It was just another mind-numbing Monday—same time, same platform, same collection of half-asleep commuters clutching their coffees like life preservers, all awaiting the 8:15 on the Northern Line. But things were about to change.

Alfie had noticed her before—the mystery woman in black, standing alone on the platform. Late thirties, maybe early forties? Casual yet smart, self-assured, confident. He often wondered who she was, where she came from, and what was her occupation. A partner at a law firm? Sales and marketing exec? Media? Pharmaceuticals? Hmm… Or maybe something in Human Resources, the Arts—a creative? Now that’s more my cup of coffee!

There was something about her that drew Alfie in, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. It wasn’t a physical pull, but something deeper—almost metaphysical. His driver-less train arrived, and as it pulled to a stop, the mystery woman and Alfie boarded at nearly the same time, though from different spots along the carriage. He stole a glance in her direction, hoping to catch her eye— chance! would be a fine thing!? he settled into is usual seat by the window, and about 20 minutes into the journey  trying not to think about the day ahead.  he drifted off into a deep sleep! 

                                                         Just a *Ping?*

Some time later, Alfie’s phone Pinged—not with his usual ringtone, the Theme from that cult existentialist ’60s series *The Prisoner*.Sometimes he let it play a little longer, just to see if anyone else on the train recognized it. Some people offered a knowing smile and  a sneaky wink, while others—usually younger—didn’t react at all, and many looked genuinely annoyed at his lack of consideration. It’s was just a small inside joke, and most of the time, he was the only one who got it.

Maybe the Ping was a glitch in the provider’s software, or perhaps some sneaky surveillance updating their facial recognition system. Next time I hear it, I’ll throw on a red  nose just to mess with their algorithms. Perhaps we could have a National Red Nose day? Just a thought!

Or maybe it’s just Samantha—now calling herself Sam—been binging on  too many episodes of Loose Women, about to fire  off her usual stream of conscious of reminders : "Don`t forget to pick Danny up  from his judo! class, his sat-nav has malfunctioned again and he`s not sure of his way home! Oh yes, nearly forgot, how many more times! do i need to remind you? don`t forget to renew your life insurance Policy?" ”Happy days! Sam."

Then the green screen flashed a message: *LOOK BEHIND YOU*. Alife instantly took a mental snapshot of the carriage—1/60th of a second, the blink of an eye—scanning every detail. Had anyone else recieved it? No one seemed aware; they were lost, on auto-pilot, eyes super glued to their smartphones, immersed in their own personal micro worlds. A couple looked at thier watches! Alfie looked at the S and F on his index and middle finger!

Do I dare sneak a peek over my shoulder, risking my cover and giving myself away? Perhaps it’s an assassin, Smith & Wesson in hand, silencer poised, a neat little pop to the back of the head, job done, then casually slipping out the doors to blend into the crowd.  Was it someone  from his past, back to settle an old score—perhaps an ex with an axe to grind, or worst-case scenario, a stalker. 

Just then, the train jolts as the other carriages catch up, then stops and exhales like it’s out of puff. The doors slide open, inhaling a huge gulp of warm stale air into its lungs, ready for the next leg of the journey.. Alfie then steals a sly look behind, using just enough peripheral vision to catch sight of the doors. She’s there!—the mystery woman. Their eyes lock , and she throws Alfie a knowing smile, as though privy to something beyond his grasp. Moments later, she steps off the train onto the busy platform and disappears into the crowd. He made a mental note of where she had got off, "Finchley Central! Golders Green on the Northern Line"  3 stops before his!

Was it her message? Just a coincidence? Maybe she was researching the same subject as Alfie, or was it another case of synchronicity—the very phenomenon he’d been studying—appearing yet again? It could connect to Alfie’s theory suggesting that all sentient beings are connected by an invisible veil, concealing the true nature and workings of reality. Could there be a single underlying force, a field linking all particles and forces? Perhaps these are attempts by others to communicate, concealing coded messages we have yet to decipher.

