Southerly by David Haywood

The first jolt knocked me off my feet. A desktop computer landed near my head and exploded into parts. Every piece of furniture was moving. A heavy wardrobe thudded onto the floor beside me. The desk upended itself; my filing cabinet toppled over and blocked the doorway. In the kitchen I could hear crockery shattering, and books tumbling from shelves in the sitting room.

I discovered the impossibility of taking useful action during a strong earthquake; the only option is simply to endure. Time slows down. After the shaking stopped, there was a moment of silence. Then a wail of ambulance sirens.

I shoved the filing cabinet out of the way, struggled to open the jammed study door, sprinted outside. White with dust, my three-year-old son was emerging from under the floorboards where he had been hiding, in a bid to avoid attending kindergarten. He asked unsteadily: "What happened, Daddy?"

The world had been transformed. A slurry of sand and water was fountaining from fissures in the road. Our lawn had been torn apart by giant five-metre-deep cracks; one of the cracks ran right through our home -- breaking it into two separate halves. The foundations beneath the rear half of the house had collapsed; the verandah hung in tatters like a broken umbrella. In the kitchen every plate, cup, and dish was broken. A solitary picture remained on the walls of our hall, tilted at a crazy angle.

My wife emerged from the back garden clutching our three-week-old daughter. Later we discovered a mound of fallen books in the sitting room -- engulfing the crib where she usually sleeps.

We live on the banks of the Avon River. As my wife and I stood on the front lawn, uncertain of what to do next, a huge aftershock struck. Trees and telephone poles swayed like drunken men; the river gathered itself into a wave and surged across the towpath. On the opposite bank, the road suddenly collapsed beneath a car, opening up a giant sink-hole. A man crawled out of a window, checked the car, swore.

A woman was screaming nearby. On the footpath I discovered our neighbour -- streams of mascara running down her cheeks. A chimney had fallen through the ceiling of the room where she was having lunch with her elderly father.

"It's my birthday today," she sobbed, "my house has been destroyed." Along the street other shell-shocked neighbours were emerging.

A procession of city workers began to trickle down the footpath. Their suits and dresses were torn and dusty; the hems of their clothes wet with mud. Soon there was a continuous stream of bedraggled escapees making their way homeward on foot. Some were weeping. Others spoke to us of impassable roads, buildings destroyed, bodies lying beneath ruins.

This morning our family had a house; tonight -- as with many other Christchurch families -- we live in a tent. But elsewhere in the city there are those whose loved ones will never return home. As I write, the radio informs me that hundreds still lie buried in the rubble. 

Thus we must count ourselves among the lucky; it could so very easily have been otherwise.

Note: an edited version of this account appeared in the Guardian on 22nd February 2010.

One of the unexpected pleasures in writing my latest book (selling now for a mere $19.95) has been getting acquainted with the lovely Ian Dalziel.

Ian is a self-described 'designersaur' whose life has veered down a variety of interesting tangents. He was once a roadie for Toy Love, he designed the famous 'cupid eyeball' logo for Flying Nun, spent a few happy years working at Rip It Up, and enjoyed numerous evenings as the doorman for Windsor Castle in its hey-day.

Above: Ian's famous logo design for Flying Nun.

Nowadays, Ian -- in his incarnation as Apple Pie Design 2 -- is a printer of lovely things: obscurely wonderful magazines, freakish greeting cards, phantom poetry posters, and extremely strange children's books. If you do anything weird in print form then you probably already know about Ian. And, if you don't, you should.

There is a slight air of a salon in the Dalziel residence. You are never entirely sure with whom you'll discover yourself conversing: a man holding a grapefruit while wearing a tam-o'-shanter; a shabby-genteel arts' patron who quotes poetry at you. If you wait long enough it seems probable that almost every interesting person in Christchurch will come through the door.

