t bend to Mr. Hawks’ desires because – in her own twisted way – Mrs. Sanders loved Mr. Sanders.
            This all came out in court. Mr. Hawks was on trial for running over Mrs. Sanders with his car. Mr. Sanders sat behind the prosecutor with a glaring, burning forehead. The trial was brief yet excruciating. The evidence was nothing short of harrowing. For not only did Mr. Hawks run Mrs. Sanders over with his car, he did so three times. The ordeal took place in a cul-de-sac. After he ran her over the first time, he put the car into reverse, backed over her, then thrust the car into drive, and ran over her again. 
            The witnesses made awful crunching sounds.
            So Sanders made the transition from an ordinary man to an extraordinary man. A man who had a chilly intimacy with the abyss. He took two weeks off – one surrounding the funeral and one later, surrounding the trial – but his presence in the office grew. Suddenly, not only were we aware of him, we were awfully concerned about him. Perhaps ‘afraid’ is a more appropriate term than ‘concerned’. For we were merely accountants and sales clerks and receptionists, and none of us had an aching desire to absorb a lesson in horror.
            Two years creaked by after the trial. Sanders was in pain, no doubt about it, but his pain was mainstream, if such a thing is possible. Bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his shirts, leaky tear ducts; that sort of thing. Sometimes his voice cracked during meetings; other times he locked his office door for several hours. We minded our own business, and tried our best not to discuss him too much behind his back. Little whispers were traded here and there: ‘He’s really down today.’ ‘His door is locked. You know what that means.’ ‘Do you think we should invite him to Paul’s bachelor party?’ Very little was stated; very much was implied. Then the convention rolled into town.
            The convention took place at a hotel across the street from our office building. It was an annual gathering of psychics and mystics and other apparent bullshit artists. Some alternative healers were mixed into the bunch: reflexologists, shiatsu experts, crystal gurus, you get the idea. Each of these mystical souls occupied a modest booth in the hotel’s vast convention center. The blue carpet was buried beneath countless patrons in search of the divine. Sanders was among them. He had gone in during his lunch hour. He had invited some of us along, but none of us dared venture too close to Sanders’ defining tragedy. Rarely does an hour pass where I do not regret lunching elsewhere. Perhaps if I had gone with Sanders, I could have saved him.
            What happened to Sanders at that convention is open to some interpretation. So many versions of the tale have circulated that I could fill a notebook with them. As far as I can determine, the facts are as follows:
            Sanders encountered a dark man wearing a bathrobe who had written a book about making contact with your deceased loved ones. The man’s booth was lined with copies of his tome, which had been self-published somewhere in India. Sanders has never been much of a reader, so he did not purchase the book. But I have reason to believe that no other person alive has taken this book so seriously (its author included).
            Standing in the Indian’s booth, Sanders read the foreword to the book. One shudders to think what was beyond that foreword, because its words alone rewired Sanders’ psyche. The basic concept is that we can connect with a deceased friend or relative by consistently concentrating on one simplistic element of his or her being. Said element can be his or her name, his or her nickname, favorite word, favorite song, favorite color, et cetera. As long as the chosen element corresponds with material reality, it is valid. I suppose that leaves out concentrating on your dead wife’s scent. In any case, Sanders did not have to think long before he came up with his mode of contact. It was the numbers 3-2-1.
            According to the coroner’s report, Mrs. Sanders had departed from the Earth at exactly 3:21 P.M. This struck Sanders as particularly astounding, for Mrs. Sanders’ birthday was March 21. And as if that isn’t enough, the address of Mr. and Mrs. Sanders’ second home, long before the former became my boss, was 321 Haley Way. These coincidences carried a majestic authority long before Sanders decided to put them to holy use.
            Concentrate. Chant. Repeat. Obsess. These were the author’s general instructions. Integrate your chosen element into every aspect of your life. Recite it while you brush your teeth. Write it in the corners of your journal. Turn it into a lullaby and sing yourself to sleep. Saturate yourself. Perceive no boundaries. For before you know it, your departed beloved will hear your call and saunter in through your front door wearing a sparkling evening gown.
            At least that was Sanders’ fantasy.

