'The Klein Principle' by Julian Fletcher

The crew were mildly curious. Klein had always appeared to be the straightforward type, lacking imagination, lacking intuition, inept at social gatherings and as creative as a wet fish. This, however, showed them they were wrong, or at least might do so. For this reason, to know more of their captain, did they read the story.

A Story

The church, Norman in style, for those who really care, was full. A predominance of black was indicative of it being a funeral. The sounds of sobbing slowly reverberating round the solid stone architecture added somewhat to this assumption. At the back a wheelchair rested, it's occupant, eyes closed, slowly said a private solemn prayer. His lips moving quickly, only a faint whisper left them. The final verse of 'The Lord is my shepherd' had just ended, and a hush now filled the rest of the church. He stopped, all eyes turned to him. He smiled, a hollow smile. He wheeled himself forward to the front. A couple of hands lifted up his carriage so he was behind an ornate, flower adorned lectern. Using the stand as a crutch he raised himself out of his position. A considerable effort, it seemed. He coughed. Waiting for it's echo to die down before he started.

'What? what can I say, that none of you aren't already thinking? how can I say how much he meant to me, when I know he meant the same to all of you? There is little, if anything, that I could possibly imagine saying that would in the slightest help you in your mourning. But I would just like to say a few things. Ways in which he will live on in me. Keelan was very dear to me, he was a great friend, and colleague. Most of you know that we went to university together. An experience I know some friends will never forget,' he coughed a slight laugh, raising his hand to his mouth, he almost lost balance, again a couple of hands helped him. 'Thank you,' he breathed quietly. 'I was going to tell a few of his little anecdotes, of our escapades, but no, I know it wouldn't be the same. No one could ever do it the way he did.' The speaker looked down at the pages of the bible below him, not for inspiration, but to hide. Hide his emotion, hide what he really felt, what he wanted to say, hide his tears. A single drop fell down, it was quickly absorbed deep into the depths of bygone beliefs. He looked up, she caught his eye. She had a smile, a strong smile. It was like she was telling him what to do. She nodded her head gently. 'I suppose what I really want to say, is that no matter what happens I'll always remember him. I just didn't want him to die, I loved him. I really did.' He looked up fully, he watched them, their faces, their tears, and for that fleeting moment, just for a single instant, he felt true empathy, he could feel what everyone was feeling, the emotions were so strong. But then it left him, all that remained was that ingrained idea that someone was trying to place the blame. 'It wasn't my fault, please, believe me, it just wasn't. I didn't see it, he was going too fast.' He felt those last seconds again. The lights, the screeches, the screams, the flicker of his eyes as he died. Keelan dying, in front of him, and he not being able to do a single thing, not even to say goodbye. It was that that hurt most, not saying goodbye. Not putting an end to it all. He felt himself fall, a weakness slowly rising through his body, he hit the ground with a dull thud.

The faces stared down from all around, someone said something and the faces parted. He breathed clearer, deeper. A single face now covered his line of vision, it moved closer and closer. A small scar lay in the cleft of her chin. A slight imperfection in an otherwise beautiful face. He closed his eyes and felt the light touch of her lips on his forehead. The scent of her perfume serenaded his nose. He opened his eyes again, she was still there. Crouched in front of him, she offered him her hand. Some of the crowd seemed unsure, and a murmur of protest rose around her. She stifled it with a sharp look. He took the offering, and tiresomely pulled himself up so he was sitting. But no, this wasn't enough. Her hand still in his, she stood. She held firm, until. Until he finally decided. She pulled slowly on his arm, he felt himself rise up slowly, his legs shaking violently. He felt himself falling. Falling forward. She caught him. She held him. She lowered him back into his chair. The crowd, though not applauding, seemed congratulatory in their smiles. She wheeled him away from the lectern. He wasn't going to manage standing again. Everyone returned to their seats.

'Thank you, thank you all,' he finally said when everyone was settled. His eyes lingered on her. 'I'm afraid my will is stronger than my body.' A pause, a cough, a shudder. 'I'm told it is customary for their to be a reading. And as you know, Keelan was never really fond of too much religion. I have found something that might be more appropriate.' Someone, the owner of the hands in fact, brought a large tape player on. Placing it on a table beside the lectern, he pressed play. Static filled the room, a series of whistles followed then by an all to familiar sound. It was a sound recorded from beyond the scope of this planet.

'In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. and the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good.' A hand stopped the tape.

The man spoke again. Not even trying to rise. 'I'm sure Keelan would have appreciated it. The irony. Someone in the heavens, speaking about the earth, God, and creation. I'm sure... I know he would appreciate it.' He wheeled himself down, returning to the rear. The priest returned. The wheelchair left.