My three-year-old son, Bob, certainly thinks so. When asked to name his preferred destination for any outing, he invariably requests "Ian's house". Ian's jungle-like garden is an attraction, of course, as well as the magnificent rhododendron that Bob euphemistically calls his "watering tree". My oft-repeated question: "Do you need to visit the lavatory, Bob?" is often answered by a look of reminiscent pleasure, and the guarded response: "I'll wait until I get to Ian's garden". There can be few printers (or designersaurs) in this world who would tolerate such desecration of their prized vegetation.

Above: At Ian's front door with a flower "picked for Sally" (without permission).

As a new entrant to kindergarten, Bob was recently asked by a neighbour if he'd made any friends. "Ian and Pixie and Soxie and Cashel," he replied, and then after a moment's thought: "And Sally." Pixie, Soxie, and Cashel are Ian's cats; Sally is Ian's partner. I must say that Sally's low standing in the list of Bob's personal friends seem unfair -- considering the amount of time that Sally has spent showing Bob through the attic of their house, and amusing him with a cardboard skeleton that hangs in her bedroom cupboard.

There are signs, however, that Sally may be ascending the rankings of friendship. After a particularly prodigious toilet-training breakthrough last week, Bob demanded that Sally be summoned to admire the contents of his potty. I tactfully explained that Sally was busy at work, but assured him that I would give her a detailed description the next time we meet. She'll be thrilled no end, I'm sure.

Above: Pixie in a statuesque moment.

The Dalziel cats are of particular interest to Bob, in spite of their reluctance to be thoroughly patted in the manner that he'd prefer. Cashel-the-cat has certainly been lucky to find herself in such a happy household. When Ian first encountered Cashel, she had been squashed on the road by a passing motorist. Ian was the good Samaritan who transported her to an emergency vet at 2.00 am.

Sometime later, the vet phoned to explain that Cashel's rightful owners had declined to pay her medical bills; and, indeed, refused to take possession of her again. Being the sort of people that they are, Ian and Sally paid the vet themselves, and adopted Cashel into their home. It occurs to me that this incident (suitably condensed) is all that would be necessary to carve upon somebody's tombstone in order to give future generations an explanation of the deceased's excellent character.

Ian's support and expertise have been invaluable in the design and pre-production of 'The Hidden Talent of Albert Otter", and his macronic talents have been fully exploited in the latest magnificent outpourings of his printing press -- yes, at last, Albert Otter in Te Reo:

Above: Arapeta Ota.

This tasteful translation of the autobiography of Public Address's favourite (and only) otter was undertaken by the fabulous Dr Jeanette King -- academic, poet, and children's author in her own right -- with the editing expertise of the equally fabulous Dr Nichole Gully. You can find it here.

And, just in case you're searching for a last minute child's Christmas present, I should remind you that Public Address Books are available at these recommended shops (which now includes New Zealand's best children's bookstores) -- as well as next-day delivery from our website (we can sign and inscribe the book for you as well).

Oh, and for that elusive child/parent present combination, we're also doing a free shipping deal on 'The New Zealand Reserve Bank Annual 2010'. There are only two copies left -- I've signed and inscribed them with a unique message for posterity.

We're coughing like consumptives in the Haywood abode, but here's hoping that the Horseman of Pestilence has bypassed your house, and that all of you will enjoy a relaxing and mucus-free Christmas.

I have long wanted to collaborate with a proper artist on a book. While I can draw spaceships and explosions -- and, of course, the governor of the Reserve Bank of New Zealand -- I am fully aware that this does not imply any sort of artistic talent.

A proper artist has X-factor. You look at their work, and think: "Wow, that is so cool!" -- rather than, for example: "Dude, is that supposed to be Alan Bollard?" On a good day, I could perhaps be described as an adequate draughtsman; but that's about as far as I'll ever get.

I loved the drawings of Wellington artist Peter Adamson from the moment I saw them. His work was bleak and gothic -- and brimming with X-factor. Naturally enough, when I met him in person, I wasn't exactly backwards in coming forwards about a potential collaboration. Before he could think up a polite excuse, I had trapped him into agreeing to a joint project.

