This is a story idea that I've had for quite a while but it's only in recent weeks that
I've finally managed to write it down. This may not seem like a fan fic at first but
rest assured, a strong TTA element does creep into the narrative as the story goes
on. ( Actually, the title is  probably a dead giveaway as to what that element may
be )
 
As ever, if you have any opinions on this, be they good or bad, then don't hesitate
to let me know at FinbarZapek@Ireland.com.

NOTE: Despite the subject matter ( You'll see ) there is no TTBS style material in
this story. 
Depending on your tastes, you may either rejoice or groan now.

Fifi LaFume is the copyright of Warner Bros. and is used without permission.

                                     


                                        LaFUME
                            A TTA FAN FICTION BY S. CAMPBELL



     I owe the most extraordinary week of my life to the fact that for almost seven
years I had been living next door to a man by the name of Richard Callaghan. 
     We both resided on the second floor of St. Anthony's House, a three storey
Victorian style tenement that had been constructed in 1900 and evidently hadn't
been refurbished since.
     I lived in flat three, he lived in flat four.
     The place always seemed to have a musty smell about it, creeping dampness
clearly visible upon the walls at most times of the year. All along the darkened
staircase there was a covering of thick, brown patterned wallpaper that was
constantly peeling away to reveal heavily pocketed pink plaster. In the winter it
was like a refrigerator, most of the heat escaping through the roof due to
extremely poor insulation and if it hadn't been for my portable electric heater I
most probably would have died of hypothermia a long time ago. 
     I'd heard too that there were rats in the basement but I couldn't confirm this as
I'd never seen one myself. Needless to say, I could well believe the rumours. 
     It seemed incredible that such an antiquated dwelling could still exist in
Dublin at the dawn of the twenty first century but here it was. It would appear that
there would always be hovels like St. Anthony's as long as there were people like
Richard and myself to inhabit them.  
     Neither of us could afford anything better, both having been unemployed for
quite some time.
     In my late teens and early twenties I had attempted to make my way as a
freelance journalist, failing miserably due to a general lack of skill. In the many
years that I had been writing I had only ever managed to sell one story, a short
piece on local vandalism. 
     Despite this, I still had the bizarre idea in my head that I was going to make it
big someday. On many occasions I would write long into the night, falling asleep
at my desk as I worked upon the article that was sure to make my name. I rarely
finished the work I started but night after night I would do it anyway, convinced
that I was onto a winner. The human mind holds within itself a wonderful
capacity for self deception, my own certainly no different.
     Although we had been neighbours for quite some time, I rarely spoke with or
even saw Richard.
     He had a tendency to keep to himself and I had once been told from a reliable
source that he was suffering from chronic depression. This had apparently been
brought on by the death of his wife and daughter in the early part of 1995, an
experience from which he had never fully recovered.
     As far as I knew it had been some form of car accident, Richard having been
the sole survivor. 
     Soon after this incident he had lost both his job and home, beginning a
downward spiral that would eventually lead to him ending up next door to me at
the bottom rung of the ladder.
     It was a truly tragic tale that made me somewhat glad of the fact that I'd never
had a family. I don't think that I could ever have survived a loss as great as his.
     The local kids gave him a very hard life, making fun of him every time he
attempted to venture outside. 
     Creepy Cally they called him. 
     Some of the braver ones had even said it to his face. 
     He always seemed to take it in his stride however, ignoring them as he stared
blankly towards the street ahead, intense blue eyes focused in on a distant object
that most probably only existed within his mind. Despite his apparent calmness, it
was quite clear that he was breaking up inside. Sometimes late at night I could
clearly hear him crying through the thin walls that separated us, his sobs often
going on for hours on end. I may not have known him that well but I really felt
sorry for the guy and I hoped that everything would work out for him in the end.
He had the most miserable life of anyone that I had ever known.
     So I think you can understand my concern when I returned home from the
social welfare office one morning to find our landlady Mrs. Brown standing just
outside his flat, a worried look clearly evident upon her face as she called his
name out loudly. She was hammering her fist against the chipped wooden surface
of his front door, having long since grown tired of using the knocker.
     "Mr. Callaghan," she expressed. "Are you in there Mr. Callaghan?"
     "Something wrong?" I asked, reaching the top of the stairs.
     The only window on the landing was boarded up and we were both illuminated
by the glow from a single, unshaded light bulb. Mrs. Brown's face was highlighted
in a heavy outline of yellow and black, her curly hair darkened into a gloomy
silhouette.
     "It's Mr. Callaghan," she exclaimed. "He usually pays his rent on time but he's
more than five days over now. He hasn't been collecting his post either. I'm really
worried about him."
     "Worried about the money more like," I whispered.
     "I've been knocking here the past few minutes and he hasn't answered," she
continued. "I don't remember seeing him leave."
     "Maybe he went out early," I replied. "Or perhaps he's just gone away again
like last year. You remember his cousin's funeral don't you?"
     "But he told me that time. Paid his rent well in advance. Have you seen him
lately?"
     I thought about her question for a moment, realising that I hadn't.
     "No... Not for at least a week." 
     As I spoke, a sudden horrible thought crossed my mind.
     Judging by the whiteness that had just appeared on Mrs. Brown's face it was
evident that she was thinking the same thing.
     "You don't think..?"   
     She trailed off, holding one hand to the side of her mouth as she started to
shake.
     "Good God!" she whispered.
     I looked firstly towards her and then towards the door, heartbeat suddenly
intensifying as I desperately tried to curb the grotesque visions that were forming
within the dark recesses of my imagination.
     "Can you open up?" I asked slowly.
     She nodded, producing a small bunch of keys from her apron pocket and
isolating the longest one.
     "Will you... Will you go in first?" she stammered. "I don't think I could bear it
if-"
     I laid a warm hand on her shoulder, nodding slowly as she placed the key in
the lock.
     "Don't worry," I whispered. "I'll just be a minute."
     The door opened to the chill of an unheated room, murky darkness clearly
betraying the fact that the curtains were still drawn.
     With an extreme feeling of trepidation I took a couple of steps inward,
fumbling around for a few seconds as I struggled to locate the light switch.
     My fingers finding their target I flicked it on, blinking twice as the once
darkened living room instantly flashed into view.  
     "Richard?" I called. "Are you in here man? It's Clive from next door."
     My only response was near silence, the distorted rumblings of traffic from the
street below an ever persistent but hardly noticeable background hum.
     His flat was more or less the same layout as my own, four rooms of which the
one I presently stood in was the largest. The place looked as if it hadn't been
cleaned in weeks, a large pile of torn magazines lying discarded upon the green
carpet and the sofa draped in what looked like heavily creased bedsheets. It
looked as if someone had been sleeping on it.
     Upon the coffee table lay a large paperback French/English dictionary, a fruit
bowl containing six blackened bananas sitting directly next to it. There was
something else in there as well but it was too far gone to be identifiable. 
     Tucked away in the corner was a fourteen inch television set and placed
directly underneath it, a video machine that looked at least ten years old. On the
floor beside them lay a box that seemed to contain at least thirty blank video
cassettes, all of them unlabelled.
     A single painting gave colour to the otherwise plain white walls, a badly drawn
portrait of a young woman that hung at a slightly crooked angle.
     No sign of Richard anywhere.
     Moving towards the scullery, I became increasingly aware of the smell of sour
milk and ducking my head around the door I saw the offending jug lying idle
upon the sideboard. 
     The place clearly hadn't been used in days, the door of one of the cupboards
hanging open to reveal some glasses that were already becoming veiled in
cobwebs.
     There was a sizeable crack on the lower portion of the window, a long piece of
white masking tape placed carefully over the hairline fracture in order to keep out
the breeze. Directly above the gas oven, the ceiling lay coated in a thin layer of
dark, slimy grease. Richard evidently wasn't the cleaning type. 
     I tried the tiny bathroom next, finding it to be just as empty as the rest of the
flat. The sink lay half filled with dirty water, the plug hole blocked by a large
clump of strange looking purple hair. Just behind the door there was an odd
brown mark upon the white floor tiles, a darkened smudge that looked a bit like a
paw print. It seemed slightly too large to be from either a dog or a cat.
     Momentarily intrigued, I knelt down for a closer look, my breath billowing
away like heavy steam into the cold environment. 
     It seemed a pretty odd shape for a paw print, strangely elongated. 
     A rabbit perhaps?
     I decided not to mention it, Mrs. Brown being pretty strict about her no pets
policy.
     Wandering back through the door, I made my way briskly towards the
bedroom. 
     My heart missed a beat as I entered, eyes immediately focusing in on a large
object that was lying on the floor directly below the window. A couple of seconds
later I gave an immense sigh of relief, realising that it was nothing more sinister
than a pile of old sheets. 
     The bed was unmade, the wardrobe wide open and devoid of clothes. Lying
upon the carpet near the door was a single, yellow sock.  
     The entire place was deserted, no trace of Richard to be found.
     I finally allowed myself to smile, heartbeat settling down to a normal level.
     "It's okay Mrs. Brown," I called. "He's not here."
     "Thank God for that," she expressed, walking over the threshold. "For a
moment there I thought... Well, you know what I thought."
     I nodded, closing over the bedroom door.
     "Looks like he hasn't been here in days. He probably just forgot to tell you."
     "I really hope you're right," she replied. "I'm still pretty worried though."
     As she spoke she wandered towards the scullery, disappearing inside with one
hand held to her nose in order to escape the stench of the milk.
     "Don't you find it odd that he never even tidied the flat up before he left?" she
called.
     I didn't respond, simply making my way over to the box of videotapes and
removing two of them. They were both of the 180 minute variety, a cheap brand
of which I had never heard of.
     "Maybe he left in a hurry," I said finally. "An emergency of some sort. Or
perhaps he just never bothers cleaning the place."
     She replied a couple of seconds later but I was no longer listening, thoughts
occupied by a growing sense of curiosity.
     What was on the tapes and why did he have so many?
     Probably just movies, I told myself. The guy lived a pretty lonely life so he
probably spent most of his time immersed in television.
     Even with this thought on my mind I couldn't help but think about taking a
couple of them.  Perhaps the tapes had something to do with his disappearance.
Maybe they contained surveillance footage or something. It was a ridiculous
thought but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't shake it.
     My mind was already hard at work on the possibilities of turning this into a
news story. This could be it... the one to make my name.
     Before Mrs. Brown had a chance to emerge from the scullery I had swiftly
tucked the two tapes beneath my jacket, adjusting myself so that the bulge was
hardly noticeable.
     Then, ever so quickly, I began to make for the door.
     "I suppose I better be going," I called. "I wouldn't worry about this if I were
you. There's probably a quite reasonable explanation."
     "You're probably right," she replied with a smile. "It's probably very simple
indeed."
     Deep inside, I was beginning to hope that it would be anything but.
      