Outside the church, the graveyard. A dismal place at the best of times. This was one of the best. The sun shone brightly, a single solitary cloud, made a lonesome trek through a blue heaven. Guided by a ghost of a wind, it was unsure of it's destination. It always seemed strange; sun for a funeral. Like rain for a christening. It wasn't ideal, but then again, it had to happen, sometime. The clouds tentative journey let it pass over the sun. A drab shadow fell over the congregation. This, somehow, was better. The crowd was dispersing, Alex, his wheelchair parked with the family, shook hands with passing mourners. Each offering, or receiving, a verbal token of inspiration. Jayne, one of the last to pass, did just that. Pass. She made no comment. She waited at the gate, a wrought iron affair, a single red rose in her hand. The grave side was soon empty, Alex was slowly making his way down the path, the limestone jolting the wheels as he went. She walked towards the deserted hole that, in itself, was death. Jayne looked down, a golden nameplate, covered by a few handfuls of soil and two further red roses, looked up at her. A faint reflection of her face stared back at her. The eyes more distant, the face paler, the eyes drier. She muttered something under her breath and dropped her rose in, it spun lightly, pointing upwards, contrary to common sense, landing, it rested with the previous two. Soulfully she walked off.

She passed Alex at the gate. 'You should have said something,' was all he could say.

She wasn't sure whether to reply. She decided. Walking off, 'why, everyone knows how I feel.'

The pub. A great British tradition, so we are told by the patriots. To be honest, Alex could see the appeal on some occasions, the right atmosphere, the right emotion, the right event. This strangely was one of them. He sat in a corner. The end of a long seat, a threadbare covering seemed intent on depicting a forest of some kind, yet this urge was masked by dirt and beer ingrained over many years. The carpets, though newer, had a red that had long since decayed to brown, and snare traps of untacked covering threatened any careless walker.

The beer was good. And it was peaceful, though fortunately not silent. His glass, now half empty, gripped tightly in his right hand, looked destined to add more to the seat's camouflage. A few friends sat by a door ogling the entering, exiting, and remaining females, in a way that made you want to vomit, or else join in. Their conversation slowed when the found they'd gone through the entire feminine company. Eventually they changed to football, which grew the conversation to a frightening crescendo.

'Your's.' Jayne, offering a new glass, it's contents spilling over the sides in a way the cleaners despised.

He took it in his free left hand and placed it on a note adorned beer mat. 'Thanks,' draining the last half of his current glass. Jayne sat down, in time to hear the final comments from the group by the door :

'It's what he would've wanted.' They left running, skipping almost. A generation regression it seemed.

Alex spoke. 'Bollocks.'

'Pardon?' Jayne confused more than offended.

'Twats, lets have a kick around, it's what he would have wanted,' he mocked, 'bollocks. What he'd have wanted first is to not be dead, second to have a good pint and third, well I'm sure you will think of your own third.'

She seemed to be ignoring him. Not even pretending to listen, when she said, 'you're right.'

'I know I'm bloody right. He couldn't give a damn about a kick around...'

'No, I should have said something. I shouldn't have asked you to do it. After all, he wasn't engaged to you.'

It was there they parted.

Jayne rushed to the door, checking herself in a mirror before opening it. 'Hi,' a charming greeting, polite, cheery, surprised, 'how've you been. Where've you been? You're looking better. What happened to your thumb?' Questions. All at once.

Alex smiled. She was back, normal. She was happy (ish). 'Aren't you going to ask me in.' As she moved he hobbled in on his crutches, 'I have been in intensive physio. Though I have to admit, when they said I'd be walking within a week, I wasn't expecting it with a pair of crutches and an entire DIY set stuck in my spine. How are you.' Led by her, he stumbled on to the sofa, when settled he adjusted his glasses to make them look less strict school teacher and more mad-scientist style.

'Fine, what happened to your thumb.' Indicating a large bandage currently fixed over it, a patch of blood stained it near the tip.

'It's nice,' to an imaginary third person, 'you return after a week with a pair of jumped up walking sticks and a whole meccano set in your back and a friend asks what happened to your thumb. Very strange.' Finally he decided to answer. 'Cutting chips. I just got a little bored. Thought I'd be a little more exotic, save on the tomato sauce. But you. How are you? You know, after everything.'

'You know, bearing up,' there wasn't enough humour in her voice for her to mean it. 'Want a drink?' She got up and walked to the fridge before he had time to answer.

'Sure, but no alcohol. They've put me back on those drugs. Give you one hell of a buzz. But you can't drink. I don't know which is better.'

'Coke?' a can thrown from the fridge hurtled through the air.

'Fine,' catching it before he'd finished speaking. She got herself something of a German disposition, and poured it into a stemmed Stella Artois glass. Sacrilege, perhaps. But at least dignified.

Sitting herself down she asked what might seem a typical question, and thus a cliche to be avoided. But... 'So is it just social or is there some unlterior motive?'