Initially we planned a limited-edition picture book for grown-ups -- and Peter made some lovely menacing sketches. But then his life was thrown into chaos by the very premature arrival of his son. By the time Peter had surfaced again, neither of us were keen to work on a project that was even remotely depressing.

As new parents, however, we had both been thrown into close contact with the dullness of many (but, of course, by no means all) children's picture books. And it struck us that we could ease the suffering of parents everywhere by making our own contribution to this field. Our mission statement was straightforward: "to produce a simple book that young children will enjoy, but which is simultaneously amusing enough so that adults won't vomit with boredom."

This entailed compromise, of course. I've been writing children's stories for years, but mostly ones that will give children nightmares -- so my motto became: "Don't terrify the kids." On the other hand, Peter's illustrations have been known to accentuate the dark and grotesque side of existence, so he adopted his own new motto: "And don't put the kids into a lifetime of therapy."

Above: Walking to school.

We decided on a little story that I'd written in Glasgow called 'The Hidden Talent of Albert Otter'. The story has slightly unusual origins in that it was inspired by a conversation with my friend Gschwendtner, in which he told me about his friend -- a Bavarian volunteer firefighter by the name of Albert Otter.

It was the closest I've ever come to a psychic experience. Interpolating between only two data points (Albert Otter's name and occupation), I was able to make an uncannily accurate 'reading' of his life.

Me: Of course, your friend Albert Otter struggled at school because no one understood him...

Gschwendtner: Actually, I believe he did quite well at school.

Me: And then he bit his piano teacher. But luckily he had a connection to King Ludwig III...

Gschwendtner: I seriously doubt that...

Me: And if he were really an otter (but living with a normal human family) then the whole thing would make much more sense...

Gschwendtner: I doubt that, too.

Above: The real Albert Otter (left) and the fictional Albert Otter (right).

At any rate, a true-life children's story set in Bavaria, written in Glasgow, and by a New Zealander -- is, if nothing else, a unique combination in the annals of children's literature.

Such uniqueness doesn't make things easy for the poor old illustrator, of course. Peter had to hint at the style and architecture of the last days of the Kingdom of Bavaria (just prior to WWI). He also had to deal with suggestions from me: "Can you draw an otter concentrating on a musical score, while he attempts to play the piano?"

It's confirmation of Peter's genius that he managed to pull it off, and produce a beautiful series of illustrations. I confess to being thoroughly delighted with the final book -- it's one of those rare situations where a project ends up better than I'd imagined.

Above: Albert Otter in cold water with a member of the royal family.

Anyway, if this book sounds like it might appeal to a child that you know (niece, nephew, grandchild, neighbour, son or daughter) then it's now for sale at Public Address Books. It's aimed at ages 3-6, and you can see a preview here.

As always, we appreciate if you buy online because it returns a much larger royalty to the author and illustrator (and the book usually costs you less, too). We also offer our fabulous sign-o-rama and inscribe-o-rama service, where you can request the author to sign and/or inscribe the book for you. But, of course, if you strongly prefer to buy from a bookshop then please favour one of our recommended independent booksellers -- particularly our friends at Arty Bees Books in Wellington.

We're hoping this book will be a success (or, at least, not a gigantic failure) as we have great plans for follow-up picture books. Having lulled parents into a false sense of security, we intend to give our dark side a freer rein in our next effort.

So you'd better start saving for those child psychiatrist bills now.

A magnitude 7.1 earthquake, as we discovered on Saturday morning, sounds rather like a thousand empty wheelie bins being trundled over cobble-stones.

We'd had difficulty getting our three-year-old son to sleep the night before. Several books (one novel-length) had been read aloud by my wife; soporific ukulele music had been played until my fingers had cramp; there'd been sobbing and tears of frustration (mostly from me). Eventually, around midnight, our household slipped into a fitful slumber.

I suspect, therefore, that we were more traumatized than most to be awoken at 4.35 am. The heaving and plunging of the floor reminded me of being in a storm at sea. It's a sensation that I don't much enjoy in a boat; I absolutely loathe it on dry land.