     
     About five minutes later I placed the two tapes down upon my own coffee
table, staring at them long and hard as I suddenly realised what a two faced
individual I really was.
     I had been genuinely worried about Richard at first but as soon as I had seen
the tapes another, more sinister side to my personality had emerged. 
     It was a side that I didn't particularly care for.
     "You only ever think about yourself Clive," I muttered slowly. "You're nothing
but a completely and utterly worthless individual."
     I closed my eyes, trying to repress the intense waves of guilt that were welling
up inside.
     For all I knew Richard was lying dead down an alleyway somewhere, beaten to
a pulp by muggers and with the wallet prised from the clasped fingers of his
stiffened corpse.
     And here I was, trying to use his body as a stepping stone to a better life. 
     What kind of a sick individual was I?
     Leaving the tapes on the table I made my way into the scullery in order to get
myself a cup of tea, glancing out the window towards the gloomy Dublin skyline
and the seemingly never ending river of traffic below. I desperately tried to draw
my mind away from my own depravity, eyes closely observing the raindrops that
slowly raced each other down the glass.
     I had certainly allowed myself to sink to an all time low.
     The kettle boiling, I tapped my fingers impatiently upon the sideboard, eyes
glancing back and forth between the door and the coffee table beyond.
     Despite my burning guilt, I was still in two minds about the tapes, half of me
wanting to bring them straight back to Richard's flat and the other half really
wanting to see what was on them. I hated myself for even entertaining the thought
of invading Richard's privacy but the flame of curiosity was still burning bright.
     There was no returning them at this stage I thought. Mrs. Brown had already
locked his place up and was most probably back in her own room by now.
     They would have to stay in my possession for tonight at least.
     Steaming mug held in hand, I sat myself down upon the sofa, staring firstly
towards the tapes and then towards my own video machine.
     What harm would it do just to take a little look?
     Despite the fact that the tea was still quite hot, I drank it swiftly, fingering the
tapes with my left hand as I felt the feelings of temptation swell.
     The depraved side of my personality seemed to be winning the battle.
     How would Richard ever know? 
     And without any more rumblings from my conscience, I got to my feet and
flicked on the television set. It was a model that was at least fifteen years old, an
early eighties design with rounded corners and no remote. The quality of the
colour was terrible, most things coming out with a greenish tint and with an
image that rolled on an alarmingly regular basis.
     I was probably the third owner at least, the ancient contraption having been the
only one in the shop for less than £50. Still, it served as an adequate companion
during the long hours of loneliness.
     Slotting the first tape into my video I pressed play, eyes glued to the screen as
a colourful image suddenly appeared. 
     It was a cartoon of some description, one that involved a strange looking dog
setting a trap comprising of a bowling ball, a large magnifying glass and a bucket
of tar.
     As I watched, the dog got snared by his own construction, ending up tarred and
feathered. The rest of the story involved him becoming the object of desire for a
small female skunk. 
     I pressed fast forward, watching the image zoom past at several times normal
speed. As soon as the cartoon ended there was a momentary patch of snow where
the tape had been stopped. Several seconds later another cartoon commenced, a
short that went by the title of Aroma Amore.
     The story was almost identical to the last one except for the fact that this time
it was a small cat instead of a dog. 
     "Just kid's shows," I muttered to myself. "Nothing sinister at all."
     The rest of the tape only seemed to contain more animation, apparently all
taken from the same show. Each cartoon featured the same female skunk, a small
purple and white creature with a French accent who was somewhat reminiscent of
a similar male character from the old Loony Tunes brigade. I couldn't recall his
name off the top of my head but from what I did remember, he used to chase cats.
     Making sure to rewind the tape, I ejected it swiftly before putting on the
second one.
     Much to my dismay, I was greeted with yet more cartoons, the first being a
long piece entitled The Acme Bowl and the second a shorter tale called The
Amazing Three.
     I watched them both in fast forward mode, the colourful images darting across
the screen like some very strange display of time lapse photography.
     Then, when The Amazing Three came to an end there was yet another
momentary patch of snow, nothing recorded for a period of perhaps three minutes
or more.
     When the image finally reappeared it was of something quite different entirely,
my fingers working quickly to slow the tape to its normal speed in order to get a
better look.
     It appeared to be camcorder footage, a bright point of light in the upper left
hand corner of the screen quickly identifiable as a burning candle. It was
positioned in the centre of a low table, a darkened figure sitting directly behind it.
It took me a few seconds to decipher from the grainy footage that the figure was
none other than Richard. 
     He was just sitting there, not saying anything or even moving as he stared
blankly towards the flame.
     "What's he playing at?" I whispered.
     After about five minutes of this I pressed fast forward yet again, going all the
way to the end of the tape in the space of seven minutes.
     All throughout this time Richard refused to move, the image rolling slightly
now and again but the central figure always remaining static.
     Although it had only taken a few minutes to view on fast forward, the total
tape time that had elapsed must have been close to two and a half hours.
     What was he doing?
     The final traces of my guilt bled away as I ejected the tape, placing it back in
its box as I sat myself down upon the sofa and frowned.
     Things were certainly getting stranger.
     
     
     It must have been close to one o'clock in the afternoon when I knocked upon
Mrs. Brown's door, placing both hands to my side in a fruitless effort to disguise
the fact that they were shaking madly.
     It took her at least a minute to answer, her elderly face appearing through the
thin gap as she opened up just a fraction of an inch. The chain was still in place.
     "Hello again," she said. "If this is about the rats in the basement then I have to
tell you-"
     "Nothing like that," I laughed, cutting her off. "It's just about this morning. I
think I must have dropped my wallet in Richard's place because I can't find it
anywhere. I know I still had it when I met you at his door but by the time I got
home it was gone."
     She looked at me for a brief moment, blinking once before vanishing into the
interior of her living room. 
     I felt my heartbeat intensify, a few beads of sweat developing on my forehead.
Maybe I'd been a fool to expect her to believe this.
     A few seconds later however, she reappeared with the key held in hand, a
broad smile upon her face.
     "Just drop it back in as soon as your ready okay."
     I took it swiftly, thanking her before making straight for the stairs.
     She was far too trusting. Slightly worrying in fact.
     I wondered if she'd give out my key just as easily.
     As soon as I opened up Richard's flat I went straight to the box of videos,
taking out three more and swiftly bringing them into my own place as silently as
possible. 
     Then, as quickly as I could, I went back downstairs and returned the key.
     "Found it in the bathroom," I smiled, holding up the wallet that had been in my
pocket the whole time. "Pretty stupid of me I suppose. Still, I suppose we learn
from our mistakes."
     Not saying a word, she simply nodded and closed her door.
     For a couple of minutes I stood silently in the hallway, fear slipping away as I
realised how easily my rouse had worked.
     "Let's just hope they never put you in charge of a bank," I whispered.
     