'Just wanted to see how you were really. It's been a while.' He breathed deeply, hoping for some extra strength from the air, 'have you spoken to them?'

'Them?' then she realised, 'No chance, not after all they did. They never approved. If my parents were as bad as his, I don't know how I'd survive.' Alex cringed, not out of his pain, but because he knew she'd realise it too. He was right. She turned away. Picked up the paper, flicked through it for a few minutes. He heard her sniffling. What to do? Alex wasn't sure. His crutches kind of ruled out a dash to the door to leave her in peace. Similarly they discarded moving to sit beside her, as she'd be feeling better by the time he got there, but he decided to do it anyway. It was a slow movement, nearing a crawl, having decided, wrongly, that it would be easier than the crutches. Finally he was there. What now? The arm round the shoulders? always worked in the films. He placed his arm over her shoulders, she turned to face him, buried herself in the folds of his jacket. He put his other arm round her. Holding her tight. Tears soaked through his shirt, he felt the moisture, the warmth. Tighter, he hugged her tighter. Her breath slowed, a steadier pace. More relaxed, more normal. They parted.

'I'm sorry,' her words, a quiver distorted them slightly.

'No, no. Don't be,' what was he meant to say? 'it's better out. Let it all out. Metaphorically speaking that is.' Why did he say that? Lighten the atmosphere? Look stupid? Probably.

She had ignored the comment. 'It's just, you know, like when someone mentions him, I keep thinking of him. I can't help wishing he's here. Just for me. It's selfish, but I need him. Why did he have to die. Why?' The last question though directed at him, was aimed at someone higher; He gave no reply.

One of those very long awkward silences followed. How long it lasted Alex didn't know, but at eight he decided it was time to leave. He was half way out the door when she spoke, 'you doing anything Wednesday week. Say ten thirty, in the morning.' He thought for a moment, trying to remember.

'No.'

'The cafe in the High Street.' She turned away. This, he guessed was his queue to go.

He saw the room, the chair.

The fridge door closed. Something flew through the air. He caught it. She walked towards him, glass in hand. Rapidly filling from a german bottle of some kind. She said something he didn't catch. He replied. What exactly, he didn't know. But he replied with a question. She was confused, unsure. Then she worked it out. It was something she said then. Something that depressed him. Made his soul drop. He felt the air thicken. He faced her. She turned away. Thumbed through a paper. Sniffling.

He moved towards her, carefully. An arm placed on her shoulder. He held her tight. She moved closer. Buried herself in his jacket. She cried.

He kissed her on the forehead. Why? It was all feeling different. She wasn't just his friend now. No, he felt more. Felt something stronger. She reciprocated a peck on the lips. He tried to move away. He knew he must, but he didn't want to. He pushed away. It was all getting too much.

Sweat soaked him. The bed-clothes covered his ankles awkwardly. He felt all clammy. The window was closed. He moved towards and opened it. A blast of cold air refreshed him slightly. It was just getting light. In the distant a house and a row of trees framed a patch of sky, it's colour constantly changing. Clouds, strewn over the sky, toyed with his eyes. Persuaded him that mountains stood in front of him. Purple headed mountains. But no. They were gone. It was a castle. A castle in the sky. All a fairy tale. All make belief. All how it should be. He smiled.

A bird chirped somewhere to the left. Nothing else made a sound. It might as well have been the only other living thing. Just him and a bird in a beautiful world. He glanced at his watch. Fourish registered somewhere in his mind. They'd start soon. Life'd start soon. The noise, the smell, the taste. The feel. A door slammed. A second door opened.

It was Dean, fit, physical, and not to mention thick Dean. His flat-mate. 'You up?'

It was one of those questions that always confused Alex. What was the point of it? What was the answer meant to be? Yes would be obvious. No would be confusing. Maybe, sheer stupid 'No.'

Dean ignored it. Probably it'd sink in soon. A couple of minutes, perhaps. 'Can't sleep?'

This was a problem Dean never had, being out till after the milkman arrived normally meant you were so tired you could sleep anywhere. 'Yeah.'

'Anything in particular. Worrying you.'

He put these full stops where they weren't necessary. If you told him to correct his grammar, he'd tell you to leave his family out of it. 'Just remembering something I should have done. Should have said.'

'It's never too late.' True, and in Dean's case, never too early as well. 'Anyway, I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow.'

'Today,' he corrected, but Dean was already gone. He had a point though.

The crew were silent, unsure what to say. Everyone had noticed the similarities, Jayne was Jayne, Alex was Alex, Keelan was Keelan. They weren't exactly well hidden. Jayne felt herself blushing as eyes focussed on her. A hand reached up to her chin, trying to scratch the small scar.

It was a side of the captain they never thought they'd see.