The movement was so violent that my wife had some difficultly picking up our son. We huddled in the doorway in total darkness as pictures fell from our walls and crockery smashed in the kitchen. A series of aftershocks kept us in the doorway for an hour.

My first thought, curiously, was to hope that we were near the epicentre of the earthquake. If it had been centred any distance away -- Wellington sprang to mind, of course -- then I knew that anything at the epicentre must have been utterly destroyed. I retrieved our battery-powered radio from the wreckage in the bathroom, and discovered that my fears were unfounded; the epicentre was a mere 40 kilometres away in the town of Darfield.

The bulletins from Radio New Zealand also revealed that there was substantial damage to the infrastructure of Christchurch. Our water and electricity supply had stopped, and the radio advised us not to use the lavatory. At dawn, I went outside and dug a latrine in the bush at the back of our section.

Damage to our house initially appeared to be minor. But an inspection of the foundation walls revealed numerous gaping cracks and significant subsidence. Under the house at least one of the piles had toppled over; further aftershocks prevented me from taking a closer look.

Our chimney had, miraculously, only shed a few bricks -- although every mortar joint had been broken, and it was now merely a pile of loose masonry balanced on our roof. I watched as it shifted visibly during another aftershock. My wife brought good news from a radio bulletin; no deaths from the earthquake had been reported. It seemed almost unbelievable.

We walked along the road to check on an elderly neighbour. The damage was horrifying: huge chasms had opened in the road; the tarmac was buried in sand from ground liquefaction; a sewage pumping station had levitated a metre or so out of the earth; power poles were tilted over at crazy angles; house foundations had collapsed and floors were protruding outwards into thin air; our local footbridge across the Avon was twisted into an Escheresque corkscrew.

Above: A neighbour's van in an earthquake crack.

I kept thinking to myself: "This looks like a disaster zone." And then a few seconds later: "Oh, this is a disaster zone -- that's why it looks so much like one." In a few hundred metres we walked past tens of millions of dollars in damage. A thought occurred to me: "If the rest of Christchurch is like this, can the country even afford to fix it? Perhaps we're going to be stuck this way for a long time."

Above: The local footbridge across the Avon River.

My colleague (and friend), Emma Hart, and her husband Karl arrived shortly thereafter. It was a relief to discover that they were safe -- their new house had survived unscathed -- and enormously reassuring to hear that damage in most of the city was comparatively minor. We handed Emma and Karl the semi-defrosted contents of our freezer, and then accepted their kind invitation to spend a night at their house.

Making our way out of Avonside was far from straightforward -- only a single road had survived the earthquake. Driving through Linwood was equally bizarre. Where was all the damage? Shattered roads and houses had become entirely normalized to us over the past few hours; it was astonishing to see Linwood looking just as it had yesterday, while our own neighbourhood had been completely transformed.

The aftershocks continued, but Karl's excellent gin and tonic took a few notches off their Richter force. When not mixing drinks, Karl joined Emma in entertaining our son. My wife and I sat on the settee, and attempted to figure out what needed to be done in order to make our house fit for habitation again.

It wasn't easy to pry our son from his refugee abode the next morning. "You go home," he insisted. "I want to stay here and play with Emma and Karl." Reluctantly, he allowed us to convey him back to Avonside to check on the house. The chimney was still teetering above our roof, and we still had no electricity, water, or sewerage. We gathered a few more belongings, and continued our refugee sojourn at the house of some of my wife's colleagues, Jacqui and Roger Nokes.

Once again, we were billeted with astonishing generosity and kindness. Jacqui and her son Theo were particularly superb in their child-entertainment skills -- rather too good, in fact, in comparison to the people who our son is stuck with as his parents.

The next day, in a howling Nor'wester, I strung safety lines over our roof and attacked the chimney. It was in such a sorry state that dismantling it simply consisted of balancing on the ridge-line, reaching up, lifting the bricks from the stack, and tossing them to the ground -- where they would embed themselves in the earth in a very satisfying manner.