     
     The first tape contained nothing but cartoons, more of the same involving the
skunk who according to the end credits was called Fifi.
     I scanned through it just once, going right to the end but not finding anything
of interest.
     The other two were slightly more mysterious however. Once again, they
simply showed Richard sitting in the dark, illuminated only by a single candle as
he stared into space with his hands held flat out upon the table top.
     Was it some form of religious ritual?
     As far as I knew Richard was a non practising Catholic, not the type to go in
for anything different.
     A bizarre form of meditation then, perhaps something to help him with stress
relief?
     I wasn't too sure, fast forwarding my way through the three hours worth of
camcorder footage twice. He seemed to be spending quite a lot of time at it
whatever it was.
     And then, as I reached the end of the third tape I saw something that sent a
cold chill down my spine.
     The proceedings had been more or less the same as before, Richard and the
candle both in their respective positions.
     But this time there was something else there as well.
     In the lower right hand corner of the screen an odd patch of distortion had
suddenly appeared, a strange shimmering effect that didn't seem to be damage on
the tape.
     As I watched it grew in size, developing an odd purple glow that fluctuated
like glistening liquid. It seemed to be taking on a shape... An outline that looked
oddly familiar.
     I felt my stomach churn, standing back a few paces as I suddenly found myself
becoming very frightened.
     Whatever it was I had seen it before. 
     Like a half forgotten dream, the memory was but an obscure impression,
almost a sensation of déjà vu. 
     But the sense of familiarity was there nonetheless.
     Before I could work out where I recognised it from, the shape had vanished, a
few seconds passing before Richard stood up and slammed his fists down hard
upon the table. As he did so, the image became fuzzy, the tape coming to an end.
     I glanced downward and saw that my hands were quivering, the hairs at the
back of my neck standing on end.
     "Richard," I muttered after a long silence. "What were you playing with man?"
     It was at least a quarter of an hour before I had the nerve to view the tape
again, rewinding back a couple of minutes and freeze framing on the spot where
the distortion had been at its strongest.
     Although the definition was poor I could patently see that there was indeed a
shape to it, the distinct curvature of a long tail clearly evident. 
     What was it? It looked like an animal of some description but it seemed oddly
distorted, standing upright and with a strangely human shape.
     And then I froze, suddenly realising where I recognised it from.
     "It can't be," I whispered. "That's impossible."
     But even as I spoke I remembered the strange paw print that I had seen on his
bathroom floor.
     The clump of purple fur that had blocked the sink.
     The French/English dictionary upon the table.
     And for the first time since childhood, I felt savage fear consume my mind.
     
     
     "Could ye spare me the price of a bottle of milk?"
     If I could describe myself as being on the bottom rung of life's ladder then
Charlie O'Dea was positively lying in the dirt. He had been homeless for at least
ten years and more often than not he could be found loitering on the filthy steps
outside St. Anthony's House. Despite the fact that it was raining today, he was
seated in his usual position by the wrought iron railings, holding out his hand as I
emerged to get a breath of fresh air.
     My face was still white with fear, hands shaking madly despite my attempts to
steady them upon the door frame. I didn't answer the tramp's question, simply
staring straight ahead as I listened to the throbbing of my own heart. 
     I was a four year old child again, terrified of the unknown horrors that lurked
in the darkness.
     "You look worse than me," he grinned after a minute or so, his blackened teeth
clearly showing. "Come on Sir... just a pound."
     "I haven't got anything," I whispered. "I'm broke."
     "Come on out of that. Mr. Callaghan always gives me a few bob."
     "Mr. Callaghan?" I enquired, staring directly at him. "You know Richard?"
     "A decent bloke indeed. He'd never pass me by without helping out."
     I knelt down by his side, the light rainfall soaking through my pullover as I
withdrew a five pound note from my pocket and waved it in front of his face.
     "Thought you were skint?" he smiled.
     "I have enough to keep me going. When did you last see Richard?" 
     "About five or six days ago. He left in the dead of night with his lady friend."
     "Lady friend?" 
     "A short woman. Had an unusual hairstyle."
     I felt another cold chill race down my back, eyes opening wide as I found
myself facing a possibility that I'd rather not have to deal with.
     "What did she look like?" I asked slowly.
     He suddenly fell silent, a look of confusion appearing on his face as he shifted
slightly in his position. It seemed clear that he was troubled by something.
     "I... I can't remember," he simply stated, eyes becoming dull. "It was late. Very
dark."
     "But you spoke to her?"
     "Face to face."
     "Then what did she look like?" 
     My voice rose with each word, a passer-by turning around to see what the
commotion was. 
     "I really can't remember Sir... I don't know why."
     O'Dea's face was now almost as white as my own, voice extremely shaky. 
     "Eyes," he spluttered after a few seconds. "All I can see is eyes, huge big eyes.
Like saucer plates they were."
     He turned his head to one side, staring down at the pavement and shaking.
     "Don't ask me any more. You can keep your stinking five quid. Just don't make
me remember."
     Then, like a child he began to sob, gripping firmly at the railings as he turned
himself fully away from me.
     I left the five pound note upon the steps, walking slowly back inside.
     Behind me, the rain continued to fall.
     
     
     Although I had rarely spoken to Richard, I knew quite a bit about him from my
conversations with Mrs. Brown.
     One of the things of which I was aware was the fact that Richard's late cousin
had owned a small cottage on the west coast, somewhere in Co. Galway as far as I
knew. With no other immediate family members the place had become Richard's
property soon after his cousin's death.  It was so badly run down however that it
was close to uninhabitable. There was no electricity or running water. The roof
was forever on the verge of caving in and at least half the windows were broken.
Apparently there was a serious insect infestation as well. 
     Despite these problems, I figured that the cottage was the only place where he
could possibly be.
     After a quick trip to the local library in order to check the Galway telephone
directory for the full address, I went straight to Heuston station where I bought
myself a return ticket to Connemara.
     It was almost five in the evening, a half hour delay awaiting me before
departure time.
     I carried with me only a small backpack, a battered 35mm camera and a
notebook tucked away inside. In my hands I held a small photocopied map of the
area in question, examining it carefully as I boarded the train. This time I was
onto something really big, I knew I was.
     
     
     The journey took almost three hours and by the time I arrived in Connemara, it
was quite late in the evening. I spent the night in a small guest house, going
without a meal due to my severe lack of funds. I left as soon as I woke up the next
morning, hitching a lift from a friendly truck driver who was decent enough to
leave me within twenty minutes walking distance of my destination.
     There were no main roads for me to follow, only a thin beaten pathway that
led through an overgrown and seemingly abandoned series of fields. The sky was
still quite overcast but there were some patches of blue visible to the far south.
The slopes of the nearby hills lay illuminated by a single, weak ray of sunshine,
the distant bleating of sheep drifting on the wind from afar. Although I couldn't
see it I knew that I was close to the ocean. I could smell the seaweed on the cold
breeze, feel the crunch of windblown sand beneath my shoes. Once or twice I
spotted a lone seagull, distant cries seemingly warning me to go back.
     I paid no heed to the sounds however, strongly determined to reach my
destination.
     The road disappeared into the distance, wild, marshy countryside on all sides
as I clambered over a crumbling stone wall. Not far to go now. Only about
another ten minutes or so.
     Strangely enough, I now felt little to no fear, my heart racing but only in wild
expectation.
     Time and time again I had tried to convince myself that what I was thinking
wasn't true, that it couldn't possibly be true. But nothing could shake my curiosity,
my desperate hunger for enlightenment. I had to know for sure. Not only that, I
had to be the first one to know for sure.
     It was as I navigated my way around a thick clump of bushes that I suddenly
paused, eyes fixed on the small building that was now visible between the trees in
the distance.
     I hadn't expected to find the place this quickly, the relative abruptness of
seeing it sending a distinct tingle down my spine.
     Instinctively ducking low, I observed the cottage for several minutes as I
pondered my options.
     It appeared to be in much better condition than what I'd expected. The
thatched roof looked in reasonably good order, the surrounding garden not half as
overgrown as I might have thought.
     Close to the gate lay a discarded cartwheel, some of the spokes missing and
long weeds growing up through the gaps.
     There was no sign of life, no smoke or visible lights.
     In apprehension I began to walk closer, still stooping low but patently visible
to anyone who may have been watching nonetheless.
     There was a car parked to the rear of the building, a small red Nissan with
Dublin licence plates. 
     Someone was definitely here, that was for sure.
     I straightened up, grim determination grasping a hold of my faculties.  
     This was it, the time to make my presence felt.
     And then, in a moment that will live forever in my memory, I saw a flutter of
movement from the corner of my eye. 
     There was something stirring just outside the front door, something quite small
but most definitely alive. 
     I froze, time standing still as my heart missed a beat.
     It was still pretty far off but even from this distance I could tell that whatever it
was, it didn't look quite right.
     It was most certainly an animal of some description but it seemed to be
standing upright, a long curling tail held high behind it and with two large, intense
eyes that were clearly visible even from a distance of what must have been close
to two hundred metres. 
     The colour of it seemed far too bright, far too free of blemishes or
imperfections to be natural. 
     As I watched, it turned slightly away from me, a long white stripe that ran the
full length of it's back coming into view. 
     I knew quite well what I was looking at but I still couldn't fully believe it,
rationalisation refusing to die.
     I started walking forward once again, driven on by pure adrenaline as all fear
and trepidation bled away to the farthest recesses of my mind. It was impossible
but it was true. 
     It was her. It was really her.
     Finally reaching the gate, I stared directly towards the creature, her face still
half turned away from me.
     Seen up close she looked almost identical to how she had appeared on the
videotapes. 
     Purple and white coloured fur, a large pink bow affixed just above her left ear
and her eyelids a distinctively dark shade of lavender. A cartoon character yet
somehow alive.
     She must have been close to three feet high, totally oblivious to my presence
as she drank water from an old milk churn.
     Shaking, I withdrew my camera from the bag, pointing it in her direction and
clearing my throat.
     The name came out in a stutter, a hoarse tone to my voice.
     "Fi... Fifi?"
     She instantly spun around, large eyes focusing in on me as she took two steps
backward in what appeared to be shock. Most of her face was covered in white
fur, the coloration running down her body to cumulate in a large white patch upon
her stomach. She had three fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand, her
furry feet placed in a ready to run position.
     My nerve snapped and I dropped the camera.
     "Oh my God!"
     As I spoke I felt a heavy hand come down upon my shoulder. Spinning around
I found myself staring into a lightly bearded face that was instantly familiar,
intense blue eyes beneath a mop of dark brown hair.
     "Richard!"
     Before I had the chance to say anything else his fist had slammed against my
jaw and knocked me out cold.  
     