There must be a simple explanation as to what that hidden field is. He had a very plausible, grounded, explanation of what that connection might be, and was very close to cracking the code but was keeping it under wraps for the foreseeable future. Max Plank the German Physicist proposed there was no matter as such but behind it existed an Intelligent mind. If Alfies theory proved correct it would send major shock waves through political, religious and in particular, financial institutions!  Leveling the playing field between Local and Global decision making.

  Magic, Mystery and Science!

That smile was the moment everything shifted. He had to connect with her again, to discover who she was and what lay behind that smile. Maybe start a conversation—maybe she’d been thinking the same thing and had her own theory. But a whole week passed, and she never came back.

Back at the studio, the shift is complete. Digital has overtaken analogue, and Oliver, the resident know-it-all assistant, is in his element, rambling on about mirrorless cameras, megapixels, and the wonders of Photoshop and Lightroom, now peplacing  the old darkroom. He’s relishing the freedom to experiment with images and text however he likes, oblivious to how the digital age will reshape the way we create and share information, turning the medium into the message and how it would steer our children’s future. His digital ID, DNA, Bio-metrics and biochemistry will all be compressed onto a microchip no bigger than a grain of sand, reduced to just a number,—pidgeon holed, filed, and stored until needed. Soon will come the mandatory government chip placed under his skin like an annoying little splinter you could`nt just pick out with a pin. In the blink of an eye, we’ve gone from cash, to pin and chip, and now to “skin and chip”—a constant, inescapable reminder of his so-called freedom. Then what" maybe the maping of neuro pathways!  no need for A-Zs or sat- navs it will all be down loaded, no longer at your finger tips but onboard. 

Alfie reminisced about a time when local pubs were our sat-navs of the day. Ask for directions and the answer would usually be, “Do you know the King’s Head? Well, hang a left there, you’ll see the Green Man on your right, take your third right at the World Turned Upside Down, carry on for about a mile past the Hope and Anchor on your right, then left at the lights and you’ll see the Prince of Wales on the left. Go about 100 yards and you’ll spot the Apple and Pears on the right; Tesco’s is right in front of you, can’t miss it! They’re doing a BOGOF on the lager at the moment. Sorry mate, what was the question again? Oh yeah, do you know the…”

He’ll probably never experience the stillness and solitude of a darkroom, sealed from the world, a liminal space bathed in the warm, soothing glow of a red safe light. He won’t know the quiet rhythm of rocking the developer tray, seeing gentle waves wash over a landscape or portrait like a baptism as the image slowly emerges. Fully absorbed in the moment, he would witness his creation emerge before his eyes, shifting from negative to positive, darkness giving way to light. "Magic, Mystery and Science working together as one!" The very essence of what we may lose, if we sit back and bury our heads in the sand. Like so many hands on crafts, they will be lost to future generations.

By then, they’d have called photochemistry the devil’s own brew—a wild concoction far too dangerous for human hands, a real threat to the planet—and banned it forever, as if the universe didn’t already have plans of its own!

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my future and growing more certain that something greater awaits, far beyond the limits of a dystopian fate. As Hal David said in 1966, “I know there’s something much more, something even non-believers can believe in" Alfie: 1966.

The following Monday, at the same time and in the exact same place, she reappears. This time Alfie makes sure to get on at the same spot and get off at the same same station, guess I’ve officially become the stalker! The train is crammed with the early morning rush, bodies pressed together as the last stragglers squeeze through the doors  trapping its victims like a Venus fly trap. Soon, only a handful of people remain in the carriage, and we’re quickly approaching Finchley Central. The train jolts, brakes screeching, and suddenly we’re nudged almost shoulder to shoulder close enouth to get a whiff of her Channel No. 3! She’s as close as she is ever likely to be, this is Alfies big moment, and he can’t mess it up.

