Welcome back - Today we get back on track, you might have noticed we’ve had a little backstory from Felix, Daniel, and even Debs…but what of Lucy? When we last left our quarrelsome quartet they were stumbling through the underground research & development section of the office block. From above them enemies approach, but somewhere nearby lies the enigmatic Errol… is he friend or foe? And how did Lucy end up here? Well, have you heard of the Fjirkel? No… Nobody has…

No idea what’s going on? Don’t worry, that’s normal. You can catch up here…

Contents

Scandi-Thrift

When a hole appeared in the fabric of reality, the Fjirkel tried to patch it up. They tried to stitch the edges together with the frayed fibres of life, but failed. It could be, they reasoned, that the tear in the fabric means nothing. It was agreed, it was best left alone, and it was, until Brother Gorm poked his head through the hole. The Fjirkel watching on fully expected his head to be gone, that Brother Gorm would be… less. Shock, a state of mind the Fjirkel rarely encounter, billowed through their number when Gorm’s head safely reappeared.

“What lies beyond the fabric of reality?” They asked.

“I think…it’s some kind of budget supermarket selling high quality own brand products at low, low, prices.”

“What makes you say that?” The Fjirkel asked, as one.

“That’s what the woman behind the counter on the other side said but it lacked conviction.”

“A woman?” The Fjirkel asked, once more in unison, which was tedious, but it was how their collective worked.

“Yes,” said Gorm.

“Is it good value, how is their product range?” asked the Fjirkel.

Before Gorm could answer, and potentially cause a huge political and social divide within Fjirkel society, the hole in the fabric of reality closed. It swirled shut. The fabric continued to twist, like a sodden tea towel wrung tight, squeezing out every drop. The Fjirkel were wrapped, crushed, twisted and warped—removed from the weave.

On the other side of the fabric of reality nobody paid any attention to the end of the Fjirkel. Nobody noticed. Except for Lucy.

Lucy knew…And she was not sorry.

…

The ‘beeps’ the register made as Lucy’s instant noodles, packet of sliced ham (reduced because they were out of date) and family sized chocolate bar, didn’t sound right. They were too long, and the pitch dropped like a sad computerised, ‘oh’.

“That’ll be £3.49 love,” the woman behind the counter said. “Have you got a points card?”

“Uh, I think I’ve left it at home—”

“Can I have them then?” It was the woman who had been in front of Lucy in the queue. She wore a leopard print onesie and was filling a hand-luggage suitcase with her shopping.

“Sorry?” Lucy asked.

“Can I put your points on my card? Seems a waste to not collect them.”

Lucy’s mouth opened and closed, the words that might have come forth were still trapped somewhere in her brain. At a crucial mental cross-section multiple responses had collided.

Yes, by all means.

Why should you get them—

It’s £3.49, is it really worth it?

Can’t I just get them on the receipt?

The more she tried to decide on a path, the more appeared in front of her, and the woman stared back, unashamed, unapologetic. The cashier looked from Lucy, to the woman, and back again.

“Is that allowed?” Lucy finally asked, hoping to transfer the decision to someone else, to absolve herself of responsibility.

“Can’t see why not,” the cashier said.

Why did it matter? Why couldn’t she just give the points, what would happen?

Then something did happen. The woman in the leopard print onesies neck jerked. Her head shook, not with a nod or a no, but with the speed and unrelenting violence of a jackhammer. Her features blurred, then twisted into something not even the most over-caffeinated gothic sculptor would dare chisel out.

“What is this place?” The woman asked, her voice like syrup and gravel being fed through a shredder.

“Welcome to Scandi-thrift, your friendly budget supermarket selling high quality own brand products at low, low, prices,” the woman behind the checkout answered. She turned and looked at Lucy. “We’ve got to say it. The bosses like to send in secret shoppers all the time and if someone doesn’t say the whole thing to them, they get their wages docked.”

“Mystery shopper?” Lucy said.

“Yeah, you know. Someone comes in and pretends to be a customer—”

“But that thing…that’s not a mystery shopper.”

“Who knows?” The woman on the register said. She turned to the horrifying thing at the end of the counter. “We sell cough sweets on aisle nine if your throat is bothering you, love. Sounds like you’re a little hoarse.”

“I am not a horse. I am Fjirkel.”

“Uh-huh,” the shop assistant said turning back to Lucy. “The whole points thing is probably a test as well. I better check we’re allowed to do that points thing, honestly I didn’t care, but now.”

Lucy turned to the thing, the woman’s head was now stretching, elongating, and beginning to writhe as if all skeletal structure was melting. Lucy glared at it, then slapped her phone down on the card reader. It bleeped.

“I didn’t bloody offer you my points, you rude cow.”

“Um, that didn’t work. You have to unlock it first,” the shop assistant said, interrupting what Lucy would later define as ‘a moment’.

“Oh, sorry. New phone.”

“It’s every phone.”

“Right, there you go,” BEEP

Lucy whirled on the creature at the end of the bagging area. “It was £3.49, that’s like, 1 point. And no you can’t have them.”

“Value? Quality? Convenience?” The woman said, her face now beyond recognisable. The mouth stretching open, serrated teeth appearing from split lips.

“What? I’m not your mate, stop trying to chat. You can’t have my points, they’re gone, so wind your neck in,” Lucy snapped.

Then the woman’s head vanished. As if someone had clicked their fingers and removed it, leaving only a bloody stump in its place.

“Oh,” Lucy said.

“Oh bollocks,” the shop assistant said. “It’s always about the bloody points. Always.”