     
     I woke up to find myself lying awkwardly on an old, moth eaten sofa, Richard
towering above me with a look of extreme anger upon his face. He was dressed in
a considerably faded blue suit, an old grey shirt that was without a tie and a green
overcoat slung over his right arm.
     I don't think that I had ever seen him wearing anything else.
     "How did you find me?" he hissed.
     "I figured you might be here," I croaked, one hand held to my throbbing jaw. "I
heard you had a place in these parts."
     "You had no right to follow me here Clive. You should have stayed at home."
     "And miss out on your little friend? I don't think so."
     He fell silent for a few moments, staring towards the floor and shaking his
head slowly.
     "You called her by name," he said. "You know who she is, don't you?"
     "Fifi LaFume," I replied. "I've seen her on the television. That's quite a
collection of tapes you have. I would never have considered you a cartoon fan."
     "So not only do you enjoy playing the amateur detective, you're a housebreaker
as well."
     I didn't reply, sitting up and staring around the room.
     Much like the outside, the interior of the cottage wasn't quite as dilapidated as
I might have expected.
     From the look of it I was in the living room, sparsely furnished but reasonably
adequate. Besides the sofa there was an old armchair tucked away in the corner,
ragged yellow curtains hanging from the window frame. To my left was a badly
chipped wood panelled door, half ajar and with the sound of movement coming
from without.
     As I watched it creaked open, the small skunk swiftly entering and staring
directly towards me.
     I glanced firstly at her and then towards Richard, not too sure what to do.
     I felt far too weak to experience fear.
     "You should be more careful when you go outside Fifi," he said slowly. "You
might attract undesirable attention."
     "It's a bit late for that now," she replied in a cold tone. "Do you know this
stranger?"
     "My former next door neighbour," he answered. "A Mr. Clive Duff. I'd
considered him to be a decent sort but I reckon I was mistaken."
     I managed to struggle to my feet, hobbling slowly towards Fifi as a sense of
extreme disorientation swept across my mind.
     Then, very slowly, I laid my right hand upon her head. Her fur felt warm,
neatly trimmed and quite soft.
     "She... She's real," I whispered as she withdrew slightly. "She's really here."
     "Of course," she replied. "You seem surprised."
     "But you... But you're not real. I've seen you before but you were-"
     I trailed off, unsure of how to continue.
     She stood back a couple of paces, looking straight into my eyes with an
expression of extreme seriousness.
     "No," she said. "You've never seen ME before."
     And in silence she walked slowly out of the room, long furry tail shadowing
gracefully behind her.
     
     
     "How did you do it?"
     It was now late in the evening and I was still in the living room, pacing up and
down upon the thin green carpeting and staring towards Richard who was seated
on the armchair.
     Fifi was alone in the kitchen, sitting in silence by the window.
     The living room was illuminated by three flickering candles, one of them
placed upon the windowsill and twined by its own shimmering reflection.
     "It's a long story," replied Richard. "It would take far too long to go into it
now. Just accept the fact that she's here."
     "I have the time," I expressed. "After coming all this way I think I deserve an
answer."
     Richard stood up, shaking his head and walking towards the window.
     "Do you know how powerful the human mind actually is?" he said after a few
moments. "Have you even got a vague idea of the power it's capable of?"
     "More than we know evidently."
     "Yes indeed, much more than we know. Do you realise that there are some
people who can move objects by the power of thought alone? That there are some
who can even see into the future?  In most people, powers like that are dormant
but in a select few they come quite easily."
     "Like you perhaps?"
     "I didn't realise I could do it Clive, I really didn't. I read in a book once that
there are some monks living in Tibet who can apparently make their thoughts
become solid reality. It's achieved through a bizarre form of meditation that's
supposed to take many, many years to perfect. Despite this, I decided to try it
anyway."
     As he spoke he removed a cigarette from his pocket, lighting up while staring
at his own dull mirror image in the glass.
     "I didn't really believe it would work but I was desperate," he continued. "It
was the only roll of the dice I had you see. So night after night I tried, sitting
alone for hours on end and staring at a candle as I concentrated on the object I
wanted to create. I could see her quite clearly in my mind, her eyes, her tail, every
last strand of fur. The more I concentrated the more solid the mental images
seemed to get." 
     "I saw your camcorder tapes," I said slowly. "You certainly have a great deal
of patience."
     "I had been doing it for almost three months when I first started to see her," he
went on. "Nothing substantial mind you, just quick flashes in the corner of my
eye. It was enough to tell me that my efforts were working however, a much
needed boost of confidence. Then, as the nights progressed she appeared more
and more, sometimes remaining in view for up to five minutes or more. I couldn't
keep her there though. No matter how hard I concentrated she would always
quickly fade away, becoming pale and transparent before vanishing altogether.
Until one night that is."
     The air around us seemed to chill, breath steaming out of our mouths as the
dark blue sky gave way to a cold night.
     "I got pretty worked up," he went on. "Smashing my hands against the wall and
breaking a few cups. I was enraged with my own failure, to be so close to my
aims and at the same time so far. I really thought that I would never achieve my
goal. Then, as I attempted to kick over the table she suddenly appeared. Right in
front of me. More solid than I'd ever seen her before. This time she didn't fade.
This time she was real."
     "Are you trying to say that your burst of anger created her?" I asked. "That
your strong emotions finally achieved what months of careful concentration
couldn't?"
     "I guess so," he replied. "I'm not really sure though. I'm not really sure of
anything."
     "You still haven't told me one thing," I queried. "Why?"
     He looked directly towards me, a grim expression coming across his face. 
     "Because I love her."
     "You what?"  
     I assumed that I had misheard.
     "I know it sounds crazy but it's true," he expressed. "I love her more than
anything."
     "But she... she's a bloody cartoon character. Not only that, she's a skunk!"
     "An extremely attractive one you'd have to admit?"
     "Maybe," I replied. "But it still doesn't make sense. How could you possibly
fall in love with a fictional character?"
     "After Margaret and Vicki died I spent many months in a state of extreme
depression. I tried to kill myself twice but chickened out on both occasions. I
guess I'm just not the sort. In an effort to cope, I spent hours upon hours trying to
convince myself that they weren't really dead, immersing myself in my daughter's
videos for the small comfort that they offered me. She had always liked Tiny
Toons, always asked me to tape it for her when she was out. She must have had
the entire series on video, at least three copies of each episode. The more I
watched the more I became fascinated by it, the more I became entranced by Fifi.
She seemed to be quite like myself, very lonely and in desperate need of some
adoration. She was really beautiful too, perfect in every way."
     "Comfort syndrome," I said slowly. "You missed your wife so you aimed your
affections at an imaginary individual. You were just trying to cope with the loss.
You subconsciously knew that because Fifi wasn't real you'd never have to face
the prospect of losing her like you did Margaret."
     "Perhaps," he continued. "But Fifi is very special, unique in fact. I can't put a
finger on exactly what it is but there's a certain magic to her, a distinct bewitching
quality. She's a toon and everyone knows that toons can't die. Nothing can ever
take her away from me."
     As he spoke his voice became sad, rubbing his hands across his eyes in order
to hide welling tears. 
     I walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. In his own words he had
just proven what I had suggested.
     "What are you going to do now?" I asked. "She may be real but you can never
take her out. You can never even be seen with her. Do you intend to hide in this
cottage for the rest of your life?"
     "I don't know," he whispered. "I really don't know."
     "Have you told her?"
     "No." 
     He spoke quickly, voice becoming firm.
     "I can't do that. She may look like she does on screen but she acts very
differently. You've probably noticed the fact that she doesn't speak with a French
accent."
     "Sounds more like a Dublin accent," I replied.
     "That's because she learnt all her English from me. When she appeared in my
flat over five months ago she had a completely blank slate. No memories, no
personality. She learned fast though. Within six weeks she was almost fluent."
     "Don't you realise that she can never be the same character you saw on screen?
To be that character she would have to experience an identical lifestyle. You've
brought her into the real world though. She'll be shaped by it... become someone
else."
     "I know, I know. That's why I brought her to this cottage. I figured that if I got
her away from civilisation then I could mould her into the person I wanted her to
be. There's no outside influences here. No television or radio. No newspapers
even."
     He fell silent, staring blankly out the window towards the darkening fields in
the distance as a lone moth fluttered gently against the glass.
     "I hired out the car using a false ID," he muttered. "Hid her under a sheet in the
back. It was a miracle that I wasn't stopped by the Guards."
     "Sooner or later you'll be traced to this place," I said. "You can't hide forever." 
     "I can hide for as long as I need to. This place is in such a bad state no one will
ever think of searching here."
     I didn't reply.
     
