Clifford Burns:

"So, that's two spaghetti and meatballs, a pepperoni pizza and a house salad. Any more drinks to go with that?"

"That's it." the old git murmured. "Can you wipe our table though? It's dirty."

Absolute rubbish. It was as clean as anything. But I painted on a smile. "Certainly sir. I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah, it's not good enough." he spat. "I sure hope the food makes up for it." His equally nasty family nodded in agreement.

"I'm sure it will!" I replied brightly, knowing full well that this idiot would complain, no matter how good the food was. And he wouldn't leave a tip. I walked away, my false smile vanishing the second my back was turned. I crossed the large dining hall, and tapped my girlfriend on the back. She wheeled around, startled. "Can you wipe down table eighteen, babe?" I said slowly and clearly "The old prat says it's dirty."

Lauren watched the movement of my lips carefully, and then nodded, an affronted look on her face. "I cleaned it just now..." she replied, slowly and loudly.

I nodded. "Yeah, I know that, and you know that. But he's complaining."

Lauren scoffed, and bustled past me. I was a little worried- she was ninety-five percent deaf, and if anyone was going to give her a hard time over it, it was that grumpy old moron sitting at table eighteen, with his equally grotty little family. I briefly wondered whether I should follow her, but I decided not to. It was the middle of dinner service.

For the next half-hour, I rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, bringing out orders, taking several back (naturally, including number eighteen's, who was now talking to the shift manager, insisting on a refund), and taking payments from the customers. Finally, I was allowed to take a break. I dragged myself up to the staff room, only to find Lauren sitting on one of the sofa's, her eyes red. She'd been crying.

"Lauren!" I gasped, sitting down next to her, pulling her into a tight hug. I waited for her to look at me before I spoke. "What's wrong?" As if I didn't know.

"Eighteen!" she replied sadly, her voice bitter.

I nodded, undiluted rage building up inside me. "What did he say?"

Lauren shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

"It does to me." I hissed. I'd known Lauren for seven years, and we'd been a couple for four of them. We'd both studied chemistry at the same college, and we'd hit it off the moment we met. She was wickedly intelligent, and had regularly put me to shame during out exams. We were an odd couple. I was tall, slightly on the overweight side, and already losing my hair at the temples. She, on the other hand, was gorgeous. Fiery red hair, a thin and beautiful face, and a dazzling smile that made it impossible for anyone to dislike her. She was by far shorter than me, and my buddies often remarked that I'd struck very lucky in getting such a beautiful girl. Hot girls didn't usually go for ugly, awkward guys like me, they would remark. I couldn't help but agree. Even on a deeper level, we didn't seem an obvious match. I deplored exercise, she ran marathons. I liked movies, she liked reading. She couldn't hear a thing, and I didn't know any sign language at all. But we managed. She was a good lip-reader, and I found it entirely easy to understand her speech, which was distorted, muffled, and often hard for other people to understand.

It was only after we'd graduated (me scraping a pass, her with a first class degree) that we simultaneously realized something- chemistry was dreadful. What a horrible, boring and exhausting subject it was. What on Earth had possessed us to study it? Our lecturer had wanted us to go into laboratory work of course, especially Lauren. We'd said no, and that was how we found ourselves, aged twenty-six and twenty-eight (she sometimes called me her toyboy, despite only two years between us) working in Boccino Heights, a smart Italian restaurant in the town. We were happy there, me as a waiter, and Lauren as a barmaid (and cleaner, for extra cash). Life was great. Everyone wanted to hire a pair of graduates such as us, and we had our own little house and everything now. Next month, we were jetting off to Hawaii for a break, and it was there that I planned to get down on one knee and propose to her. I just knew she'd say yes.

Her deafness wasn't a sensitive subject at all. Almost everybody treated her exactly like they'd treat anyone else, and that was just the way she liked it. Almost everybody. But not everybody. Not the old man at table eighteen.

I stood up, ensuring that I continued to face Lauren so that she could watch my lips. "I'm going to see Paul." I said. "I'm not having this."

Lauren shrugged. "I don't want a fuss over it."

"There won't be." I exclaimed. "Paul will sort it out." Paul was the owner of Boccino Heights, and without doubt the best boss I'd ever had. He cared for his staff, and under no circumstances did he allow them to be abused or insulted. He worked us extremely hard, yet we didn't mind. He paid us fairly, and in the rare event of a problem, his first thought was to side with us over the customers. The customers knew that as well, and most of them respected him all the more for it. Most customers are thoroughly decent people after all, and wouldn't even think of being cruel to a waiter or a barmaid. But now and again, it would happen, and when it did, Paul would remove that customer without a second thought. We had enough footfall without grovelling to the dregs of society.