Part-way through disassembly, we were hit by a 4.5 Richter aftershock and I dropped my hammer into the flue, where it wedged halfway down. I thought bitter thoughts about my bad luck -- until an alternative scenario occurred to me that involved the chimney collapsing onto my head. The loss of a hammer didn't seem so bad after that.

The electricity was back on by the time I'd finished taking down the chimney -- and our friends Jeanette and Jeffrey arrived with moral support and pikelets. But we still had no water or sewerage, and since I was encrusted with soot and mortar, we decided to trespass upon the hospitality (and luxurious showering facilities) of Jacqui and Roger for one more night.

And now we are back in our own house -- in a very depopulated street. Many of the neighbours have been evacuated; although some of them have departed simply to escape the aftershocks. One neighbour hadn't been able to eat since a pair of 5.2 Richter shakes on Monday. Another hadn't eaten or slept since the initial earthquake on Saturday morning.

I've just spoken to a workman inspecting the sewerage system, who told me that he was in a state of shock with regard to the damage. "People are talking about weeks to get this fixed," he said, "but it's going to be years before we've rebuilt the infrastructure that's been lost here."

Nevertheless, as far as we're concerned, it's going to take more than an earthquake to get us out of our house. We love our life beside the river in Christchurch. And we're here to stay.

Postscript: We've just had our water supply reconnected -- hooray for the council!

When I look back, I realize that my university career ended -- or, at least, began to end -- with a party.

I hadn't wanted to go, of course. But the Dean of Science, Gavin Ramsay, persuaded me that it would be good for my research. "Everyone needs a break now and then," he insisted. "I'm worried about you -- locked away in that laboratory all the time. You'll work ten times better after a night out."

Gavin was several years my junior -- a fact that, I admit, always rankled with me -- and he seemed determined to rub my nose in his youthful lifestyle. His house-warming party was every bit as awful as I'd anticipated: drunken students, loud music, no possibility of intelligent conversation. The only point of interest was one of the young women attendees.

Her name, I discovered, was Marianne. Not, I hasten to add, that I was interested in her from a romantic perspective -- she was far too dolled-up for my tastes -- but I was fascinated by the reaction she engendered in some of the other men who were present.

They reminded me of nothing so much as male insects responding to pheromones from a female. Men clustered all around her, preening themselves, making little jokes -- a veritable human mating-dance. Not a successful one, however. Marianne was clearly unimpressed by her suitors.

Later in the evening, when the music had been turned down, I found myself standing at the drinks table beside her. It seemed courteous to introduce myself. "I work with Gavin Ramsay," I said.

She looked instantly bored. "Not another scientist?"

"I'm afraid so. How about you?"

"I work in radio." She scanned the room for a more interesting conversational prospect, then finding none, asked: "What type of science?"

"Entomology. My research is mainly on Hemideina ricta -- the Bank's Peninsula tree weta."

Marianne walked away. There was no "goodbye", no attempt at even the flimsiest of excuses -- she simply left without a word. As an act of impoliteness it was absolutely breathtaking. A few seconds later, I saw her strike up a conversation with a young man in a leather jacket.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Hard luck," said Gavin Ramsay. "Still, at least you had a go."

"I wasn't having a go," I spluttered. "I was simply being polite."

"Sure," he replied soothingly. "Well, at any rate, I don't think she's much of a loss. A bit of a head-case, I've heard."

I spent the rest of the weekend in my laboratory. On Monday, I delivered my ENT302 lecture as usual. Walking back to my office, I noticed a young woman waiting in the corridor. It was Marianne.

My first reaction was to pretend that I hadn't seen her. But -- as I opened my office door -- she placed a hand on my arm, and asked, "May I talk to you? I'd like to apologize for my rudeness on Saturday."

It's hard to resist contrition -- particularly, I admit, from an attractive young woman. "You'd better come in then, I suppose."

I sat down at my office desk; Marianne perched on one of the chairs normally used by my postgraduate students.