     
     Fifi slept on the sofa, myself on the armchair. There was only one bedroom in
the cottage and although Richard had offered it to the young skunk, she had
declined due to the amount of woodlice that were constantly crawling the walls.
     She was small enough to sleep comfortably on the sofa however, a single
white sheet drawn across her furry body as she slumbered silently.
     I spent most of the night awake, the room half illuminated by the silvery light
from a full moon. Despite my initial bewilderment I was now feeling little to no
discomfort at having met a character who up until relatively recently I had
considered merely fictitious.
     Perhaps it was just my mind trying to cope with the situation. It could be a few
days before the real shock would set in.
     It must have been close to four in the morning when I heard Richard moan out
loudly. 
     I instantly became fully alert, staring firstly towards the still slumbering Fifi
and then towards Richard's door. A few minutes passed, some noises coming
from within as he seemingly got up and moved about for a short while.
     Then, after about a quarter of an hour or so I heard him climb back into bed,
tossing and turning for several minutes before falling silent once again.
     
     
     I woke up just before eight, small furry fingers prodding at my shoulder.
Opening my eyes I saw Fifi standing directly in front of me, a look of extreme
curiosity upon her face. I recoiled out of sheer instinct, a few moments passing
before the memories of the day before flooded back. As I watched, she glanced
quickly over her shoulder as if to make sure that Richard was still in his room.
Only then did she speak.
     "You came from the city?" 
     "Dublin," I answered in a hushed voice. "On the other side of the country."
     "Richard told me not to talk to you," she continued. "He said you might be a
bad influence."
     I leant forward, placing one hand on her shoulder and whispering softly.
     "Don't mind what he says. He's just confused that's all. I think he's afraid I
might corrupt you in some way."
     "Sometimes he scares me. He tries to make me act and speak in a certain way,
tries to convince me that I come from some place called Acme Acres."
     "But you don't, do you?"
     "He showed me some videotapes once, moving pictures of a person who
looked exactly like me. He tried to tell me that that's who I was, explained to me
that I had to be more like her. He wants me to speak in a French accent but I've
never been to France in my life. He wants me to use French expressions mixed in
with my English but I don't see why."
     "He wants something he can never have," I explained. "He wants someone who
can only exist the way they do within the confines of an imaginary world. But
you're real. You may look exactly like her but you have independent thought. You
have the ability to learn and be different."
     "You really think so?"
     I smiled and nodded.
     "Of course. Just exercise your own free will."
     As I spoke Richard suddenly emerged from his room, fully dressed and with a
blank expression upon his face. I hadn't heard him get up and for all I knew he
had been listening at the door.
     "Come on Fifi," he said briskly. "It's time for your lessons."
     She glanced quickly towards him and then back at myself, her expression
clearly displaying the fact that she wasn't too sure what to do.
     "Lessons?" I enquired.
     "I'd appreciate you staying away from her for the rest of the day," said Richard.
"She still has quite a lot to learn."
     And without a further word, she calmly followed him into the next room.
     
     
     They both spent at least three hours in the dilapidated kitchen, sitting facing
each other across a wide, three legged table. Fifi was perched upon a rickety old
chair, long tail trailing to the floor and curled around one of its legs. It was hard to
tell from her expression whether she was interested or not.
     I stood directly outside for the entire duration, looking in through the crack in
the door at the bizarre proceedings.
     Richard held in his hand a series of badly photocopied A4 size pages, holding
each one up in order to let the young skunk get a good, clear look.
     "This is Babs Bunny," he said, displaying a picture of a small, female rabbit.
"She was one of your best friends from the Looniversity. Together with Shirley
the Loon you used to spend a lot of time with each other."
     Fifi said nothing, simply nodding.
     "This one here is Elmyra," he continued, holding up a picture of a small
cartoon girl. "She tried to capture you once because she thought you were a cat.
She used to call you a purple kitty witty."
     Fifi giggled slightly, shaking her head.
     "That's silly," she laughed.
     "It may be silly but it's true," he replied. "Can you remember how you
responded? I told you yesterday."
     She thought for a moment before replying, placing one hand to the side of her
head and suddenly adopting a stereotypical French accent.
     "I may be witty. I most certainly am pretty. But I am not, repeat, not a kitty."
     I moved back from the door, suddenly feeling quite sick.
     
     
     "This is pathetic Richard."
     It was mid afternoon and Fifi was still sitting in the kitchen. Richard was lying
back on the sofa eating an apple, looking harshly towards me as he heard the
words.
     "If you're not prepared to offer me any support then I strongly advise you to go
home," he replied. "I didn't ask you to come here you know. If what you see
disturbs you then leave."
     "Maybe you should let her live her own life," I said. "Just accept her the way
she is."
     "Not after all the effort I've put into this. Don't you see how close I am? I
reckon I'll have her perfect within another couple of months."
     "But she's frightened of you. She told me this morning."
     "She's just disturbed because you've come along," he smiled. "She doesn't meet
many strangers. Aside from you the only other person she's spoken to is that old
tramp O'Dea and thankfully he was as drunk as a skun... He was drunk at the time
so he probably doesn't remember much."
     Despite my inner anger, I found myself beginning to laugh uncontrollably.
     "She's not your property Richard!" I exclaimed. "You may have created her but
she has a mind of her own. What gives you the right to dictate to her how she
should live her life?"
     "I'm just doing what's best for her," he replied. "She means the world to me
you know. I'd never do anything to hurt her or cause her pain. Deep down inside,
she understands that this needs to be done and agrees with it."
     I didn't reply, simply sitting myself down on the armchair and shaking my
head.
     "I haven't touched her if that's what you're thinking," he said after a few
moments. "I'd never lay a finger on her. She's far too precious to me." 
     "I don't doubt it," I muttered.
     Finishing his apple, he placed the core to one side and got to his feet.
     "I haven't the time to sit here and argue," he expressed. "I have to get back to
her."
     "What about money?" I asked. "If you do intend on staying here for a while
then how are you going to eat?"
     "I brought enough supplies to last me at least a couple of months. When they
run out I have almost four hundred pounds in my wallet, enough to get us through
to the end of winter. There's a small pub about an hour's walk away, not a big
place but ideal for my purposes. I can get stuff from there and bring it back with
me."
     "And when the money runs out?"
     "I don't know. I can always sell the car I suppose."
     "But it's not even yours!"
     "I'll face that problem when it comes! Just stop asking questions."
     Fifi poked her small furry head around the door, glancing first at me and then
towards Richard.
     There was a look of extreme concern upon her face.
     "What are you two fighting about?" she asked.
     "Never mind," replied Richard. "Go back inside, the lesson's not over yet."
     