He mumbled a quiet “Er, hi,” expecting her to think he was just some fool trying to chat her up, which wasn’t too far from the truth, actually. He braced for her to tell him in no uncertain terms to get lost, but to his amazement, she smiled and said, “You heard it too.”  ,“Heard What?” He asked. “The Ping.” The train shuddered to a stop, the doors slid open and they were swept onto the platform together with what was left of the other time travelers? He stood there,lost for words, until she said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask if we could meet for coffee sometime?” Turns out, he was spot on about the confidence! She mentioned knowing a quiet coffee bar hidden down a quirky, dimly lit, cobbled passage where we could meet and talk.

But who could she possibly be? a Honey trap, a spirit guide, a government spook? He held some fairly radical views that he was on the verge of publishing, yet nothing that should have justified a covert agent tracking his every move. Perhaps she was one of those seductresses  hired to entice men into illicit affairs to test their loyalty to those closest to them, Sam!? Alfies curiosity was at it again, or was she part of some elaborate scam with an accomplice.? What might he be getting myself into? he hesitated for just a split second, then said, “Okay, let’s meet!” thinking, " in for a penny in for a pound"

He immediately called Sam and told her he’d be late getting home because an unexpected delivery was coming in just after six.

(It`s the 3.3. 2023)

The Cosmic Coffee Bar.

It was 6 p.m., and the sky was darkening as Alfie made his way down the narrow, dimly lit passage. Under a flickering neon sign he could just make out a dark silhouette. Silence not a sound, was it really her, or was she part of an elaborate plot with an accomplice hiding in the shadows. A wave of panic washed over him, fight or flight teetering in the balance. Was it a setup, or was she really there in person? Alfie slipped his wallet with his credit cards, bank cards, and driver’s license into his inside pocket and zipped it up, keeping his phone open just in case! Then he adopted a confident swagger, whistling to himself “I Did It My Way” as if he didn’t have a care in the world and could handle anything thrown his way. In fact his knees were knocking talking to each other saying "wer`e about to die"! As he got closer, the silhouette slowly turned, the neon light flickering across her face. She smiled, and Alfie knew he was in the right place at the right time, or was he?

"Hi Alfie, Julie" she spoke his name as though it belonged to her, then stepped in a gave him a gentle Bise. The kind of greeting by people with history.The touch was brief but the question it raised wasn`t. He was sure he hadn`t mentioned his name during that brief encounter on the platform at Finchley Central!

The sign on the door read, "Push to open, pull to change your mind." Slightly puzzled but sensing the humor, he glanced at Julie. She gestured at the sign  above the door, gave him that knowing smile, and suddenly it clicked—it was the Cosmic Coffee Bar, not Costa’s. 

Maybe the door was some sort of social experiment, a way to gauge a person’s reaction—character, did they react with anger, frustration, confusion, or switch off the auto pilot  and actually stop to think and see the humor in it. Either way, it was a perfect ice breaker and a hint of what was to come. This was shaping up to be a whole different ride. Maybe it was time to break free from the rigid, artificial, Orwellian world of pixels and politics, and make waves somewhere else—maybe even drift “Into the Mystic.” Were we born before the wind, before the Big Bang, will the Big Bang someday be nothing more than a blast from the past?

Once inside, it felt surreal—unlike any coffee bar I’d ever been to. The mood lighting shifted with the atmosphere, while the scent of freshly ground coffee blended with a soothing fragrance I couldn’t quite identify. The barista never asked, “drink in or take out”; he already knew!

Triadic Thinking. (The Power of 3)

The interior was vast, a massive crucible, perfectly round with books on every subject lining the curved shelves. Alfie did a quick 360, taking it all in with awe. People wre in conversation, purring away like contented cats. Tables were scattered randomly—some square, oblong, some round, and a few triangular. It was the triangular ones that caught his eye. A table for three!?  Two`s company three`s a crowd! that was about to be disproved once and for all! In one corner, he spotted three people seated at an Equilateral Triangular table, facing each other. No hierarchy, all equal, nowhere to hide. Person A could observe person B/C, B could observe  C/A, and C could observe A/? Hold on, let me run that through again! On second thoughts! Answers on a post card to? No: One Marslight Crescent, E.T.3. 

