1

The Benie
A cool sea breeze sauntered lazily past the lifeboat station and crossed the road without even a
glance. It ran its salty fingers carelessly along a peeling blue bench on which an old man rested,
staring out towards the horizon. A little way out to sea, the sound of the surf competed bravely with
the angry squawking of three squabbling seagulls.

A few yards down the street, inelegantly juggling his several bulging ‘bags-for-life’ and his enormous
jangling bunch of house keys, Brian finally unlocked the door to his holiday cottage and stumbled
inside. He placed his shopping carefully onto the kitchen table and sank gratefully into an ancient
arm chair. “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed happily, as his tired feet sank deeply into the oceans of his
much-loved tartan slippers.

When Brian awoke, the seagulls had quietened and the wind had dropped to little more than an
embarrassed whisper. Dusk had arrived without ceremony sometime during the previous hour and
the sand-laden cars of the sunburned day-trippers had mostly left for the motorway.

“Well I never!” Brian exclaimed to himself. “It’s well past my supper time.” Heaving himself out of his
chair, he padded across to the kitchen table, the soles of his slippers taking turns to slap out a simple
rhythm on the cold tiles.

“Now, where are they?” he murmured absent-mindedly as he carefully searched one bag and then
another for the two cans of baked beans in tomato sauce he had bought earlier in the day. He had
only wanted one, but the ‘buy one get one free’ offer had proved irresistible. “Aha, there’s one… and
there’s the other… and oh!”

A third can of baked beans emerged from the bag. In great surprise Brian placed it on the edge of
the table next to the first two and stared at it in confusion for several seconds before rummaging in
his pocket for his till receipt. He found a bus ticket, half a packet of strong mints and a
complimentary pass to last Tuesday’s ‘Brass Band Night’ at the town hall, but no till receipt.

“Where on Earth did you come from?” Brian asked the can of beans, but it said nothing. Outside, a
motor bike engine backfired in the distance and the faint sound of laughter toyed with the silence of
the night. Brian turned his attention back to the can of beans. It was the right shape and size, and it
wore the usual blue label – but Brian thought something about it looked different. He picked it up
again, and with his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose, he began to examine it.
“Hmm,” he mused with increased curiosity as he rubbed with enthusiasm at a small and oddly
tarnished patch on the lid of the tin. “What’s this then?”

Without any warning, a sudden flash of total darkness exploded across the kitchen, consuming all
that was left of the fading light in the room. The cold tap immediately stopped dripping for the first
time in over three months and the wall clock, lavishly decorated with sea shells, spontaneously
ceased ticking as the temperature plummeted and the sharp aroma of ozone filled the air. Powdered
plaster fell from the ceiling to mingle with a cloud of dust swept upwards from the top of the
cupboards as an electrical discharge leapt furiously from the can of beans towards the tungsten light
bulb hanging overhead. The light flickered frantically and then shattered, covering Brian with tiny
pieces of glass and plastic as he lost consciousness and fell backwards off his chair.

©The Beryllium Baboon, 2017

 2

When Brian awoke for the second time that evening, the dust had largely settled and the tap was
once more slowly dripping like a cheap watery metronome. On the wall, the seashells had
recommenced their guarding of the passage of time and the steady exclamations of the second hand
provided a high-pitched accompaniment to the comical plopping noise coming from the sink.

For a few moments, Brian thought he had gone blind; then he realised that not only was the room lit
only by the faint orange glow from the street light over the road, but that each lens of his glasses
was covered with a thin film of opaque dust. Still lying on his back, and surrounded by tiny pieces of
rubble, he removed his glasses and levered himself gingerly and uncomfortably into an awkward
sitting position.

“Ahh!” he squeaked, in total shock, as his eyes met those of the tall stranger sitting motionless in the
far corner of the room. The frightened holiday-maker shuffled frantically backwards across the tiles
and through the shards of broken glass - using his hands and the seat of his cream-coloured cotton
trousers - until his head banged painfully against the tea-stained wallpaper and he could go no
further.

“Good evening,” said the stranger in a honey-coloured voice that seemed to come at once both from
terribly far away and from the very middle of Brian’s own bruised head. Overhead, the exposed
wiring of the broken ceiling light seemed to point almost mockingly towards the middle-aged man
cowering on the floor, whose mouth slowly opened and closed like some giant clothed fish stranded
on a shingly beach, abandoned by the sea.

“I won’t hurt you,” continued the mysterious figure, standing up and making his way over to where
Brian half lay, half sat, under the window sill. “It’s just that we have some business to conclude.”
Inside one of the kitchen cupboards, a small brown mouse scurried purposefully between an
unopened packet of porridge oats and a box of semi-stale cornflakes before twitching its whiskers
and disappearing through a small ragged hole into the wall cavity. “The thing is - I’ve been in there
long enough,” he said, glancing accusingly in the direction of the third can of baked beans. “It’s time
someone else took my place now - and that someone would seem to be…” He paused dramatically,
as if in deep thought, before completing his sentence with a flourish: “You!”

Finally finding his voice, and trembling with fear, Brian managed to stammer out a short, garbled
response: “W-who are you? H-how did you get in h-here?” As he spoke, the fingers of his right hand
pressed harder into the arm of his now-broken spectacles and his left hand squeezed itself ever
more tightly into the gap between his shaking arm and his rib cage.

“Not important!” replied the man, as he picked up the can of beans and carelessly tossed it from one
hand to the other like a cricketer about to bowl. “The only thing that matters is where you’re going,”
and with that, taking careful aim, he violently hurled the can towards Brian’s unprotected chest,
adding savagely: “I hope you like baked beans!”

Five minutes later, the tall man stepped alone through the door of the deserted holiday cottage, and
after pausing only briefly to choose a direction, he strode off down the street. As he passed a litter
bin, he removed a small blue-wrapped metal cylinder from the pocket of his trench coat and casually
dropped it inside. Smiling, he took a much-missed deep breath of salty sea air and walked off into
the darkness.
©The Beryllium Baboon, 2017