Borderline
a pantoum by Laurence Vincent

She brushes along the edges,

coloring pale fibers in morning light.

Rebels of grey hair scatter cross her eyes

and over frames of focused glass.

Coloring pale fibers in morning light,

she hums while she choreographs,

observed behind a frame of glass.

The nurses do not hear the chaconne.

She hums while she choreographs

the brush’s colored strokes.

The nurses are deaf to the variations.

They don’t wish to hear from old children.

The brush’s colored strokes

dance near the paper’s edge.

The children wish to hear from the old mother

when they whisper in her ear.

“Dance near the paper’s edge,”

she rebels as her eyes scatter to cross the grey hair.

“When they whisper in your ear,

brush along the edges.”

Throwing things. I love it. There’s something so satisfying about lifting up your arm, flinging it forward and letting go. The kitchen’s great, things make such a nice sound when they hit the floor. Carpets just aren’t the same. And even better, in the kitchen there’s my chair. Much more height for throwing things, although of course I have to rely on Ma to pick them up for me.

- Birdy, I have told you countless times: please do NOT throw things on the floor.

Yeah, yeah. But I can’t reach it from here. I need my cup, Ma.

- Cup! Cup!
- What do you say?

What is it with this please thing? I really don’t get it. She knows what I want, but I have to say ‘please’ with a smile on my face to make her pick it up. Why?

- Pease.
- ‘Please’. But that’s close enough. Here you go.

Hmmm… it can also be fun just to hold it over the edge of the chair, and ever so gently just loosen my grip. Let’s see if she notices.

- That looked like it could have been accidental, bird, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but if it goes on the floor again, I will take it away.

Did she really fall for that? Ha! I’m good at this. But I think I need a change of scenery. I’m getting bored here.

- Out! Out!

Why are you looking at me like that, Ma? Oh, I know –

- Pease.

Let’s see what happens this time. Oh great! The lid came off! I love it when it does that – water everywhere. No, Ma, no!

- I warned you, if you threw it again, I would take it away. And now you’ve wasted all your water, that was silly, wasn’t it? Sorry, birdy – game over. Come on, let’s go and do some lego.

It’s mine, don’t take it, I want it! That’s not fair! I can’t reach it up there. I don’t want to play with stupid lego! Well, you just go then – see if I care. Leave me alone, you’re horrible and I hate you!

- OK, you enjoy your tantrum – I’ll be in the sitting room when you’ve finished.

No, no – you’re not really going to leave me here on the floor? I don’t believe you, you’ll be back any second and give me my cup. Ha. She will. I know she will. Any minute now. Really, any minute now. Any second now, even. Ma? Ma? Where are you, Ma? There she is – she really has gone into the sitting room!

Were you looking for me? I’m coming, I’m coming. Here I am. I’ve got you! I love holding onto Ma’s legs, pressing my head against her knees so she can’t move until I let her. Lift me up, Ma, I want a cuddle. Now, Ma, hurry up!

- Ma, Ma! Up! Up! Pease.

I remembered this time. It’s nice up here. Up here is my favourite thing, actually. I can rub my face against hers, feel her warmth and smell her own special smell. Leaning into her neck and feeling her cheek on the top of my head gives me that cosy sort of feeling when you know you’re safe and everything will be OK. Nothing else is quite like it.

And now that I’m back in charge, there are, of course, so many interesting things to do up here –

- Birdy, I know what you’re up to – don’t even THINK about pulling my earrings.