Two connects, three creates!

A meeting of minds was clearly underway, perhaps the table  served as a crucible for a new way of thinking—an entirely fresh approach to problem-solving. Alfie’s curiosity lit up as he imagined a songwriter, lyricist, and producer engrossed in conversation, tossing around ideas and feeding off each other’s creativity.. Who knows what they might create—a new musical genre, perhaps? Maybe a blend of samba, nursery rhymes, jazz, and a fresh, irresistible beat.! Bill Hick`s quote, came to mind. "the next revolution will be a revolution of idea`s. 

Old scientific notions like cause and effect, logic, and both lateral and critical thinking were set aside, with the emphasis shifting toward the open exchange of ideas and collaborative efforts to tackle any challenges they chose. They met in the middle with a low five, like boxers before the bout began, and again when it was over. It was all based on respect—no winners, no losers, no draws. Three people, three utterly ridiculous ideas, and, defying all logic, one spectacularly accidental masterpiece falls into place. One that was imposible to achieve with just two minds. Dangling above the table was a sign boldly proclaiming, “Non Mihi, Non Tibi, Sed Nobis,” which, for anyone without a Latin degree, might as well have said, “Not mine, not yours, but ours… so hands off the dessert unless you’re ready to share!

”It was actually my old school motto: not for me, not for you, but for us! A coincidence, or perhaps a hidden message?

She led me to a quiet, dimly lit alcove, where there was a table for two. Before I could reach for the back of the chair, she leaned forward and slid it out from under the table for me to sit. A female chauvinist?  perhaps, but I wasn’t about to complain—it felt oddly liberating! Maybe she`d pick up the tab as well! She then cast a quick glance to the side, peered over my shoulder, and raised two fingers in the air. Something about that signal touched a nerve, somewhere long past but could`nt i figure out what it was. All i know, it wasn`t a victory sign.Then she mouthed, “Two coffees" to the barista.

”On top of each side of the table top was a 10-inch square of dimpled glass, with a gently pulsing holographic  heart glowing beneath. She explained it was a Speed Dating Table—able to transfer your entire data faster than the speed of light, "but don’t tell Einstein!"— no doubt it probably had a lie detector built in as well! each person placed a hand on the glass, and in an instant, their full DNA, bio-metric and bio-chemistry would be scanned and recorded.. No need for the usual small talk —what’s your name, what do you do for work, what’s your normal  type, how long have you been single, and so on, giving away absolutely zero intel on the mysterious stranger staring back at you! 

She asked Alfie if he was up for a bit of fun, offering him a quick birth sign analysis to sample. No problem—Alfie slipped into autopilot mode, with no gap between his thoughts, feelings, and actions, running purely on ego. It was his Achilles’ heel and, ultimately, his downfall. There  was a time when Alfie would draw the letters “SF” in black ink on his index and middle fingers as a reminder to stay focused. Yet, as with so many others, the moment he stepped beyond his front door, autopilot seized control, and the freedom to choose swiftly faded into oblivion.

Alfie pressed his palm against the glass and immediately felt the dimpled sensors shift under his skin, their soft touch sending a shiver up and down his spine. He’d once had his fortune told on a seaside pier, but this was palmistry on a Cosmic level. The reading practically shouted Scorpio—bold, fiery, fiercely loyal, and always ready with that signature sting in the tail! Cross them once, and congratulations—you’ve just been added to their eternal “do not forget” list!

Julie explained that, when used to its full potential, every personal detail could be downloaded: ancestry, family tree, parents, time, date, and place of birth; birth sign analysis; education; circle of friends; partners, children, ex-partners; divorce details; medical history; work and financial history; website activity; purchases and returns; criminal records; qualifications; musical tastes; hobbies; personality traits; political and religious views; biorhythms; sleep patterns; potential future physical and mental health concerns; strengths and weaknesses—and probably a few more she didn’t mention. Alfie’s concern wasn’t about the information itself, but how it might be used. There was enough data to write either a glowing, in-depth unauthorized autobiography or a career-ending “character assassination.” Just a thought!

