Serials, The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes
Contents
The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes by Kirsti Wishart
When we invited Kirsti to send us a story for SF Caledonia she also asked if we were interested in a novel she had written. It’s about an alternative Scotland where folk randomly develop superpowers, she said. We’re not really geared up for publishing full length works, we said, but if you’re willing to experiment, how about releasing it as an online serial on SF Caledonia? You see, we have a soft spot for serialisations, and always fancied doing something that Walter Scott and Charles Dickens would have done in their early days.
Kirsti agreed, edited the structure to accommodate the format, added chapter teasers and here it is.
To get started, we’re publishing two chapters at a time, on the first and third Fridays of the month. So put those days in your diary and add a link to the home page, www.sfcaledonia.scot
Please, please do enrol in the mailing list to keep up to date, and also, please, please, please, do let us know what you think about this, and let us have any suggestions to improve this experience – use the contact form to do so.
And, like the rest of this site, the chapters are formatted for easy reading on any device, mobile to cinema screen.
—Noel Chidwick,
Editor
Kirsti Wishart is an Edinburgh-based writer of short stories, novels and other things. Her stories have appeared in New Writing Scotland, 404 Ink, Glasgow Review of Books, Product Magazine and been shortlisted for the Scottish Arts Trust Story Awards. She’s been a Hawthornden Fellow, a contestant in Literary Death Match and is a regular contributor to The One O’Clock Gun, a literary free-sheet found mostly in Edinburgh pubs.
Her debut novel, The Knitting Station, was published by Rymour Books in 2021 with her second, The Projectionist, selected by SNACK magazine as one of the ten best Scottish books of 2022.
Chapter 9 – Deadmin – Passed For Review…
When I came back even Jamie had the sense to leave me alone. Alan gave me a careful smile with a ‘You alright?’ then went quiet after a nod back. I had a feeling there had perhaps been Words between him and Jamie but I got myself focused on the niggly procedures of sorting out a man’s death. Sending notifications to banks, tying up the record to make sure no insensitive automatic reminders went out, checking which payments could be issued to next of kin. It sounds cold but that sort of thing helps you keep the nasty emotional stuff at bay.
In between that I was checking out the electronic documents attached to his record, seeing if I could spot anything unusual that might stand out as a possible link to the names Phil had passed to me. Round about five, just as the office was emptying, I found it. Nothing much, hardly anything, but something to work on.
I remembered speaking to the Slorach after one of Davey’s more difficult phone calls and her asking for details. Shortly after I could see she’d sent an email containing only Davey’s name, his SACS reference number and the phrase, ‘Passed for Review.’ That was it, sent to an email address I’d never seen before ‘SSANON@scotland.gsi.fan.gov.uk’ . When I double-clicked to find out more it came up with nothing. No office, no department, no name, nothing.
Odd.
I decided to leave Davey and type the first name on Phil’s list, Robert Macintosh, into our system to see if he was one of ours and if I would have full access to his records. After a few seconds of feeling ridiculously guilty, waiting for some flashing red light to start up on my machine alerting the Slorach, Robert’s record came up. I was too knackered to look at it properly so fired through the next three names. They were held by other regional offices so I sent off some emails, making it look as if they’d turned up on our doorstep making claims and hoping they would give me access to their records. I also asked them to let me know if any of them had been ‘Passed For Review’.
‘Have you not got a home to go to?’
‘Jesus!’ I hadn’t noticed Alan zipping up his anorak by the coat-stand. He had his usual faint smile but there was some concern there too. I fiddled with my mouse, making it look like it was shutting things down. It had been such a long strange day, if Alan started being nice to me, I couldn’t guarantee not sobbing over my keyboard.
‘Oh, yeah, I do but I doubt even they’d have me in this state,’ and I smiled at him, let him know I was OK, honest. He nodded, was turning to go when I caught him with, ‘Hey, wait, Alan, sorry, just a quick question. Have you heard anything about cases being ‘Passed for Review’? Is this some new thing I haven’t picked up on? Was there an email sent round?’
Alan frowned, tugged at the collar of his anorak. I don’t think Alan was entirely autistic but he did seem a bit spectrumy, although that could just have been him displaying the attributes of your typical Scottish middle-aged male.
‘Passed for Review? No, why, did Sheena mention it? Are we supposed to -’
If he tugged any more at that collar he risked self-strangulation. I waved a hand at him, trying to wipe out my own question. ‘No, no, you’re fine, Alan, s’just something I noticed on this record. Probably nothing at all. I’ll ask around tomorrow, see if anyone else knows about it,’ and I yawned, hoping that would suggest it was nothing to fret about.
‘Right you are then,’ he murmured. He was half-way down the office when a sort of panic struck me and I had to get those names, the names Phil had given me out of my head and into someone else’s.
‘Alan! Sorry, I’ll let you get away, promise, these names, have you heard any of them before? Robert MacintoshCarolyn NicolsonCraig HarperGavin McKendryKatyMcLeishRebecca Harris.’ I reeled them off like that, one after the other, all bunched up and Christ knows what it sounded like. Alan probably thought I was having some kind of fit but then I had to say them again, ‘Robert Macintosh, Carolyn Nicolson, Craig Harper, Gavin McKendry, Katy McLeish, Rebecca Harris.’ As if I had some form of temporary Tourettes.
Alan shook his head, ‘No…no, I don’t think so. They don’t, they don’t ring any bells. Cathy…I think. I think maybe you should get home. Get some rest,’ and that soft smile he gave had me hoping he was too far away to see my eyes filling up.
‘Yeah, yeah, I reckon you’re right. Sorry, sorry for going weird on you there…long day. See you tomorrow, OK?’ As he waved goodbye I started shutting my computer down, staring at my reflection in the darkened office window. Wondered if there was any way of knowing for definite you weren’t going mad.