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 Paul carey lives in Essex, England. He is chairperson of the local Thurrock Playwrights group who produce plays based on the rich history of the area.
Paul's interests include writing SF/fantasy, and comedy, making amateur films, drawing cartoons and comics and performing in amateur dramatic productions.He writes short stories, plays,and comicstrips.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- wrote and performed a short play called "Pilloried" about the life of author Daniel Defoe in 2005, as part of the Thurrock playwrights group of which he is current chairperson.
- He was a runner up in the SFX magazine "Cult fiction" short story competition in 2006
- Paul is soon to have his short story "The Inheritors" read out on the SHORT STORY INTERNET RADIO site.
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MY NEWS:
Currently developing on a stage show called "Thurrock at War" as a community play based on true stories from the 2 world wars.
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Grays,
State/Country: Essex, England
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
 THE INHERITORS
By Paul Carey
It begun as a story down the pub, an urban legend, like alligators in the sewers, or more like alien abductions.
There was a report on the TV news; an unusual rise in the number of missing persons. Then nothing; a media blackout. The conspiracy theorists got hold of it, then it was all over the Net. People were being taken. Rumours started to circulate about movie stars, members of boy bands, back benchers, all disappearing. It was gradual; over several months. We all went on with our lives, the potential danger at the back of our minds; like Aids or terrorism, but it never affected you directly; until of course it did.
There was a girl in my office, Stacy. She lived with a bloke called Gary. She’d gone to the kitchen to make a coffee; he heard a crash, and rushed in to find milk and glass everywhere, but no Stacy. The key was still in the back door locked from the inside. All the windows closed. The cat was in the corner frozen with fear, then scarpered through the cat flap and never came back. When I saw Gary, he was a wreck. He was changed, deep inside; you could see it in his eyes, like a concentration camp survivor.
Then there was the video. It was on the Net first. A lot of people said it was a fake, like that alien autopsy from Roswell. Then TV got a hold of it. The government accused the media of causing panic, banned it. But it was too late. The woman who took the video went missing too, along with her kid; they reckon it was the government who got them though.
This video was taken on a mobile; it showed a guy at his barbeque, with his kid standing right next to him. Then suddenly the guy’s not there. No flash of light; nothing. The kid’s standing there the whole time, he doesn’t even realise something’s up until his mum starts screaming.
Pretty soon more videos appeared, from camcorders, mobiles and TV crews. First three or four a week, then fifteen to twenty. People were there one second, and gone the next. The government were dismissing it as a big hoax. But more people were disappearing from my work place, and from my local, then one of my cousins, and an uncle. People were scared.
A lot of people started to gather in churches, mosques, and shopping centres, lighting candles and creating memorial walls. My mum phoned me several times a day, then my dad rang to say she had gone too.
People stopped turning up for work, public transport ground to a halt. There was panic buying and looting. Some barricaded themselves in their homes and armed themselves. Others committed suicide. There were no newspapers and nothing on TV but repeats.
Those who led “alternative lifestyles”, hippies, and tree huggers, gathered on hilltops with banners saying “Take us” for the aliens or “Save us Jesus”. Most of them were hedging their bets. I found Beth among one of these groups. We’d gone out for about three years. I’d felt the need to find her; the rest of my friends having been taken. She was sitting looking up at the sky and smoking pot. I sat with her for a bit and took a couple of drags. She thought it was wonderful, that we were privileged to be witnessing this amazing time in history. The aliens would save us; take us to a better world. She was stoned out of her head, but despite the smiles, I could tell she was terrified. She was asking herself, will I be taken? is it better to be taken or left behind? That was the thing; not knowing what actually happened to the disappeared. I don’t think she even noticed when I slipped away.
I walked all the way to my dad’s place, the roads were blocked by cars, with few people about now. He was surprised to see me, but pleased.
That evening a junior cabinet Minister came on the TV and radio. He pretty much told us there was no hope, they hadn’t a clue what it was, but it was happening all over the world. He confirmed that the PM and most of the cabinet had gone, along with most of the Royal family. I couldn’t help but laugh when he said Edward was now on the throne. He said there wasn’t enough of us left to run anything, that our civilization as we knew it was finished. He didn’t know if this was judgement day, but all he could offer was that the survivors should make a better world than the one that was now lost. He wished us all luck, and the last TV station went off the air. Not long after we lost the electricity too. We sat by candle light as we drank my dad’s wine collection from the cellar and listened to a lone DJ from some pirate station on one of those clockwork radios. I guess they had their own generator. He took calls from people who could still get a mobile signal. Some had theories about what was happening, some said they’d seen ufos; but people had always said that. Some even confessed to terrible things they’d done in their life, others just wanted to say goodbye. In between he’d play sad music. It was while sitting there that it finally dawned on me; this was the end of the world.