Colored lights shimmered beneath the glass plates, revealing a compatibility profile. It could be seen as a clever way to protect someone’s personal safety from psychos, creeps, stalkers, scammers, or gold diggers targeting vulnerable people—or as a foolproof method to harvest all your information and toss it into the algorithmic mix. Now, you’re just a number. After hearing the explanation of what it could do, Alfie worried she might pressure him to take the full test, but to his relief, she simply gave a knowing smile and said, “Maybe we can try it later!”

She told me she was based in Golders Green working as a counselor specialising in holauclast survivors and their familiies.—not the usual type who dives into your past searching for flaws or weaknesses, then decides, in their infinite wisdom, whether you need cognitive therapy, in the worst-case scenario, medication or months even years of Therapy, depending on how deep your pockets were! 

She steered clear of standard practices, opting instead for a fresh, holistic approach—tuning in to tone, facial expressions, mannerisms, subtle cues, and intuition, all while considering their awareness, emotional intelligence, and life experience. No rules, no guidelines, not even a trace of procedure—she’d tossed the training manual out the window ages ago, probably clobbering some poor unsuspecting pigeon on the way down.

Something just didn’t add up. She’d mentioned earlier that she’d noticed him on the platform and, for some strange reason, felt drawn to him—yet somehow completely missed “The Ping” and the Message. Then came the bombshell: she was a practicing white witch. He half expected her to request a lock of hair and some nail clippings before disappearing in a puff of smoke. Could that explain the aroma:  when he first walked into the bar: Insense, along with her unconventional approach to counseling? Was it mere chance, a bizarre coincidence, synchronicity! or the universe flexing its cosmic match making skills that brought us together? or was there a darker side to her, either way, the whole thing felt  suspiciously orchestrated, planned in advance. Was there some kind of shady setup going on—scanning my DNA, checking my biometric details, and using them for blackmail, extortion, or something even more sinister? Cloning, maybe. His mind jumped to that popular film "The Wicker Man," picturing himself as a sacrificial lamb headed for the slaughter. Things were starting to heat up! Alfie’s instinct was telling him she was a “wrong ’un.”

Was this their M.O.? Were there other victims? More importantly, why him? Did he have something they wanted? Had they somehow breached his computer’s firewall? Could he trust her—or even his own instincts? If Sam caught wind of this, I’d be in big trouble. Should he abandon ship before getting in too deep, or play along to try and uncover the source of the Ping? Or just cast his fate to the wind?

 She asked about my back ground, I was  fully aware that if she slipped into counseling mode, the dynamics would shift and every word and gesture of mine would be scrutinized. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

If we’re not careful, it’ll soon be “in for a credit, in for a credit.” Imagine ABBA belting out, “Credit, Credit, Credit, it’s a rich man’s world,” or Dick Turpin shouting, “Stand and deliver, credit or your life!” Yeah, sure, Dick, try again later—we’re busy! It just doesn’t feel right. Money makes the world go round, but imagine life without it. No brown paper bags, no under-the-table deals, no cash discounts, no bargaining power, and not even little piggy banks for the kids! As for spending a penny—well, that’s a baffling thought. A credit for your thoughts?

It still felt like a rare opportunity to openly address some deeply rooted issues and potentially uncover the answer I had been seeking.

I decided to keep it simple, sharing only select details. I asked her, “Where would you like me to start—past, present, or future?” thinking I’d catch her off guard. She replied, “Start whenever, wherever you feel comfortable, Alfie. We can fill in the gaps later.” She was clearly one step ahead of Alfie!  had she  slipped into counseling mode—or was it some kind of witchcraft? Would he become just a platonic friend, a patient, or a victim? If so what was the Protocol!? 

