Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #13 April 2015 | Page 48

in Florida every Christmas.
After Fiona, my mission was clear. Collecting the
bright souls was easy. The good die too soon every
day. I had hundreds stored in jars of every size and
shape, filling every shelf in my spare room. But I
couldn’t go around killing criminals with my bare
hands all the time. For one thing, if I died in the line
of duty what would become of the gentle souls waiting patiently for me to rehome them? They needed
me. Plus, I wanted to give those poor, beautiful spirits
a real chance. Not saddle them with bodies that were
already half-pickled from drugs and alcohol, or in
danger of being carted off to prison for a previous
crime. I didn’t know what to do. I knew it was my
task, my gift, to help the good souls live again, and in
doing so help the world to be a better place. I pleaded
with heaven to show its humble servant the way.
That’s when the Lord answered my prayers. As soon
as I saw that ad, it all fell into place. A school full of
the dregs of society. Those that would grow up to be
nothing more than a drain on the world. Or worse, perpetrators of evil. What better place to find homes for
all the good spirits, taken from this world too early?
What wonders they could achieve, with a whole new
life ahead of them.
I know what you’re thinking. Your head is full of
liberal tosh. You’re thinking it’s impossible to judge
how a child will turn out at such a young age. You’re
thinking that just because a kid comes from a bad
home, has a bad attitude, beats the crap out of those
weaker than he is, it doesn’t mean he won’t grow up
to be a decent member of the human race. Yeah, right.
And we’ll all sing Kumbaya and dance on fucking
rainbows. Check the stats. I have. They’re not pretty.
Should I let little bastards like Georgie Thompson
continue on the path to delinquency, just because
there’s a one in ten thousand chance he might have
a road to Damascus moment and become a force for
good in the world?
It wasn’t his fault. I know that. He didn’t have a
chance. Father in prison, mum jacked up on heroin.
Maybe he never got a fair crack of the whip. But fast
forward and try telling that to the parents of the sweet

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little girl he grows up to rape, and gut. Doesn’t she
deserve to have the streets made a safer place? Aren’t
we all sleeping a little sounder now that the brave
and brilliant Jamie Dawson, struck down in his prime
by a drunk driver, inhabits Georgie’s body? He even
contacted the right authorities, got his Mum through
rehab for Christ’s sake. Now that she’s back training for a chance at a better life, she sure as hell isn’t
complaining about the sudden turnaround in her son’s
behaviour.
No one’s complaining, in fact. The teachers are
thrilled, the board of governors euphoric. Everyone
for miles around is desperately trying to buy property
in the catchment area. Not one parent has thought it a
little odd that their thick as shit offspring have suddenly stopped receiving suspensions for anti-social behaviour, and are now excelling in subjects they never
gave a crap about before. They’re all either far too
delighted to question it, or too disinterested to even
notice.
I coach them, of course. Each soul takes time to adjust.
But my little protégées soon get the hang of their new
identities. It’s amazing how much better an adult soul
can cope with childhood than the children themselves.
I’m just finishing the odious task of removing all
traces of vomit from the corridor, when Jilly Holmes’s
body comes walking towards me. She’s wearing the
prefect sash with pride, clipboard under her arm. I grin
at her. Jilly had been a hateful little brat. Always making the other girls’ lives a misery. Beautiful exterior,
no doubt about that. Tall, blonde, athletic. But boy did
she know it. The slightest physical defect in others
was enough to give her the ammunition she needed to
tease, taunt and turn them into a social pariah. Now
that Sarah was living her life, she was the chairman of
her own anti-bullying initiative.
That had been a triumph. One of my finest moments.
I’d watched Sarah for weeks as she deteriorated.
Wheelchair bound her whole life, finally taken by
cancer aged 45. She died in terrible pain, but never
once spoke one word that wasn’t kind, even when the
nurses were late with her morphine. She’d never had
a chance to run, to jump, to have children. Now she’s