     
     I heard Richard moan out again that night. This time it was loud enough to
wake Fifi as well, the young skunk clambering off the sofa and moving swiftly
towards me.
     "Bad dreams again," she whispered. "He's been getting worse the past few
nights."
     There came a creak of bedsprings from within his room, a short cough and
then silence.
     "I can get you out of here," I said after a few moments. "I'll take you back to
Dublin with me."
     "But I'll be seen," she replied. "Richard has told me I must never be seen."
     Her eyes shone like lightbulbs in the darkness, her curvaceous outline
modestly highlighted by the silvery moonlight. As if to signify her nervousness,
her long tail was constantly curling and uncurling, white stripe clearly visible
despite the gloom.
     "You could hide in my place," I continued, grabbing a hold of her hand. "We
could choose carefully who to reveal you to, maybe even try to get in contact with
the guys who created the tv show."
     "What could they do?" she replied. "To them I was just a cartoon character,
just a job."
     "There must be someone out there who could help us. According to Richard
the show has a big Internet fan base. There must be hundreds of people who
would be willing to treat you kindly."
     "I don't know," she whispered. "Despite what I said before I do like Richard.
He may ask me to do odd things but he's never been mean to me. I couldn't just
leave him."
     "But can't you see what he's doing to you? He's trying to shape you into
someone you're not, trying to rob you of your own personality."
     "Maybe it would be better for me to become that person," she replied.
"Perhaps that's the way I'm supposed to be."
     "But you have your own mind," I expressed. "Your own free will. You don't
have to do what he tells you."
     "Supposing I want to?"

     I fell silent, staring straight into her bright, wide eyes.
     "That's up to you," I said finally. "You and you alone."
     She said nothing more, tail curling gently around her own body.
     
     
     The next day was Saturday, quite overcast and with a heavy fall of rain in the
early hours. The kitchen floor was covered in little pools of water by ten o'clock,
the constant dripping from the holes in the ceiling regular as clockwork. 
     I made myself a small breakfast from some fruit that I had found on the
sideboard, drinking the remainder of a bottle of mineral water taken from one of
the rotting cupboards.
     Fifi was still asleep but I could hear Richard moving about in his room.
     When he finally emerged at about half past ten his eyes were reddened, face
pale and clearly betraying his tiredness.
     "Why don't you get out of here Clive?" he muttered. "You've been here two
days now. What are you trying to achieve?"
     I didn't answer his question, looking at the bags under his eyes and his slow
body movements.
     "You look half dead," I observed. "Having trouble sleeping?"
     "I'm okay," he replied. "Just a little stressed that's all."
     "Bad dreams?"
     "You heard me last night?"
     "And the night before. Fifi tells me you've been suffering from nightmares for
a while now."
     "Just childhood memories. Nothing more."
     "Something you'd like to talk about perhaps?"
     He looked at me for a few moments before shaking his head.
     "Go home Clive. Go home before you get mixed up in this any further."
     "Why don't we both go home?" I asked. "We'll take Fifi back to Dublin, get her
seen to."
     "They'll just lock her up in a cage, poke her with needles for the rest of her
life. I can't bear the thought of that happening to her. She deserves so much better
than that."
     "If you really care about her then you'd get her away from this place. Look at
the floor. Look at the walls! This cottage is falling apart."
     "Don't tell me what I should do!"
     As he spoke Fifi entered the kitchen, yawning as she sat herself down upon the
chair and adjusted the pink bow in her hair.
     "Is it time for my lessons?" she asked with a smile.
     Richard nodded, laying a firm hand on her tail and stroking her purple fur
gently.
     "In a few minutes my dear," he said. "Just wait till I fully wake up."
     "What are you going to teach her today Richard?" I asked harshly. "That she's
supposed to chase anything with a white stripe painted on it perhaps?"
     "Shut up!" he shouted. "You've no right to be here you know."
     Fifi placed her fingers in her ears and looked down at the floor. She was
visibly shaking.
     "Stop fighting," she whispered. "Please stop."
     Richard knelt down by her side, hugging her tightly as she coiled her long,
fluffy tail around him.
     "Don't worry," he smiled. "Clive's going away today. He won't bother us any
more."
     "I'm going nowhere," I replied. "Not unless you're coming too."
     He didn't respond, simply sitting himself down opposite the skunk and placing
his hands out flat upon the table top.
     "Do you remember what I taught you yesterday?" he asked her. "The saying?"
     "Yes," she replied. "I do indeed."
     "Recite it then. Say it for Clive and let him see what a smart girl you are."
     She cleared her throat and smiled.
     "Au revoir mon petit potato du couch."
     I simply shook my head and sighed.
     
     
     By late that afternoon it was becoming fairly apparent that Richard was
growing increasingly tired of my presence. He never spoke to me in anything less
than a snarl, constantly telling Fifi that I would be leaving soon.
     I had absolutely no intentions of doing as he suggested. 
     If I could get Fifi back to civilisation I'd find success for sure. I'd be a
household name at long last. It wasn't just my desire for self accomplishment
however. Over the past couple of days I had really grown to like the little skunk,
feeling extremely worried about her welfare. She had a personality all of her own
and Richard was trying to stamp it out, replace her with her fictional namesake. I
couldn't let him do that.
     Due to his extreme tiredness he went to bed well before nine, instructing Fifi
to stay away from me before retiring. She didn't listen though, making her way
over to my side once she sensed he was asleep.
     "You two should really try and get along," she whispered. "I don't like it when
you argue like that, it really frightens me."
     "Sometimes the truth needs to be told."
     "I wouldn't know."
     "What's the earliest thing you remember?" I asked, trying to change the
subject.
     "I'm not too sure. Waking up I think. Opening my eyes to find myself in a
darkened room."
     "And nothing before that?"
     "Nothing."
     "So in all essence you're less than six months old. You have an incredible
mastery of English for someone so young."
     "Richard was quite surprised at that. He thought it would take me at least two
years to learn. I guess he was wrong."
     "He's wrong about a lot of things you know."
     "Have you seen the videotapes Clive? The ones of the creature who looks just
like me?"
     I nodded.
     "Richard had them all in his flat," I replied. "He was obsessed with her. He
even told me that  he loved her."
     "I suspected as much," she said. "But why would he want to be with someone
so different to himself?"
     "Because of what she was," I answered. "He was married once but his wife
died in a car crash. I reckon he fell in love with the fictional Fifi because nothing
like that could ever happen to her."
     "Perhaps I have a duty to be with him then," she whispered. "After all the pain
he went through maybe it's only right that he should have a little happiness."
     "Yes," I said. "Everyone deserves that. But not like this."
     "And what of me?" she asked. "Do I have a place in this world without him?"
     As she spoke there came a loud scream from the bedroom, a heavy thump as
Richard clambered out of bed. Fifi gripped at my arm in fear, clearly terrified as
he flung open the door, his face white as a sheet.
     He tried to speak but no words would come, a loud hiss coming from his wide
open mouth.
     Then, quite without warning, he slipped unconscious to the floor.
     
     
     "Are you feeling okay?"
     Both Fifi and myself were standing over him, his face still whitened as he
cowered away from us. As soon as he had regained consciousness he had crawled
into the corner, rocking himself gently back and forth as tears filled his eyes.
     "Why are you so frightened?" asked Fifi, hugging him tightly. "It was only a
dream wasn't it."
     "No," he cried in a fear filled voice. "Not anymore. My mother always said
he'd get me. She always said he'd be waiting."
     I grabbed a hold of his arm and shook him forcibly. 
     "Who'll get you?" I asked. 
     "Belgrug," he whispered. "The monster under my bed."
     I became momentarily silent, not too sure how to react.
     Surly he was far too old for such childhood traumas to be still active?
     "Just a mother's attempt to keep you out of trouble," I finally replied. "An
imaginary boogieman."
     He drew away from me, looking straight into Fifi's eyes.
     "Not anymore... No longer imaginary. Nothing's imaginary anymore."
     I felt the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, a sudden queasy sensation
in my stomach. 
     "Well he won't get you tonight Richard," she replied. "We're both here with
you."
     But Richard wasn't listening, tears rolling down his face as he curled himself
up into a tight ball. He stayed like that for hours.
     