As we dug deeper into my past, my fear and anxiety started to melt away—I found myself completely drawn in by her. I talked for nearly half an hour without a single interruption from her. I painted a picture of the school gates, the pause from academia, the feeling of time standing still, and his research into his father’s time as a POW in WWII. Then came the dream—that moment of pure consciousness beyond language, time, and identity, where everything and nothing coexisted: non-duality. No magic mushrooms, no hours spent in the lotus position, no years of meditation.

 Unlike those with near-death experiences who feel grateful for a second chance, he had nothing waiting for him—no past, no future, no love or hate, no black or white, no heaven or hell. No mother, father, family, or unfinished business; just a slate wiped clean. When I finished speaking, she smiled and said, “We don’t usually meet people like you.” I thought she was about to tell me I was big enough, old enough, and smart enough to figure out my own problems.

Then she provided the answer I had been seeking: “You’re an intellectual because you think about what you are saying.” Those twelve carefully chosen words were all it took. In that instant, he recalled the boy standing outside the school gates, and in that moment of clarity, he reconnected with and rediscovered his true self. The fog had lifted. It was a wake-up call I felt deeply, though its full weight still eluded me. He never revealed the full impact of those words to Julie. Time had passed at an astonishing pace, and he grew increasingly anxious about missing his connection and exhausting the supply of plausible excuses he could offer to Sam. they agreed to meet the following Friday—on the platform where we first met same, time, hopefully with less drama!?  Little did Alfie know it would be the last time he spoke to or saw Julie!

The week dragged on, and Alfie began to see Julie in a new light—the antifascist  of Sam. Progressive, radical, and highly intelligent, she intrigued him more with each passing day. Friday couldn’t arrive quickly enough; he had so much more to share with her and was eager to get to know her better. Perhaps, he thought, a romance might even blossom. Alfie had clearly fallen under her spell. On Friday, he told Sam he’d be home late once more saying he had to reconfigure the studio for the new digital equipment, though the nagging feeling of guilt lingered.

Samantha was his childhood sweetheart, the love of his life, and family had always been his top priority, but he felt they were drifting apart, moving in different directions, and Julie seemed to be the one who fit his plans. On the 3 stop journey from High Barnet to Finchly, Alfie’s emotions surged like a roller coaster careering out of control. Should he bare his soul to Julie and confess the depths of his feelings, maintain a calm facade and let their connection unfold naturally, or simply tell her that he had fallen hopelessly in love with her?

 He was at Finchley Central now, but there was no sign of Julie. Had he gotten the time wrong or the venue? Were they supposed to meet at the coffee bar instead? Alfie waited for 20 minutes, three trains had passed but no sign of Julie. Alfie had no real reason to be concerened and decided to make his way to the Coffee Bar. 

As he left the station, the rain was pouring down heavily, and he hoped Julie wasn’t waiting outside getting soaked on his behalf.

As he made his way further down the alley toward the coffee bar, he felt something was off, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it—call it intuition or a sixth sense. Then it hit him—not from above, but from deep within his solar plexus, tweaking his nerves and setting off alarm bells!

The neon sign wasn’t flickering, and he could hear the sound of someone singing and the hammering of nails. 

That’s when Alfie noticed the guy boarding up the windows. Bang, bang, bang—What’s it all about, bang Alfie, bang! Bang! Is it just bang, bang! for the moment—bang, bang!—we live. He paused only to replace nails between his pursed lips.

 The lyrics hit Alfie with unexpected force, like part of some cruel cosmic joke—a synchronicity he could have easily done without. Alfie asked him, "whats going on?" he said "the place had closed down during the week mate,  was under new ownership and was gonna open next Friday as the Golden Burgar bar." 

IIn an instant, Alfie’s world was turned upside down as both sides of his brain—the right and left hemispheres—began spinning out of sync, creating a disorienting and overwhelming sensation that disrupted his perception and balance. He turned to walk away, unsteady on his feet, the cocky, leery swagger gone. The guy called him back and said, "You must be the smudger that chick was talking about—dressed all in black, roll-top jumper, sneakers, Scorpio tattoo on her wrist. Classy, mate, I could’ve fancied her myself, anyway! She hung around for half an hour or so, then had to go—said she had a train to catch. Before leaving, she handed me this letter for you."