 

Extract from “351073” by Jeff Gardiner 

 

The day my daughter was born was both the worst and best day of my life, although at the time I only felt the devastation. My wife, Fran, had been ill for some years and we had assumed that we were not to be blessed with children. So when she gleefully told me one night after parish council that she thought she might be pregnant I whispered a prayer as she stepped into the bathroom to try the home test. She had been good enough to wait patiently for me, wondering when my parishioners would finally release me for the night. They did frequently forget that I also had a home and a wife who deserved my time and attention.
        The good Lord answered our prayer and we made an appointment with our doctor who did very little except congratulate us and tell Fran what she couldn’t eat. We saw the midwife, had the scans and did all the classes as a couple. I was determined to be a dedicated father and share all things equally. Fran also worked full-time and her salary was worth more than twice mine.
        On the fateful day it was clear that things were wrong from the beginning. I was hustled out of the way and nobody would answer my frantic questions, including God, as it seemed at the time. So I didn’t see the birth as it all happened behind closed doors. They sent two smartly dressed manager-types to tell me the shocking news. Fran had not survived, but I had a baby girl. My brother and sister-in-law were with me at the time, hugging and holding me as I shook and sobbed; but it seemed like I was alone in a void. Only my faith kept me sane.
        It was many hours before I could bring myself to look at the baby. Our baby. My baby. The hospital decided to keep her in for a few days under observation and I was advised to go home and rest. I did as I was told. My team Rector came round to pray with me and told me he would look after things at my church for the next few weeks whilst I sorted things out. I was extremely grateful to him and to the overwhelming support I received from the many friends in my wonderful congregation. Food was brought round as well as flowers and cards with loving messages of support and kindness. 
        My neighbour took me back to hospital the next day to meet my daughter. When I saw her I broke down, crying with more passion than I had felt for over twenty years. The tears were for the loss of Fran and the wasted dreams; but also for the joy of seeing such a delicate and vulnerable creature squirming and holding out her hands in need of warmth and security. She had to be my priority now. 
        Of course, Fran and I had discussed names, but for some reason they didn’t seem appropriate any more. One part of me thought I should choose Fran’s favourite, which was Leanne, but a voice in me told me it wasn’t right. When I looked at her little face and blinking eyes they weren’t the eyes of a Leanne. I wondered if I should call her Fran, but it’s important for a child to be an individual and not a copy of her parents. 
        The first night that I took my precious baby home, I refused all offers of help and company, except for the midwife visitors, and lay with her on my bed, gazing lovingly at her minute perfection. She screamed and made a mess, but who cares? She was mine: a gift from God to prove that all is not bad in the world. I had expected myself to hate God for not saving my wife. But instead I thanked Him for this little miracle.
        As I lay on the bed next to the strangely gurgling creature beside me, I wondered again about a name. We had bought books that listed thousands, but none sounded completely suitable. It was as I lay there, my head twisted towards her leg that stretched up awkwardly and hovered before my eyes, that I saw she still wore the hospital identity tag on her little ankle. I stared at it and was stunned to see the word ‘ELOISE’. And it was so perfect. My little Eloise. It was pretty and elegant. But why on earth was it already written on her band? Who had named her? I gently took hold of it and stared hard for a few minutes. The name Eloise stood out but then the letters following it were meaningless symbols. And then I chuckled at my stupidity, having to stop myself from choking. What an idiot. I carefully sat up and read it the other way up. It was just a list of numbers printed out in computerised digits and the last six numbers were 351073, which upside down looked exactly like ELOISE.
            I kissed Eloise and put her into her crib, ready to sleep for a few hours until her next feed.

 

To read more, buy now