My father and I had never been close, I was too artistic for his practical take on life. We talked about mum. He said how she’d been the only woman he’d ever loved. We both cried. “I’m glad we’re together son” he said, and we hugged, somewhat awkwardly. I guess it must have been the wine. I got another bottle from the cellar and we sat in the armchairs listening to the radio, which was now mostly just music. When I woke in the morning my dad was gone.
I wound up the radio, but there was only static. From the front bedroom I could see down the street. It was quiet. I was struck by a paralysing fear of being the only one left. I willed for someone, anyone to appear. Then I saw a figure shambling up the road, and I cried. I decided to find others, so when my time came I was not all alone.
I made my way to the nearest church that I knew, a couple of streets away. The heavy wooden doors were closed, I pushed one of them open and entered into the dimly lit interior.
A couple of dozen faces turned to me as I entered, looking with hope in their eyes to see if I was someone they recognised, then turning away when I wasn’t. One man, the priest, came walking up with open arms and a welcoming smile. He introduced himself as Michael.
There was food cooking on a portable camping fire, some blankets and sleeping bags scattered about. There was also the inevitable memorial wall to one side. I pulled an old photo of my parents out of my jacket pocket and found a space for it.
“Would you like something to eat?” asked the priest. I nodded to him and settled among the pews for some bread and soup. It turned out this wasn’t Father Michael’s church at all, he’d gone out and found this empty church, after his entire congregation had disappeared. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his denomination he said, it was still a house of God. During the night two more of our number vanished leaving a total of eighteen. They were a quiet bunch, friendly, but not in your face. We’d talk in two’s or threes, some would play cards or chess, the younger ones had MP3s or Gameboys, everyone helped preparing meals.
Sitting down to eat on the evening of my first full day, I found a place next to Father Michael, and as a way of making conversation I asked him if he had a theory about what was happening. He looked at the group of refugees about him. “Are you a religious man, my boy?” he asked. I told him not particularly, but I believed in some kind of intelligence that ran the universe. He smiled “Hmn, like a lot of people, can’t be bothered to go to church, but not quite ready to write off God just yet.” He saw my look of embarrassment, “Oh, I’m not criticising you son, it’s just the way these days. But in answer to your question, I do have a theory.” He gestured to the people around us, which were now up to nineteen due to a new arrival late this afternoon. “What do you notice about the people here?”
I looked at the motley mix of age, sex and race. I shook my head, unable to pick out any clue from them. Michael edged closer in a conspiratorial manner. “They’re a quiet bunch, friendly but unassuming. There are no hotheads here. Even the children; there’s no running around. Do you see?”
I looked at the group again. “Well sure everyone’s subdued, I mean they’re scared.”
Michael shook his head and pointed his finger in the air to emphasise his point.
“No, no, it’s more than that. That young man who came in this afternoon, he was a music student. George over there, he’s a postman, those two ladies worked in an office. Yourself, you’re a Web designer.” This was obviously significant to Michael, but I couldn’t see it. “Don’t you see lad? There are no policemen, soldiers, footballers, managers, no high flying career people. No one here is a leader, no one is assertive and aggressive. There have been no arguments in the two weeks I’ve been here.” Then it dawned on me, it was absurd, but frighteningly plausible.
“Blessed are the meek….”
Michael put a hand on my shoulder and looked at me with sad eyes “Aye lad. For what ever reason, either by God’s hand or some other power; all of the aggressive, assertive, types of this world have been taken. What’s left are the timid and the mild.”
“But isn’t that good?” I ventured “Isn’t that part of what you’ve always preached?”
“Perhaps” He sighed heavily “But what kind of world will it be without builders, men of strength and tenacity. How will we rebuild if all we have are sheep?”
“You’re right” I said, “It won’t be the same; It’ll be different, there’ll be no war, no hatred. Just peace on Earth.”
“Or stagnation and death.” Said the old priest.
No one has disappeared from our group for weeks now, and other groups we’ve met with have reported the same. It’s like Michael said, only the timid seem to have been spared. There are a few hundred of us in the city, everyone helps everyone else, there’s been no violence, there’s enough food and room for everyone. It’s like a giant commune of peaceful friendly people. We still don’t know for sure what happened to everyone else, but I did meet a man, half out of his mind, who said he’d been taken into one of the alien ships. It was an interstellar press ganging operation for some intergalactic army. Our race had been selected for it’s aggression. Their conversion techniques had failed on him because of all the drugs in his system from when he was in the hospital. Unfortunately there was no one who could corroborate his story. Besides, I found it hard to imagine my parents as tooled up futuristic mercenaries.