Alfie snatched the letter from his hand and was already walking away when the guy called out, “Oye, mate, don’t forget—next Friday there a free hamburger at the entrance. We’ve got a new neon sign, flashing lights, and an all-new Digital DJ—ditched the old jukebox. It’ll be great!” The irony wasn’t lost on Alfie. He shoved the letter into his pocket, turned his collar to the cold and damp, and made his way to the station.

The rain had grown heavier, and the wind, like a sideways twister, was pushing Alfie down the alley as if he had no real reason to be there. By the time he reached Finchley Central, he was drenched and bewildered—had he gotten the time wrong, had she? Or maybe she never intended to continue their meeting and was ready to end their connection.

The train rolled in, and he stepped aboard, sinking into his usual window seat—alone, damp, and confused. Then it hit him: the letter. With shaky hands, he drew it from his pocket, flipped it over, and spotted the initials SWAK. Relieved that all wasn’t lost, he imagined Julie moistening her tongue with her lips, then witth both hands lifting the letter to her mouth. Then slowly sliding her tongue along the triangular flap, tracing up one edge to the tip and down the other, before gently smoothing the edges together with her fingertips, and sealing it with a kiss. With a spark of exicitment and a flicker of last-minute hope, Alfie ripped it open—only to be met by a completely blank page staring back at him.

No message, no hint, not even a doodle. Just the silent, mocking emptiness of someone who clearly thought invisible ink was hilarious. Alfie muttered to himself "Life can be so cruel, Should have followed my instinct, i knew all along she was a wrong un!" But why had she ended it that way, no explanation, no good bye. 

Alfie’s mind flashed back to the week before, the continuous reminders  from Sam to renew his life insurance Policy! Was she leaking information, was she part of the scam? where they in it together" Sam the scam? when Julie had offered him to sample the palm reader, assured him it was just a quick, fun, birth sign analysis! Had he been tricked? Was it actually recording the whole time, secretly harvesting his details? Mission over. Job done. Paranoia crept in as Alfie imagined the worst—blackmail, character assassination, theft of his research for profit, discrediting him, claiming his work as their own, erasing him from the digital database completely, shutting off his skin and chip. Only Sam knew his code. No digital trail, no serial number—like he had never existed at all.

The motive? It all comes down to money and the theft of years’ worth of painstaking research, all aimed at manipulating the financial industry before the details were disclosed, call it latent, insider information. If they had stolen his research, they wouldn’t publish it right away. Instead, they’d invest in defense and security firms, rare earth materials, and scoop up obscure tech patents before they became valuable. Then, they’d release the research gradually, before markets and governments caught on. The threat of aliens wouldn’t need to be proven; the evidence alone—the mysterious footprints, the synchronistic theory explaining their attempt at communication, the codes! and his ideas—would be enough to spark upheaval and panic.

Seconds later, Alfie’s phone pinged! His heart skipped a beat, hoping at last for an explanation from Julie that would ease his fears of entrapment. Maybe she’d simply gotten the time wrong, or perhaps she’d been tied up in a desperate call with a suicidal client and hadn’t had a chance to send a message. Maybe she was even suggesting they rearrange the time and date.

 It turned out that it wasn’t Julie after all—it was Sam!

"Alfie, no need to stress about getting home late—there’s been an incident on the rail network, and the trains are a mess. Oh, almost forgot, Danny fixed his sat-nav, and the Insurance company has just renewed your life insurance policy, no problem. Catch you later. Love you loads, Sam.

By now, Alfie’s spirit was broken; he was just a ghost on a train going nowhere, and he could`nt care less. He had lost the will to live. Julie had betrayed him, and he had betrayed Sam’s trust, even casting doubt on her loyalty. As the train set off and slipped into the tunnel, the gentle sway of the carriage rocked him into a deep sleep, carrying him past his stop and all the way to the end of the line.