     
     We slept little that night, Richard constantly moaning throughout the darkened
hours. As dawn approached however, he seemed to give in to his tiredness,
slipping into a deep sleep while Fifi and myself watched in silence. I don't think I
had never seen anyone more frightened in all my life. 
     It was almost eleven by the time he woke up, instantly leaping to his feet and
looking around in such a manner that he seemed a man possessed. 
     It took both of us several minutes to calm him down, the colour finally
returning to his cheeks only when he had eaten some breakfast. He was still
quivering for well over an hour though, eyes darting from side to side and his
breaths taken in quick, deep intakes.
     It was long after midday before he felt well enough to talk.
     "Childhood nightmares never fully leave us," he told me. "They live on in your
subconscious, drowned out by the development of rationality perhaps but always
there nonetheless. When I was a kid my mother used to tell me that if I didn't
behave then Belgrug would get me. She never explained exactly who or what
Belgrug was, probably made the name up on the spot, but I always envisioned
him as being a big, slimy monster of some description. In my mind's eye he lived
under the bed, a huge, shapeless mass with hundreds of long tentacles. I was
sometimes afraid to step onto the floor in case he'd grab me and pull me under.
Up until about the age of seven I was always terrified at night."
     "We're all scared of silly things when we're young," I said. "There was an old
black wardrobe in my room when I was a kid and I always thought there was a
banshee hiding in there."
     "But don't you see," cried Richard. "If Fifi can be real then anything can. The
nightmares have come back now... getting worse all the time. I know for a fact
that some night I'll wake up and Belgrug will really be there. I'm sure he was there
last night. Maybe it was just for a moment but I know he was there."
     "You really need to get out of here," I said. "We could leave today. We could
leave now."
     "No," he hissed. "Fifi's not right yet. She still has so much to learn."
     "I know enough," she said, adopting a French accent. "Clive ees right. We
must leave zis place at once."
     "Nice try Feef," he smiled. "When you speak like that all the time then we'll be
ready to leave."
     She nodded slowly, curling her tail around him and snuggling in tight.
     
     
     The beach was perhaps ten minutes or so walk west of the cottage, just beyond
a small group of trees and a couple of high sand dunes.
     Although it was quite a sunny day the place was deserted, a soothing wind
blowing from the north as the glistening waves lapped almost silently against the
golden sand.
     It was my idea to come here, thinking that getting away from the cottage for a
while might do Richard some good, perhaps help him to calm down.
     Despite his objections I convinced him that Fifi wouldn't be seen. The beach
was quite secluded, only accessible from one direction and too far out of the way
to receive regular visitors. There were high cliffs on both sides, the nearest public
pathway well out of vision. As long as either he or I stood on watch by the sand
dunes then there was little to no danger of the skunk being discovered.
     She was very excited about the idea of course, her trips to the outside world
being very rare indeed.
     "It's huge," she expressed, looking outward towards the misty blue horizon.
"Does it go on forever?"
     We were both standing up to our ankles in the lapping waves, my eyes closed
as I felt the cool breeze on my face. 
     "The Atlantic ocean," I replied. "It goes on until it reaches the east coast of
America, several thousand kilometres at least."
     "Incredible," she said. "The wonders of the world never cease to amaze."
     About thirty feet behind us, Richard sat cross legged upon one of the sand
dunes, hair ruffling in the breeze and a plastic folder held tightly under his arm.
     Despite the change of scenery, he was determined that Fifi should still have at
least an hour of lessons every day with no exceptions.
     He commenced just before three o'clock, sitting down with her upon the sand
as I clambered up on top of the higher dune and watched from a distance. The
two of them were well out of earshot but from what I could tell, the proceedings
were more or less the same as they had been for the past two days.
     About half an hour into the lesson she suddenly hunched down on all fours,
hopping around Richard in an extremely odd fashion while he watched and
smiled. He clapped as she came to a halt, stroking her long tail and kissing her
once on the cheek.
     I turned away, glancing back towards the cottage which was barely visible
through the trees.
     I wouldn't be able to stay here much longer. Once Mrs. Brown realised that I
had vanished too she'd call the Guards for sure. She was a nice enough person but
very highly strung. She would probably be already suspicious about my unusual
absence.
     My return train ticket had to be used within the next forty-eight hours as well. I
hadn't enough money with me to buy another and I didn't fancy the idea of having
to hitch all the way home.
     I was disturbed from my thoughts by the arrival of Fifi by my side, an
extremely broad grin upon her face as she laid her hand upon my arm.
     "Richard has been showing me how to react to a lover," she laughed. "It's a bit
silly but it is, how you say, great fun no?"
     "You've almost perfected the accent I notice," I muttered.
     "Oui," she expressed. "Although I ave a slight problem with some of ze longer
words."
     "Why don't you just speak normally?" 
     Before she had a chance to answer Richard was at her side, looking towards
me with a face that still displayed considerable tiredness.
     "I think we've had enough fresh air for today," he said. "Let's head back."
     "Non," exclaimed Fifi. "Just another hour. I ave not had ze chance to swim
yet."
     "Okay," he nodded. "But don't stray out too far."
     She giggled loudly as she skipped towards the waves, removing her bow and
tossing it onto the sand before quickly dipping herself into the dark blue water.
     "More like her fictional counterpart everyday," I said, glancing up at Richard.
"I don't know whether to applaud or to curse you." 
     He didn't reply, simply staring towards the young skunk as she surfaced and
dived.
     
     
     He insisted on me taking the bed that night. He never explained why but both
Fifi and I knew the reason. He was scared. Not scared of the bed but of what he
thought lay beneath it.
     I obliged him without question, retiring to the bedroom just before eleven with
a candle held in hand and watching the woodlice scurry away at the approaching
light.
     The armchair was no refuge from his fears however.
     At ten past twelve Fifi came into the room, nudging me awake and pointing
towards the door.
     "He ees talking in his sleep," she said, still speaking in her put on French
accent. "It looks as if he is having ze bad dreams again."
     I could clearly see him through the open door, the dim candlelight flickering
off his restless form.
     "You don't have to use that voice when you talk to me," I whispered. "Just be
yourself."
     "But I promised him I would," she replied. "You should see his face light up
when I speak to him like zis."
     Richard moaned loudly, turning in his sleep as he muttered something
incomprehensible under his breath. 
     "He has a lot of demons," I said. "He just needs time to exorcise them."
     Fifi suddenly leant forward and gripped a hold of my arm.
     "After last night I zhink you are correct," she whispered. "Perhaps getting away
from zis place would be a good idea non?"
     "We could leave in the morning," I said, trying to ignore her accent. "Take the
car."
     "We would bring Richard too of course? He really needs help."
     "Too right. I can't see him agreeing though."
     Fifi thought for a moment, placing one hand to her head and then grinning.
     "I zhink zat I may just be able to persuade him."
     
     
     "Get out!"
     Richard was on the verge of punching me, his face reddened as Fifi huddled in
the corner and sobbed.
     "You turned her against me! Told her to force me to leave."
     "It's for your own good," I shouted. "Her's too."
     "Please Richard," cried Fifi. "Do it for me."
     He turned to face the young skunk, anger intensifying as he shook his hands
madly.
     "I've devoted my bloody life to you! I treated you like a princess and now look
at what you've done."
     "You need help," she continued. "Zhose bad dreams are going to kill you.
Clive can get you seen to."
     "All Clive's bloody interested in is getting a head start as a reporter."
     He looked at me viciously as he spoke, eyes filling with rage.
     "Oh yes indeed," he continued. "Don't think I don't know what you're playing
at. I've searched through that bag of yours. You've got a notebook in there with a
list of editor's phone numbers in it."
     "Is zat true?" asked Fifi, voice filled with pain.
     "It was at first," I answered. "But now I really want to help."
     "Liar!" shouted Richard. "You just want to parade Fifi up and down in front of
the tv cameras. It's what you've always wanted."
     Loosing control of my emotions I suddenly lashed out and struck him just
above the chin, Fifi screaming as he fell backwards.
     "You're a bloody madman!" I hissed. "It's no worse than what you want to do
to her."
     He lunged to his feet and attempted to hit me, loosing his balance once again
and slipping back to the floor. As he did so a very cold chill filled the room, the
hairs at the back of my neck suddenly standing on end.
     Before I had time to fully register the sensation, Fifi had quickly darted
between us, raising her tail high.
     "You either stop or I'll spray you both," she hissed. "I've never done it before
but I'm pretty sure I can. Do you want to find out?"
     Richard staggered to his feet, wiping the blood from his chin and glaring
harshly at the young skunk.
     "You'll never be Fifi," he said finally. "You may look like her but you'll always
be a stranger. The real Fifi would never turn against someone who treated her so
well."
     She didn't reply, the faint trace of tears appearing around her huge eyes.
     "I don't want you anymore," he continued. "You're a reject. A worthless
diamond."
     "I... I am so sorry."  
     She spoke very slowly, trying to adopt the French accent but failing.
     "If I created you once I can do it again," he went on. "Get it right this time.
Consider yourself just a rough draft."
     She started to sob madly, curling herself up into a tight ball upon the carpet
and rocking gently backwards and forwards.
     "You do not mean that Richard," she wailed. "You cannot mean it."
     "Leave her alone," I expressed. "You've done her enough damage already
without this."
     "Shut up!" he shouted. "It's all your fault! You and your stupid journalism
career."
     Another cold chill filled the room, a creak of springs as the sofa moved ever so
slightly in its position.
     Richard suddenly fell silent, face becoming whitened as he glanced firstly
towards the sofa and then towards me.
     "Belgrug!" he whispered. "Can't you feel him? Can't you sense his presence?"
     "You're mad," I replied. "There's no one here except us."
     He staggered away from me, stumbling once as he flung open the door.
     "You brought him here," he shouted. "You brought him! You made me angry...
heightened my emotional state. He's here because of you!"
     Without another word he fled the room, fumbling at the front door for a couple
of seconds before running outside. I watched from the window as he moved
swiftly towards the end of the garden, staggering through a gap in the fence and
heading at speed towards the coast.
     As he went, the cold chill seemed to sweep past me, leaving the room as if in
pursuit.
     I stood in silence for a brief moment, not too sure what to do.
     "We have to get after him," I said finally. "He's insane Fifi. He might hurt
someone."
     "He has hurt me", she whispered. 
     Then, crawling back under the sofa, she continued to cry.
     Leaving her there, I made my way outside.
     