"My behaviour was unforgivable," she said. "I can only excuse myself by explaining that I have a horror of insects. When you mentioned wetas -- I just had to get away, immediately. I'm so sorry."

In my profession, of course, I'd encountered entomophobia on a regular basis. "Don't worry," I told her. "I'd almost forgotten what happened until I saw you again."

"Thank you," she said. "You're very understanding."

There was an awkward silence. Then I asked: "Have you always been afraid of insects?"

"All my life." Marianne gazed out of the window for a few moments. "Actually, there is something else I wanted to ask you. I mentioned my job to you, didn't I?"

"You're on the radio."

"Oh, nothing so grand -- sorry if I gave that impression. I'm a receptionist at a radio station. It's the station that 'Gazza' works for, actually."

Gazza was a talk-back host whose fame -- or infamy -- had reached even my inattentive ears. "Isn't he the guy who compared the anti-smacking law to the Holocaust?"

"Yes, and the odd thing is that he says the same things off-air as he does on the radio."

"You mean that he genuinely believes what he says?"

"More than that. It's all he can say. Just those few bullet points that he repeats endlessly during his shows. He's like those toy dolls -- where you pull the string and get one of half-a-dozen random recordings."

Marianne rubbed her wrists nervously. "I had a very strange encounter with him last week. There was a fly in my office, but I couldn't find any fly-spray in the storeroom. So I picked up a can from the corner shop while I was out at lunch.

"I was just getting ready to spray the office when Gazza walked in. He jumped at me -- that's the only way I can describe it. He moved unbelievably quickly. The next thing I knew he'd grabbed my arms, and he was shouting: 'Women on the DPB should be sterilized!'

"He squeezed my wrists until I dropped the fly-spray. Then he picked up the can with a tissue, and hurled it out the window. All this time he was still shouting about the DPB. Everyone at the station came to see what the fuss was about -- afterwards they told me that he didn't like insecticide, and wouldn't allow it in the building."

I couldn't entirely see where Marianne was going with her anecdote. "Yes, that does seem rather over-the-top," I said hesitantly. "Although, of course, some people have funny ideas about pyrethrins."

"The thing is," Marianne continued, "I've been tormented by a crazy idea ever since. So crazy that I know you'll think I'm mad. I've got it into my head that Gazza might be, well, some sort of insect himself."

She gave a brittle laugh. "A highly-evolved one, of course. I've been reading about evolution -- mimicry is very common in the insect world, isn't it? Don't you think a species of insect might have evolved that mimics humans? They'd only need enough brain to say a few simple sentences, and then no-one would suspect a thing."

It took me a moment to digest what Marianne was saying. "Yes," I said finally. "That does sound a bit mad to me, I'm afraid."

Marianne coloured. "Oh, so you think I'm hysterical or something?"

"No, not at all," I reassured her. "It's an intriguing hypothesis, and I commend you on your ingenuity. But from a biological point of view it wouldn't make sense. For a start, that kind of adaptation would take hundreds of thousands -- maybe millions -- of years. And then what would be the evolutionary driver? What advantages would it confer on the insect?"

"Well, the insect would be scavenging from us and living off our scraps," said Marianne. "And they might have evolved alongside us, ever since we came down from the trees. Look at tramps and homeless people and so on: has anyone ever tested them to see if they're really human?"

I hardly knew how to reply to this. In all honesty, it seemed to me that she needed a psychologist more than an entomologist.

Marianne removed a snap-lock bag from her coat pocket, and held it out to me. "I've brought you a sample," she said. "Gazza wears his hair in a sort of horrible lank ponytail -- I found a few strands on the back of his chair."

I inspected the contents of the bag. The hairs were about 400 millimetres long; far too large to be insect in origin.

"Tell me you'll at least look at them," she pleaded.
 

"I give in. What are they?"

Mike Flaws was the department's microscopist. He'd called me on my office telephone; I could hear the excitement in his voice.

"What do you think they are?" I asked.