He was still out cold when the guard hopped on to check for the usual forgotten items—umbrellas, smartphones abandoned by not-so-smart people, empty energy drink cans under the seats. Muttering to himself, he grumbled, "You’d think with all that extra energy they’d have the strength to carry them to the bins! Lazy sods! Bring back National Service, that’d sort ’em out! What with having to deal with the usual drunks who had missed their stop! that’s when he noticed Alfie at the far end of the carriage.

He called out: “End of the line, sir, Time to get off,”  Alfie didn’t stir. He tried again, “End of the line!?” Still no response.The guard walked over and tapped Alfie on the shoulder. When Alfie didn’t move, he leaned in to detect any smell of  alcohol or signs of breath, there was none, he assumed  he had passed away, just another victim of the daily grind.—nothing unusual, we see at least half a dozen cases like him every week on the network. He turned and walked toward the door, reaching up to press the button that dimmed the fluorescents and closed the doors, sealing Alfie inside. 

Later, in the dark, solitary depths of the underground, Alfie slowly opened his eyes, and in that moment of clarity, the truth struck him—Julie had been his spirit guide all along! That was the reason she hadn’t returned; her purpose in his life had been fulfilled, her mission complete, leaving him with the strength and wisdom she had quietly bestowed.

Alfie glanced up at the carriage ceiling and spotted the tiny red glow of the surveillance camera, blinking at him like it was judging his life choices.

 A wide grin spread across Alfie’s face, as he popped on a Red Nose, fired off a cheeky wink, and slowly closed his eyes again. Was this the end of the ride, a bizarre dream, or had Alfie just clowned his way into the Mystic? 

(The ride only feels real because it’s what we’ve been tricked into believing—like a cosmic prank where the universe hands us a ticket, straps us in, and says, “Hang on, this is going to feel totally legit,” while winking behind our backs!) 

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. 

Edgar Alan Poe. American Poet. (1/19/1809 - 9/7/1849)

Author`s Note: The sound behind the Title.

The title Ping comes from a moment i left outside the main story-one of several disturbances from that period that never settled into anything i could explain. One night quite recently i was settling down to sleep when there was a sharp, loud and  distinct Ping, as clear as a bell, eminating from somewhere in or near the bed. 

 At first i thought came from the pull out draw. A rat, a mouse, silly idea they don`t create sounds like that. i froze, slowed my breathing laying perfectly still until i could get a grasp of the situation. It`s strange because you don`t think the obvious that it could be someone standing by the bed with metal-whatever whacking the metal head board! i  did`nt dismiss out of hand. i could`nt it was real. Just another strange incident to go with the others  that where occurring around about time. Some days later my curiosity returned to that sound. 

It had to be something small with some weight that could be swung swiftly and deliberately within a small space. It was`nt a lump hammer, to big, unwieldy, a ball pin hammer, similar to the one the Yorkshire Ripper used on his victims, again to heavy, would just produce a thud! a smaller pin hammer similar to what a picture framer may use to tap in small sprigs that hold the frame contents in place. again the long thin handle would soak up the vibration,  and there was not room to get the angle and whip needed .

Then i recalled those small silver weighty hammers that came with the toffee packs on sale back in the 50s and 60s used to break the toffee slabs to smaller pieces. I imagined that hammer held between the finger and thumb, with a short, fast whack would sound about right. It`s size belied its weight, small enough and heavy enough to produce the sound i heard. 

The next step was to find a hammer and put my theory to the test. I found out that Walkers still made the pack, even after all these years. It arrived in the post the very next day. My first strike was on the smaller bars, producing a dull, flat sound. Then I hit the large down tube—there it was, that unmistakable sound, ringing out loud and clear. Once again, the same questions surfaced, just like with the footprints. This time, though, it was an auditory mystery, not a visual one. We know where and when, but the questions remain: Who? What? Why? And How?

  ,