Hmmmm… now there’s a thought…

Borderline
The Twelfth Pan Book of Horror Stories (editor Herbert van Thal, itself a Boris Karloff kind of name).
I remember standing in WH Smith, Sloane Square, holding a fresh copy in my hand, thumbing through the pages until I came to my story; then reading it where I stood, by the bookshelves, word for glorious word, until I felt that I must be glowing with authorship, that fellow-shoppers would surely intuit that I was reading my own work.
It was autumn 1971. I had graduated that summer, had just started my first job, and this was my first appearance in print. I’d already seen a copy, of course; the publishers had sent me two, along with a cheque for £15 in return for which I’d discharged all rights in the story, everywhere, forever.
They’d given me one other thing: a title. I’d submitted the story untitled and in the thrill of acceptance had given it no more thought. When I proudly opened my author’s copy for the first time, I was surprised to see that they had called it Borderline. There was nothing in the story, that I could see, to suggest such a title; and at that moment an image came to me, which has persisted, along with a growing sense of amusement, until this day.
On Herbert van Thal’s table sit three piles of manuscripts: one for acceptance, one for rejection, and one in the middle, the debatable land, smaller than the others most likely, with mine on top and the word ‘borderline’ scrawled across the first page in red pencil.
I’ll never know, of course. But it seems apt that a 22-year-old’s literary career might have been subject to such a tenuous beginning.

The lost pages

Robert Langdon allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. He was on top of this one. Thanks to his characteristic mix of academic prowess, boyish charm and wayward cluelessness, he had managed to bumble through to the mid point of the book without making any significant contribution to the story, and without any clear idea of what was really happening. As usual he’d had to solve some complicated symbology-related puzzles in order to progress, but he’d managed to pull this off without gaining any significant insight into the bigger picture, and while still protesting that the mystical events – by now clearly apparent even to the most sceptical characters – could not possibly be real. Just a few twists to go, then the personal-demons-facing-near-death-moment where the claustrophobic hero would come close to suffocation and/or drowning in some tomb-like construction, followed by the dramatic denouement, and finally smugly solving the last tantalizing piece of the puzzle, before realising that the secret he had spent the duration of the book trying to uncover would need to remain buried because mankind was not yet ready.
Langdon was confident, and his internal monologue was really buzzing now. They need to know what I’m thinking so they’ll be surprised by the plot twists too.
On this adventure Langdon was accompanied by Katherine, the sister of an old friend. Despite not being half his age, she had the advantage of a keen intelligence, and could do most of the real work while he smirked at the hidden symbolic references in things people looked at every day. And somehow I’ll still be the hero. But Langdon was totally unprepared for what happened next.
**********************************
Confident that events were heading towards a predictable conclusion, Langdon felt he could afford some time out. Being this two-dimensional took its toll and he needed to get away from time to time. Slip off the page into the bustle of Borders or Waterstones or wherever, sip a latte, take a wander, then slip back in several chapters later. And nobody even notices I’m gone! Katherine was still being stalked around her underground lab by a deranged maniac and wouldn’t miss him for a while. Langdon peeked over to the beginning of chapter 38, which kicked off with a turgid description of Masonic-inspired architecture. Perfect – this will probably go on for pages. He slipped away.
Langdon approached the edge of the page. Just a few more steps, then I’m home free. He edged forward cautiously. What he saw then made him gasp in astonishment.
**********************************
Across town, a minor character did something relatively undramatic for a while in order to drag out the suspense.
**************************************
Langdon gazed in horror at the scene unfolding before his eyes. The page didn’t end where it should. Instead of a drop down to a well-stocked bookshelf, there was a blank wall. Another dead end. Then he noticed something he had missed before. It looked like a door. Some kind of portal – but to where? Langdon was completely mystified and had no idea what to do. Then he saw the inscription on the door. Universum Seria Busso. There was something strangely familiar about these words. Where have I seen them before? Langdon couldn’t begin to comprehend the significance of this phrase, or how it might relate to his present predicament.
Langdon could only think of one course of action. He would have to skip forward past the denouement and sneak out before the final revelation. Then something truly unbelievable happened.
**************************************
“Hello Robert,” a voice behind him said. Langdon whirled around, coming face to face with a young man he had never seen before – scruffy, punky looking. “You’re not supposed to be in this book. Who the hell are you?” Langdon challenged.
“I’m running the show around here now. So you haven’t put the puzzle together yet?”
Langdon’s mind was racing. “But you can’t be here. You’re not one of the official characters. I don’t really understand the plot yet – I won’t until the very last page – but I know that no new characters should be introduced after chapter 50.”
“Allow me to show you something.” The young man pointed to a wall Langdon had not noticed before. It was covered in mysterious symbols – lines and circles.
“Aha,” Langdon said, feeling the familiar twitch that marked the beginnings of a knowing smirk. “In some cultures the vertical line can represent man’s ascent towards God. Or it can be a symbol of potency. Or of the life-affirming positive energy principle. Or a tree. The circle can represent eternity. Or completion. Or emptiness. Even death.”
Now it was the young man’s turn to smirk. Very informative Robert. “But in this case, the vertical lines represent the number one, and the circles represent zero.”
Langdon looked bewildered. No, this can’t be happening!
“That’s right Robert,” he continued. “You couldn’t find the edge of the page because there is no page as you understand it. This is an e-book. An electronic file. Right now you and I are not in Borders as you may have imagined, but on a server at amazon.com.”
Langdon had a nagging feeling. Something doesn’t add up. Who is this guy?
“My recent appearance came as a surprise to you. I’m here because of the man who’s changing this book. Changing history in a small way.”
Suddenly Langdon saw it all. My God – a hacker. A hacker is rewriting the e-book. “You’ll never get away with this,” he screamed.
“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised Robert. If the changes are subtle enough, many people will never even notice – especially the thousands illegally sharing it. The question that remains is what to do with you. You’re outdated, an irrelevance. You barely take an interest in your own story. As you know, you’re scheduled for a near-death experience in chapter 78. It might be nearer than you imagine.”
In an instant, Langdon was running. Something had suddenly clicked in his brain. He thought about the inscription on the portal. Universum Seria Busso. Suddenly it made sense – and he hadn’t even needed to superimpose a Masonic symbol onto it, look at it in a mirror or boil it in water. Universal Series Bus – commonly known as the USB port. It’s my way out of here.
**************************************
The rest had been easy. Once out of the server, Langdon could make for a connected computer. And then to the one place he knew his two-dimensionality would really come into its own. The optical drive – and the recently released DVD movie version. Hollywood, here I come.

