Thank you for coming to see me; I appreciate you must be very busy.

Me? Oh, I’m fine; well, not fine really. I shouldn’t be here at all but I expect everyone says that. Still, hopefully I’ll be out soon.

Tell you what happened? OK, why not if you’ve got a few minutes.

It all started when my wife saw an advert in a magazine for a pedometer. You wear it and it tells you how many steps you’ve taken or miles you’ve walked, that sort of thing. She’d wanted to get one for a while and this prompted her to do it. I thought it was quite a good idea, interesting, you know? Besides, I had this idea that you had to wear it on your ankle and I liked the idea of her walking around with this high-tech gadget strapped on her - like a prisoner out on parole but tagged. It kind of amused me. I told her she’d have to be careful or the police would see her and arrest her for breaking parole. She didn’t find that very funny; at least, not after I’d said it for the umpteenth time.

When it came I saw it was nothing like that. A small grey plastic box with a big numerical display, very neat. And it fitted on a belt or waistband.

Well, my wife found it very good and I was quite interested, too, to see how many miles I walked into town and around the shops each day so she let me borrow it.

When I wore it, I realised it was very light and I was rather nervous of it coming loose from my belt and dropping off so I checked it quite frequently; just to make sure it was still there. And that’s what caused the trouble.

I had stopped on the pavement looking to make sure the clip wasn’t coming loose and a scruffy little boy with the dirtiest face I have ever seen, suddenly appeared and stuck a really grubby finger right on the little box and said “Wot’s ‘at ‘en?”

Just as I had worked out what he was saying, his mother came along, taking up the entire width of the pavement, pushing a double buggy with two just as scruffy kids in it. I have to say I took an instant dislike to her. She wasn’t much more than a girl herself but fat, my goodness, her bare arms and thighs (not a pretty sight) wobbled. This emphasised the tattoo on her bicep and, as for the rings piercing her face, let’s just say that my lounge curtains have less
rings to hold them up.

I thought she might apologise for her son’s rude behaviour but, of course, that would have been too much to expect. In fact, she seemed to think I was somehow in the wrong as she said “Wot’s your game, then, talking to my little Jason?” Whereupon, dear little Jason removed his dirty finger from up his nose and prodded the pedometer again repeating “Wot’s this, wot’s this?”

You can guess I was feeling pretty fed up with this ghastly family by now so I had a mischievous idea. Lowering my head until my mouth was close to this awful woman’s face, and you have no idea how distasteful that was, I said “Can you keep a secret?”

She and the boy just stared at me. I thought “well, why not?” and continued:

“You know the helicopters that fly over the town?” In truth there are quite a few; police, air ambulance, navy, that sort of thing. The woman nodded.

“Well, last night a navy helicopter was flying over town and it was carrying some used-up radioactive fuel from a nuclear submarine. They were taking
it to be reprocessed somewhere up north. Unfortunately, the crew of the helicopter had the big sliding door at the side open because it was a hot night and, when the helicopter had to turn rather sharply over the centre of town, the canister of radioactive waste fell out, right into the Borough Gardens.”

The woman stared at me in a bovine sort of way, her jaws rhythmically chewing back and forth masticating some sort of gum, I suppose. Still, however unappetising a thought that was, at least she was listening and I was quite pleased with myself for coming up with such a good story off the cuff.

“By the time they had landed and gone back to find it, all there was to see was an empty container, the lid had come off when it hit the ground. The waste was powdered to make it easier to transport and the breeze had blown it all over the place. Then it started to rain so all the radioactive stuff was washed down gutters and drains and could have gone anywhere.”

The woman’s face twitched with emotion or perhaps just indigestion. “So what, I fought you said it was used up, like, that they ‘ad finished wiv it.”

“Ah yes,” I said, thinking quickly, “no good for a submarine’s reactor any more but still very dangerous which was why they chose to fly it. They were afraid that, if it went by rail or road, terrorists might steal it. And that’s why I, and a number of other volunteers, are walking around today with these things” pointing to the pedometer, “to monitor radiation in different parts of town.”

“Why didn’t they tell us then, why keep it a secret?”

“Oh, it would create too much panic. There might be nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, but suppose there is. What’ll they do then?”

“Well, I think they’ll evacuate all the important people, mayor, councillors, people like that. Not everyone, though, it’d be too much of a job.”

“What’ll ‘appen to us, then?”

“They’ll probably deny there’s any problem and radiation at this level would take a while to work. By the time your hair starts falling out and you start to vomit and your gums bleed, they’ll just say it was some sort of ‘flu bug or whatever. After all, the Government won’t want to have to pay any
compensation – particularly if people die.”

I could see I had her attention now as she stared at me, the cogs in her brain turning almost visibly as she digested all this.

“Well, I must get on with my monitoring, ‘bye now,” and I sauntered off down the street really pleased at getting the better of such an awful creature.

This feeling of pleasure lasted all day and I had the odd chuckle to myself. Fortunately, my wife was out at work so she wasn’t around to ask what I found so funny.

This feeling of well earned enjoyment lasted until the evening when, turning on the tele just as the local news was on, I saw pictures of white-overalled characters with oxygen masks and proper Geiger counters, scanning the grounds of the Borough Gardens. Turning up the sound, I gathered that a local resident (that awful woman now being interviewed for all to see) had alerted the local newspaper after hearing an alarming story about radioactive waste that had gone missing. The local paper had contacted the police and Ministry of Defence who denied any such thing had happened but the journalists just figured that they would anyway, whatever the truth was. After the paper contacted the local MP to ask him for his views on this apparent cover-up, the Ministry thought it wise to send down scientists urgently to check and reassure people that there was no problem.

Unfortunately, their appearance in nuclear and chemical warfare protective suits didn’t inspire any confidence at all and the story escalated. The next day, the papers were full of it and it was on national radio and TV news.

Disaster! (for me that is). Thank heavens no-one would know who had started the story and the woman was unlikely to recognise me. I walked up the road in a relatively cheerful mood and went to my local supermarket to buy some of their small range of foodstuffs aimed at the more discerning gourmet customer. I carried my basket with a fair degree of sang-froid, even if I say so myself, up to the checkout where I came face to face with the ghastly woman from yesterday, now seated in the checkout seat and scowling at a glass bottle of some sort which she appeared to be strangling with her meaty hands but I think she was trying to scan it on the bar-code reader.

She saw me about a second after I recognised her and she gave a sort of scream and dropped the bottle. It was the sound of the breaking glass which alerted the security guard and, when he came over and saw her staring at me, no doubt thought I had thrown the bottle at her or some such thing (entirely reasonable, I can’t blame him, she was definitely the sort of person at whom one almost ought to be encouraged to throw things).

Anyway, the police were called and, when she had explained what had happened, instead of letting me go they charged me (me!) with some sort of terrorism offence; inciting a riot, or spreading alarm and despondency or false rumours, or whatever. I don’t think they were too clear themselves. But neither they nor the magistrate would let me out on bail so, here I am.

My solicitor is quite hopeful, though. He’s sure I’ll get off with a fine, if that, when it comes to court in a while. And, as he says in his humorous way, at least they have abolished the death penalty for treason. Oh, how I laughed at that, I don’t think.

Anyway, I can see you are keen to go now. Thank’s for listening. When do you do your next round of prison visiting? Well, perhaps I’ll see you then, if I’m still here.

I must go now myself. Before dinner, I want to tell my cell mate about the boa constrictor reported in the toilets. He hates snakes. No, it’s not true………..but it could be!

THE END

(This story appeared in 'Scribble' short story magazine number 25, Spring 2005 - www.parkpublications.co.uk)