One by one the lights went out. Or rather were not rekindled. The ribbon of twinkles seen from space grew thinner, patchier, and in places disappeared altogether.
The day the lights went out at Flat 47, an entry appeared on a spreadsheet linked to a computer on a kitchen table to indicate that the fridge at had not been opened for 12 hours, the bathroom light had not been turned on, and the front door had not opened. The keyholder was given as Flat 59. A visit was ordered.
The scene was unremarkable. The occupant had self coffinated within the sleep sack that would become both shroud and body bag. Nancy, a light ginger tabby, and Sid, part Siamese, meowed quietly and watched from behind the dresser as the visitor scanned the bag's QR code. The visitor made entries on his tablet. Authorities were notified, arrangements made to accommodate Nancy and Sid. The spreadsheet entry for Flat 47 changed colour, and an icon of a little black book appeared.
The Little Black Book app had been developed as the pandemic bit deep. Initially based on a list of addresses to be notified in the case of a passing, with a simple memorial card, an entire industry had grown up to ensure that the achievements of the deceased were documented in appropriate style. Selfies were relit, cropped and edited, holiday backgrounds brought in to pin sharp focus, groups of friends grinned under perfect Hollywood lighting. Warm recollections paid tribute to lives well lived.
Attended funerals now a thing of the past, cremations were carried out remotely in a Government facility. A ceremony could be streamed to the invitees in the Little Black Book with on-line participation and optional Virtual Theming. Ashes were forwarded according to the wishes of the deceased.
On another computer on a different kitchen table, Maggie O'Connell of the Ministry of Ceremonies clicked on the icon of a little black book. An image of a small notebook appeared on the screen. Maggie entered her password.
Mary Gwendolyn Rogers, She/Her, 17 October 1960, Clifton. Buddhist. Ashes to: Harry SN 907890
Maggie clicked the cover of the book. It peeled back to reveal the memorial page. The shrill intro of Cilla Black’s ‘You’re my World.’ struck up.
Mary Gwendolyn Rogers
Rest in Peace
A memorial photo pixellated into view. A black and white snap taken in a photo booth. It looked like the sixties. Her eyes wide, pale lipstick framed into a mock scream and bobbed blonde hair pushed back under a paisley scarf contrasted with his dark complexion sunglasses and oversized pork pie hat. He cupped a harmonica to his lips and stared straight into the camera. 'Harry' had been hand written along the bottom of the photo. There were no others.
Maggie studied the photo until Cilla’s heartfelt ‘It’s the end of my world for me’ flowered into orchestration and the song ended.
The Eulogy and the page for invitees was both blank.
Maggie turned again to the Admin page.
Harry SN 907890.
The self-isolation imposed on the population at large was not agreeing with Maggie. Pre-pandemic, Choir practice, Bridge Club and friends had served to keep her demons at bay. Now the demons were gnawing at her hemline and she felt alone, not ready to face them.
She needed a project. Harry. SN 907890. The barest bones of Information. Harry from the photo. Prisoner SN 907890. Doing life in Broadmoor. Harry, Rank: Private, Serial Number: SN 907890. Shipped off to Aden. US Naval Seaman Harry SN 907890. Sailing the seven seas. SN The element of tin. Harry the Cornish tin miner. Harry SN 907890 was eluding detection, for now. Maggie had her project, and the demons could wait.
---
“Celeste.”
“Pull the other one, as you Brits say” He smiled despite himself. “We’re not all meatheads in the US. Fact is, I’ve always been fascinated by that story.”
“Me too, It’s Rogers. Mary Rogers”
“Pleased to meet you, Mary Rogers. Harry Trumann. That is true. That’s my name. No ‘S’ though extra ‘N’.
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Did you know that his middle name was actually ‘S’. His parents couldn’t agree which grandparent to name him after, so they called him ‘S’ and left it at that.
He was soft spoken for an American. Sure of himself, but not brash like the others she had met. Almost as though he would have preferred to be shy but wasn’t sure how.
“Do you have a theory?”
“Honestly no. There are too many variables”
“Ah you’re a scientist. You’re over here designing rockets to fire at the Russians.”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re a spy. You have a camera in your hat.”
“Nope.”
“Gigolo. You prey on rich widows to fund your villa in Monte Carlo.”
“Closer”
“A movie star. The new Zorro.”
“Miles off.”
“OK I give up”
“I play sax in a blues band no-one is ever likely to hear of.”
“Why not?”
“American white kids don’t get what we’re doing, and the black kids don’t want to. Musically, America has the burden of History. Here it’s all fresh. Blues doesn’t touch any nerves here. That may change, but for now it’s cool.”
They had been walking, and had stopped by an amusement arcade. She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
“Let’s make a record Mr. Bluesman,”
Pinball machines clanged and rattled, cascading silver balls span madly and twanged between pins. ‘Record Your Own Voice’ enticed the sign over the booth. There was no seat, and barely room for one. It was tight.
“What’ll we sing?”
“Little Red Rooster”
“Don’t know the words.”
“She Loves You,”
“Eek”
“You’re My World”
“You’re on”
In a moment that seemed to define her day, he produced a blues harp and let rip the unmistakable intro. In a powerful yet controlled voice, she did Cilla proud.
They tumbled out laughing.