"On first inspection, I thought mammalian hair. But under an optical microscope they're obviously chitin -- so that means an arthropod. Then I looked under the electron microscope, and I could see that they're insect antennae. Bloody long ones."

I was shaken; an insect origin seemed impossible to me. "Any idea of species?"

"I've checked them against likely candidates, and I'm guessing some sort of cockroach. But I'll tell you what -- I wouldn't want to meet the bug that these came from. You wouldn't be stepping on it; it'd be stepping on you."

I put down the phone. My initial assumption had been that Marianne was a fantasist. Now I knew that she must be attempting a hoax. But for what reason? And why would anyone go to this much trouble -- obtaining giant insect antennae from who knows where -- in order to trick me?

There were several possibilities. One of my colleagues could be playing a prank -- but that seemed unlikely; it was the sort of foolishness that would land them in front of a disciplinary committee. What about the radio station -- some sort of advertising gimmick? If so, what could it be? I wasn't famous, and they'd hardly sell advertising off the back of making me look gullible.

Could it be down to Marianne alone -- was she simply one of those dazzlingly pretty girls who get their kicks from hoaxing junior academics? The question answered itself: it was all too unlikely.

Eventually, after much deliberation, I resolved to take the battle to them -- whoever 'them' was. The

Gazza Show played on Radio Jive, and the telephone directory gave their street address as Jervois Road.

Marianne sat at the reception desk. I hadn't expected that. According to my plan, I would discover that she didn't work for Radio Jive at all -- thus exposing her story as an obvious fabrication.

She smiled when she saw me. "The hairs were from an insect, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"I knew it."

I'd forgotten how genuine Marianne seemed. If she was acting, she deserved an Oscar.

She leaned forward across her desk, glancing down the corridor. "We need to discuss this," she whispered. "There's a Belgian café just across the road. I'll meet you there when I finish work -- five o'clock."

A voice behind me said: "National productivity is low for no other reason that the laziness of our workers."

Gazza had emerged from the studio. He was staring pointedly at Marianne. Then he swivelled his head, and peered closely into my face. "The problem with this government is that it's full of teachers and university lecturers."

It wasn't difficult to understand how Marianne had arrived at her theory. Gazza's skin had a chitinous sheen; he moved in precise, almost invertebrate motions. The long hair was obviously that of Marianne's sample: thick and whip-like. His jaws twitched to reveal broad, closely-set teeth.

I found myself studying him as I would an insect. Yes, that hair could be modified antennae; the teeth would be calcium carbonate, of course. I glanced at his chest, he seemed to be breathing. That could be explained by abdominal contractions, moving the air in and out of his spiracles. It would be surprisingly easy to believe Marianne's theory.

Gazza's head flicked round to focus on Marianne again. "National productivity is low for no other reason that the laziness of our workers," he repeated insistently.

She lowered her eyes. "I'd better get back to work

then."

At five o'clock, I was waiting for Marianne in the Belgian café. It had been a strange afternoon. I still regarded her ideas as fanciful, of course -- and yet there appeared to be supporting evidence from Gazza's hair sample, and indeed from the physical appearance of Gazza himself. I wondered if I were losing my mind.

Six o'clock passed. Then seven, then eight. The café closed at nine o'clock. Marianne did not arrive.

I drove home and collapsed into bed. Nothing today made any sense.

At 1.00 am the phone rang. A woman was weeping on the other end of the line.

"Marianne?"

There was indistinct sobbing, then words: "Something terrible has happened."

"What's happened, Marianne?"

She was still sobbing. "I went into Gazza's office after work. Then -- I don't know -- something made me do it, I couldn't help myself."

"What did you do?"

"We had sex -- Gazza and I had sex."

"Did he force you?"

She could barely get the words out. "No, I wanted to -- I can't explain it -- I couldn't stop. And then when I came home I suddenly realized what I'd done. Oh God, suppose I'm pregnant to him -- a giant insect."

"Listen Marianne, pregnancy is impossible." I tried to remain calm. "Insects are in a completely different taxonomic phylum. It must have been pheromones -- that's the obvious explanation -- and it makes sense from an evolutionary perspective. It's as if he drugged you, Marianne. It's not your fault."