     
     I followed Richard as far as the beach, reducing my speed to a walking pace
once I realised that I'd never catch up with him.
     By the time I struggled over the sand dunes he was already standing knee high
in the lapping waves, arms held out wide on both sides as he screamed loudly
towards the overcast sky.
     "You won't get me!" he bellowed. "You can try but you'll never get me."
     "Richard," I called. "For God's sake come back. You can be helped."
     "Helped?" he exclaimed. "They'll just lock me up! Put me in a padded cell
where Belgrug can easily find me."
     He took several steps away from me, the water now reaching his waist.
     "It's Fifi," he cried. "She's Belgrug. She's a demon hiding in a beautiful body."
     "I won't let him get you," I shouted. "I guarantee that. Just come back with
me."
     "Maybe you're Belgrug," he continued, wading back even further. "How do I
know that the real Clive isn't still in Dublin?"
     The water was now reaching his chest.
     "I assure you that I'm not," I replied. "I don't just assure you- I promise you."
     "Lies!" he screamed. "I'm too clever for you... Far too clever."
     As he spoke I felt my body once again enveloped by a cold clamminess, my
head darting from side to side but seeing nothing.
     There was definitely someone else here besides Richard and myself, someone
I couldn't see.
     Several seconds later the water next to Richard began to froth, waves churning
violently as he struggled to escape his invisible assailant.
     Then, quite without warning, his head vanished beneath the surface.
     I staggered into the water, ready to pull him out.
     As I moved his head bobbed back into view, his face contorted in horror as he
splashed madly.
     He vanished again, a few stray bubbles making their way to the surface.
     From somewhere nearby there came an unearthly groan, a sound so frightening
it made me literally fall backwards into the damp sand.
     Richard reappeared for a second time, eyes full of fear as his twitching body
generated a large degree of froth.
     He seemed to be pleading for help, mouth wide open as if he were attempting
to scream.
     I was frozen with fear however, unable to do anything but watch.
     "Margaret," he finally cried. "I'm so sorry Margaret. Please... Please forgive
me."
     There came another groaning noise and his head vanished once again. Just for
a second I thought I saw a long grey object, a writhing and glistening snake that
looked for all the world like a coiling tentacle. But before I had time to fully
register the image it had gone, becoming stored away at the back of my mind as
nothing more than a brief, subliminal flash.
     I waited several seconds for Richard to resurface, heart racing as I struggled to
move.
     But he never did. After about a minute or so, the churning waves finally grew
calm.
     The cold chill bled away into the air, my body regaining the power of
movement as primeval fears gave way to growing rationality. I lunged forward
into the water, ducking my head into the murky depths in a hopeless effort to
locate him.
     But there was no trace of him, no trace at all.
     Finally surfacing, I struggled back towards the shore, crawling on all fours
onto the wet sand and spitting several times in a desperate effort to rid my mouth
of the salty taste. 
     "He drowned," I whispered after I had regained my breath. "He was scared...
Probably cramped up in the cold water."
     In speaking my explanation aloud I was trying to ignore the terrible truth.
     
     
     Fifi cried for hours when I told her.
     It was only on seeing this reaction that I came to realise how close to Richard
she had actually been. He was the only person she had known for several months,
the only real family she had. It would seem now that she was condemned to a life
of loneliness.
     "Come back with me," I said as the evening wore on. "We could take the car,
hide you in the back."
     But she didn't reply, remaining huddled in a tight ball for the best part of the
night.
     I desperately wanted to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay.
     But I couldn't, the right words simply never coming to mind.
     In the end I simply left her as she was.
     
     
     I woke up on the sofa during the early hours of dawn, quickly becoming aware
of the fact that she was sitting close beside me. The room was bathed in the
distinctive red glow of a rising sun, the cry of a lone seagull coming from afar.
     "Are you okay?" I whispered, turning to look at her.
     She had removed her bow, her pony tail unravelled and hair hanging long. Her
eyes showed no trace of yesterdays tears, mouth set into a friendly smile.
     "I just wanted to say goodbye," she replied.
     "Goodbye?"  
     I looked at her in confusion, still half asleep.
     "I need to discover who I really am, to free the personality within."
     I turned fully around to face her, not quite sure what to say.
     "You were right Clive," she continued. "I do have my own mind and emotions.
I may look like Fifi LaFume but I don't think I could ever really be her. Perhaps
that's for the best. It's time now for me to follow my own path, become the real
me."
     "You could always do that back in Dublin," I suggested. "My place ain't the
best but it's better than here."
     "No," she replied. "I need to be alone for a while, get to know myself. Only
then will I consider making my presence known."
     After a few seconds I nodded.
     "I'm really going to miss you," I said.
     "I'll miss you too," she replied, handing me her bow. "It's not much but I hope
it's enough for you not to forget me."
     "Thank you," I whispered, taking it in hand. "Thank you very much indeed."
     
     
     We said our final goodbyes by the door, a warm breeze bringing with it the
familiar smell of the sea.
     "Perhaps I'll see you again someday," she smiled. "When I'm ready to
announce myself I'll try and look you up."
     "I'll be waiting," I replied with a grin. "You know that you'll always be
welcome at my place."
     "Of course," she continued. "Take care of yourself Clive."
     And then, waving just once, I made my way slowly down the path.
     I walked without turning around, feeling her intense gaze upon my back as the
cottage receded further and further into the distance. I knew in my heart and soul
that I would never meet her again. Miracles happen but once in a lifetime and my
own experience had now passed into the annals of history.
     After about five minutes I came to an abrupt stop by an old, rusting fence,
removing the small pink bow from my pocket and staring at it carefully for a brief
moment. Much like its owner, it appeared to be almost perfect. There were no
blemishes or imperfections, an immaculate piece of artwork that was somehow
solid and real. It seemed a relic of a more innocent world, a world that despite his
best efforts, Richard had failed to grasp.
     A world that I hoped, in death, he had finally found. 
     Suddenly feeling quite upset, I turned around in order to give the cottage one
final glance.
     But it was already too far away for me to see her.
     
     
     
                                            THE END
     
     
     
     
     
     
     You might be interested to know that the original ending to this was going to
be quite different. Directly inspired by Quatermass and the Pit ( aka Five Million
Years to Earth ), it involved Richard making his way back to Dublin, the invisible
force that was Belgrug following on close behind and becoming more and more
powerful along the way.
     It was going to end with Dublin being destroyed by the now tremendously
powerful force, buildings crumbling and sidewalks splitting as Belgrug finally
made his appearance as a glowing figure in the sky.
     Clive has to kill Richard, realising that Belgrug will die if the source of his
strength is removed. He is unable to do the deed however and the fate of over a
million people lies on Fifi's shoulders. She eventually plucks up the courage to
kill Richard, knocking him unconscious with her scent first so he won't feel any
pain.
     With Richard out of the picture, Belgrug fades away to nothing.
     Fifi survives however, having gained a soul through her courage. It finally ends
much as the finished piece, Fifi deciding to remain isolated for a while in order to
discover her true self.
     
     I changed it because I felt that a big, explosive climax was perhaps not the best
way to go after a story that was for the most part, a three hander. 
     
     By the way, the story about the monks living in Tibet is apparently true. I read
it in a magazine called The Unexplained in the early part of the 1990s. In addition
to this, there are supposedly cases of people who in a highly emotional state have
somehow created objects out of thin air.
     In most reported cases however, the created object only lasted a few seconds.
     ( Like many stories of this nature, it's best to take these reports with a pinch of
salt )
     
     
                                                        S. Campbell, July 2001