We remember the disappeared and mourn them, but we also look to the future, and whether or not our new society will survive in the long term, many have come to believe that we who were left behind were the lucky ones. We, the inheritors of the Earth.
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 Elevated thoughts
She pretended she didn`t recognise me as she stepped into the lift, but she didn`t fool me for a second.
It had been three years, seven weeks and an odd number of days, since we broke up, but hey! who was
counting? The doors closed behind her, cuttng off her escape and sealing us in our fated reunion.
She turned her back to me, time standing still for an instant, until she remembered to jab quickly at one of the buttons; setting our cage into motion, willing it to the third floor, and freedom. She looked at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but at me, while a crimson flush rose steadily in her cheeks. The lift rose slowly.
In the time left to me my mind raced to think of something to say, that wouldn`t sound stupid or cliched. I knew once I got home I would think of a dozen things I could have said.
It was inevitable that one day I would run into her; I had imagined how it would be often enough; replaying various scenarios over and over in my head. But this was nothing like any of those. In my mind`s eye she had thrown herself into my arms and tearfully said she was sorry. In reality I knew she had nothing to be sorry for and would die rather than say it. The apology was the fantasy of my own male ego. I had hurt her and had sort forgiveness, but not received it .
I took a chance. "Hi" I said, feebly "Small world!". I cringed inwardly at my own unoriginality.
"I`m sorry?" she replied, feigning confusion. Rudimentary communication had been established; at least she hadn`t ignored me completely. "How have you been?" I ventured further.
"Okay." This girl definitely did not want to start a conversation with me.
"Good." I said, and that was the end of it; a heavy silence descending on us.
A wave of memories washed over me as I studied her appearance in greater detail. The jacket was new; light green, with a hood. The red bag slung over her shoulder was similar to one from her student days. She still had a preference for short leather skirts which celebrated her long legs, adorned now with black stockings. Black was her favourite colour. She still wore that clip in her long blonde hair which gave it a severe, controlled look. I used to tease her by removing it, and silence her protests with a kiss. I remembered the softness of her skin; softer than any girl I had ever known. I remembered how she would sigh as I kissed her neck, her shoulder, her breast.
We had both been nineteen, in our second year at the University of Essex. She was studying sociology, I was intent on being an engineer. We met at a party, I don`t recall whose. It was a student party, a spontaneous happening to celebrate nothing in particular, other than a student`s inherent right to party. There had been an instant rapport between us, a shared taste in music and the films of Woody Allen. We talked all night, and I walked her home. Within days we had succumbed to our hormonal urges, and become permanent fixtures of each others daily lives.
It was then that the fear started to creep in . She was the first serious girlfriend I had ever had, a cure for the loneliness which I had not even acknowledged until I was shown the alternative. And then I couldn`t imagine life without her . Or perhaps the problem was, I could imagine it all too well. They say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. This was no doubt said by someone who had never loved and lost. If he had, he would have realised the gross stupidity of such a statement. I was afraid of losing her, and from that fear grew jealousy. Jealousy of her friends and her hobbies, eating into the time she should have been spending
with me. Fear is our own worst enemy. It is at the base of every terrible thing we do as a race. It was my fear of losing her that ironically drove her away. And I had created the very hell which I had sought to avoid.
Suddenly the lift came to a halt, the doors rolling open to reveal the third floor. She glanced back over her shoulder at me, our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. She looked away, and managed a "Bye!" through a half-hearted , embarassed smile, before darting out into the welcoming displays of womens spring fashions. I wanted to run after her, take her by the shoulders, and tell her,.......something. What was it that I wanted to say? that I was sorry? Sorry for being sorry? it had all been said three years ago. Then why did I still feel the need to say something? to pick at the wound, and not allow it to heal. I wanted to hear her say she forgave me. She had said it that last night, three years ago, but not meant it. It had been said with irritation, to stop me from asking for it, so she could be rid of me. I wanted her to say it, and mean it; but I knew she never would.
And if she could not forgive me, then how could I forgive myself? That was the true nature of my pain. There had been only one option left open to me; I had to kill her. It had been quick and painless, but I might have known she wouldn`t stay dead. She never did for very long. She always came back, and I would run into her by chance, just as I had done today. Oh well, I`d just have to kill her again, as I had already done several times before, and keep killing her until one day she finally forgave me and stopped coming back.
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