The North/South divide

No trip to the area just north of the Midlands would be complete without trying to locate the source of the mythical North/South divide, England’s most significant, if invisible fault line. However, in the absence of any official demarcation, the divide has to be felt as much as mapped out.

There are candidates in various parts of the region, partly determined by the sites of the old coal industry. A visit to Nottinghamshire, for instance, might suggest that Nottingham isn’t in the North, but Mansfield, a mere 16 miles to the north, most certainly is. But you’d have to decide for yourself; visit the Thoresby Colliery Visitor Centre in Sherwood Forest to get a feel for the part that mining culture played in scissoring the country into two.

Further west, the divide is even less clear-cut. Crewe, which didn’t even exist before the rise of the railways, feels as distinctly northern as any town in Lancashire or Yorkshire, and yet travel twenty miles north, to the appropriately named Alderley Edge, and find yourself in a town that wouldn’t feel out of place rubbing shoulders with Kensington or Chelsea. To feel the contrast, visit The Crewe Heritage Centre on Vernon Way, followed by an afternoon wandering along London Road, perhaps stopping in for lunch or cocktails at Gusto. Spotting a few soap stars and/or footballers’ wives will persuade you that you haven’t left the south in any meaningful way.

I run the borders
between night and day, passing
through the gap where light
filters in across
the greying sky. Orange street
lamps disguise the flush
of colour in the
sky behind the dark rooftops
that cast no shadow.
Uniformly bare
branches lift arms in the air,
mutely wave me through.

When the wind blows in
from the east, I taste the salt,
feel waves on my face.

Today a crow caws,
standing sentry to the day.
Who goes there? I pass
and the first searchlight
beams of sun point up from the
horizon. Look back,
stop, listening to
birds singing, listening to
my own breathing, stand
key in hand, step in,
having now run the borders
between night and day.