So I left the staff room, and headed down to the kitchen, where he would probably be washing the dishes. That was another reason I liked him- he'd get stuck in along with his staff, do whatever job needed to be done- including the toilets. I walked downstairs, still seething with rage. Seething. Maybe I shouldn't go to Paul? Maybe I ought to go and talk to table eighteen myself? Maybe I should do a little more than talk? Maybe I should

-murder them!-

I stopped in my tracks, my heart thumping. The thought came to me clear as day, and for a moment I was shocked. Crikey...for a split second there, I was totally ready to do exactly that. To go down there, grab a wine bottle and bring it crashing down on the scumbag's head. He deserved it! Being cruel to my Lauren! How dare he! Could I kill him for it? Sure I could. What's stopping me? He was old, and I was young. I could go in there and do it right now!

But should I? No! Of course not! What was I thinking? I needed to go and see Paul, and get him to sort it out. He'd have them out at once and banned for life...but so what? That's not a proportionate punishment for what they did! I needed to punish them

-You need to murder them, Clifford!-

There it was again! No! No! What was I thinking...I'm not a killer! I'm going to see Paul

-And then you need to finish them all off!-

I was going to tell Paul, and I was going to let him sort it out...

I stumbled into the kitchen, my palms sweating. Paul looked up from the dishes. "Blimey Cliff...you look like you've seen a ghost. What's the matter?"

"Number eighteen..." I slurred, struggling to stand upright, beads of sweat pouring down my face. "They upset Laura. Punish them!"

Paul looked taken aback. "I've been hearing about them all night, man. I'll go have a word. But you need to sit down, you look awful."

I stumbled forwards and gripped the front of his apron. "You need...more than a word...punish them for it! You need to...they have to pay

-Well said, Clifford! Well said!-

they have to suffer!"

But now Paul was alarmed. "Right, you need to sit down straight away. Oi, Stuart!" he called one of the chefs over. "Sit him down and give him a drink of water. I dunno what's wrong with him, but I think he needs medical attention."

He wasn't going to help me...

/

/

Lauren Howle

I mopped my eyes once more, but already I felt better. The guy at table eighteen was nothing but a stupid ignorant berk, and I had better things to do than worry about it. I just hoped Cliff and Paul wouldn't do anything rash...

I strolled into the locker room and grabbed my stuff. I still had fifteen minutes' break left, and I wanted some gourmet marshmallows from the grocery store opposite. I had two days off after tonight was over, and what better way to celebrate? I felt a gust of air behind me, which told me that the door had opened and somebody had come in. I turned around. Cindy, of course. Slacking again. "Hey," I said. "Smoke break?"

I watched the movements of her mouth carefully...what was she saying? "Yes, I've not bad one four hours." I took a moment to think about the context..."Yes, I've not had one for hours." That was what she said.

I chuckled. "I'm going to the grocery store." I said. "Want anything?"

"Take a bit slower money..." I paused for a nanosecond, thinking it through. Ah, yes. "Talk a bit slower, honey." That was it.

I repeated myself in a voice I presumed was clearer. Understanding, Cindy shook her head and declined. "Ok, see you." I said brightly, leaving the locker room and heading out through the staff exit. I started walking to the grocery store. Perhaps I could have a few marshmallows straight away? I had four hours until my shift ended, and a bit of sugar would wake me up...

Naturally, I didn't hear the explosion. But I felt it. A blast of scorching air hit me from behind, and the ground underneath my feet shuddered violently. A surge of power threw me forwards, and I landed painfully on the concrete, several feet from where I'd been standing. I stood up, dizzy and bruised. The door to the staff exit was gone. Smoke billowed out of the restaurant and the orange glow emitting from inside told me it was on fire. I gasped. Then I ran, straight back into the burning mess. Some people might think that's a crazy decision to make, but for me there was no decision. Cliff was still inside. I had to get to him! I had to help him!The inside of the shattered restaurant was an inferno, baking hot and airless. I called out, but whether or not anyone replied, I had no way of knowing. I needed to find Cliff...I needed to...I couldn't live without him! We were going to Hawaii next month! I just needed to find him! Where was he? Where?

Finally, I managed to fight through the smoke, finding my way into the dining area. What was left of it. Tables were upended, debris over the floor, plates and glasses smashed. Food lay everywhere, along with the bodies of the customers. I sank to my knees, unable to take it in. As I glanced helplessly round the room, I noticed the man from table eighteen. He was lying on his side, and his hands had clenched firmly together in death. He clutched a spoon...he'd been eating his dessert. But where was Cliff? Where? "Cliff!" I screamed, "I'm in the dining room!" I hoped he had heard, hoped he'd come rushing in. I couldn't get back out without help, and even if I could, I wouldn't. I needed to find him...

I froze. Someone was standing in the midst of the wreckage. I looked up, not believing my eyes. A boy. A small boy in nineteenth century clothing. He grinned at me, not so much as a scratch or a burn mark on him...

It was too much. I collapsed onto my back and lay amid the chaos. I should have been scared, but I wasn't. I knew that Cliff would find me and that we'd both get out.

But it didn't happen that way. I woke up in hospital two days later, and what they told me wasn't possible...not only was Cliff dead, but (and this is the part I simply refused to believe), all the evidence from the site suggested that he was the one who had thrown the gas canister from the cellar onto the kitchen grill, destroying the restaurant and killing forty-one people inside.