She broke into weeping: "Can you come to see me? Please?"

"Of course -- I'll come straight away. What's your address?"

It was fortunate that I didn't pass any police cars that night. My speedometer touched 120 along Newton Road. I expected to find Marianne hysterical, screaming, possibly

even suicidal. It never occurred to me that she would be calm.

She took her time in opening the door to my agitated knocking. "Oh, you came? You needn't have -- I'm perfectly alright."

I was confused: "But what about everything you told me on the phone?"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry if I sounded upset -- but I've thought about it now and I'm quite happy. It's lovely to be pregnant. I'm really looking forward to having Gazza's babies. It will be wonderful."

A ripple of shock surged through my body. "Marianne, I know exactly why you're so calm, but you shouldn't be. It's the eggs -- they're releasing chemicals to tranquillize you. It's a mechanism used by parasitic insects."

"My beautiful babies," said Marianne idly.

"They're not your babies, Marianne. They're Gazza's -- and the other insect that Gazza must have already mated with. You weren't having sex, Marianne. Gazza is female. She was using her ovipositor to lay eggs inside you."

"But they'll be my own beautiful babies when they're born, won't they?"

I grabbed her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, Marianne. They won't be born -- they'll hatch inside you. And then..." I found myself struggling for the right words, "and then they'll start... eating. We need to get you to hospital right now, Marianne."

She gave a slow, radiant smile. "But can't you see how glorious it is to participate in the birth of a new world? To give my body to nourish a truly efficient society -- one without political correctness or nanny-state interference?" She glanced over my shoulder. "You think so, don't you darling?"

Gazza seized me from behind. His voice rasped in my ear: "The problem with the justice system in this country is too many do-gooders -- we must bring back

the death penalty!"

I fumbled for the fly-spray in my pocket. Gazza glimpsed the can; threw me across the room. Glass shattered. I fell onto a carport roof, tumbled off to land on a concrete path. I could see Gazza silhouetted in the broken window. She opened her jaws and hissed.

The fly-spray was lost; so were my car-keys. At the corner of the street a Night 'n' Day had its lights showing. Gazza leapt from the window-sill. I hurdled over the gate, slipped and fell, righted myself and sprinted towards the shop.

"Hello, dear." An elderly Indian lady was knitting behind the counter.

"Fly-spray?"

"Third aisle, dear."

I grabbed a pair of cans, flipped off the lids. "Sorry, I'll have to pay for these later."

My fingers were on the spray-buttons; I peered cautiously out of the shop-door.

And that was when the building fell on me.

Actually, it wasn't the building. It was the Indian lady with her grandson's cricket bat. The Herald's crime section ran a headline the next morning: "It's a Six! Shoplifter Laid Low By Cricket-Playing Grandma."

By that stage, I had regained consciousness. It wasn't a pleasant awakening -- the police had me handcuffed into a hospital bed. My subsequent decision to tell them the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth wasn't exactly the most sensible thing I've ever done. It provided The Herald with another good headline: " Shoplifting Entomologist Explains: 'I Fought Giant Bug'."

Twenty-four hours later, I was officially finished as a scientist. My colleagues had abandoned me; one of them gave an off-the-record interview claiming that I'd always been mentally unstable. My only consolation was that the newspapers soon lost interest -- and my court-hearing barely made The Herald's back pages. I don't suppose many people even read it: "Judge Swats Bug Doctor: Sentenced to Psychiatric Care."

Since my release, I've tried every possible approach in finding Marianne -- even to the extent of cashing in my superannuation account to hire private detectives. But I've discovered no trace of her; and now I can only hope that she didn't suffer.

Of course, there's been no problem in keeping track of Gazza's activities. He's more popular than ever on the radio -- and the latest news is that he's planning to run for city mayor. They say journalists love the way he speaks in sound-bites.

And, of course, the public loves a politician who's just like themselves.

© David Haywood, 2008.