“Album Cover!” She pushed him inside the photo booth. They squashed their faces into the square on the glass that would frame the picture. A green light signalled that the photo was imminent. They blew kisses at the camera. Green light. She started to sing. The photo showed him fumbling for the harp. Green light, she is singing loudly, “You’re my world, you’re every breath I take.” He plays a shrill F and is lost in the moment. Green light. First kiss.
Pub. Public Bar. Wheel back chairs and Lino. Stout, cider, darts (she won), bar billiards (he won, but cheated). They sat down talking as though they hadn’t spoken in years. She was in Burnham for the family holiday. First day. He had been walking in Wales and had collected some photos earlier to make a scrapbook. He showed her the map with locations marked. Every photo had a grid reference on the back. He spoke passionately and showed the pictures of valleys, bridges, slate mountains, deep etched faces from small towns with narrow streets. The last picture showed a wilderness.
“If I die tomorrow I want them to bury me here.” His face looked deep and earnest.
“If I’m in Wales next week, I’ll visit.”
“Make sure you do.” He passed her the photo. “Trade you for your phone number.”
“We don’t have a phone.”
“Your address then.”
“Only if you promise not to die. I don’t want a saxophone player haunting our front room, thank you very much.”
Outside the pub a transistor radio was playing ‘Baby, I Love You’ by the Ronettes. He mouthed the words, hand on heart.
She laughed. “I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that. They never mean it.” Her eyes saddened for a moment. “There’s no reason why they would.”
“I mean it.”
I’d take the dollar anyway. You could have it back when you prove it”
He pulled a dollar bill from his wallet, and passed it over with the photo of the wilderness. The photo had a map reference on the back. SN 907890.
She laughed as she wrote her address on a beer mat.
“You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do.”
“You’re shooting me a line. That’s cost you a dollar.”
The landlord called last orders. He walked her to her door. Last kiss.
He held her in the doorway, washed by the pale fanlight.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Ten O’ Clock. End of the pier.”
“I love you”
“Do you mean it?”
“Damn Right.”
“No you don’t. You owe me another dollar.” She punched him playfully, and turned into the doorway. “Harry” she smiled.
They were waiting in the dining room. Mother was drawn. Father glowered. Mary felt her face prickle as he shouted in whispers. What time was this, worried sick, trollop, shame, disgrace on the family, no daughter of mine, beatnik, boy mad, no better than a streetwalker. Going home tomorrow. The holiday is ruined.
It got worse. A perfect day destroyed. The last hours stripped away layer by layer. She felt rage and shame and anger at injustice, and hatred of the moment. It went too far this time. Things said that weren’t meant, things meant that weren’t said. Both to echo forward in time till time ran out.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!”
The room went dark, her vision blurred with tears.
“The holiday is ruined.” Yes it was.
In the morning Mary left early. She wouldn’t be back. The station master remembered her. The police could only offer advice. The Rogers family holiday packed up in silence.
---
“Dear Mary,
Can you forgive me? I didn’t wake till eleven. You’d gone, I searched the town. Meeting you was the greatest part of this whole damn trip. I make that three bucks worth, plus the dollar for last night. Here’s another dollar’s worth. There are a million reasons a guy would love you. I would give ”
“Bert Rogers, give me that!” He knew better than to argue.
“You will apologise to Mary when she gets back. You’ll respect her privacy Bert Rogers, You make sure you do.”
She took the letter from her husband and placed it carefully on Mary’s dressing table.
Harry’s letters were posted every day. The postmarks changed. England, US, Vietnam, US again. Different states, different countries. Harry never settled.
He stayed true to the blues. He never sought fame, but was eagerly sought by those who did. Unseen, he played on the soundtrack to history. Harry wrote of life playing behind the lights that lit the stars. His hopes, thoughts, disappointments, music he composed, photos, drawings, jokes he’d heard. He spoke of his love for her. Every letter gave a different reason why, sometimes two, each covered by a dollar bill.
Mrs Rogers placed them in order in Mary’s room, on the dressing table at first, then in storage boxes. The love never faltered.
---
Harry finished his letter and posted it in the departure lounge of Shannon Airport.
“Just been jamming with a few of the kids from the troop plane. Five gigs for Uncle Sam in the Middle East then I’m coming to England. I’m coming to find you Mary Rogers, unless the Taliban get me. Then I’ll be headed for Wales. You’ll know where to find me.
Look, I know you must have your reasons to not get in touch. I’m ready to respect those and walk away, if that’s what you want. This is dollar number twenty thousand. I want a shot to show you I have meant every word I’ve said, and spend a lifetime telling you all the things I’ve missed. So I hope you’ve been saving, you are going to owe me big!
I love you twenty thousand times over. And more.
Yours as ever,
Harry xxx”
Mrs Rogers put it with the others. It was the last one she received.
Maggie looked at the screen again.
Harry SN 907890.
The icon for the little black book was flashing. Seventeen new cases.
She entered her password.
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The selection of a Fed Chair is one of the most significant economic decisions a president can make, as the position directly impacts financial markets, consumer confidence, and international economic relations. Hassett’s name has circulated in financial and political circles as a potential candidate due to his extensive background in economic policy. He previously served as Chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers under Trump and has consistently advocated for growth-oriented policies. His nomination could signal continuity with Trump-era economic priorities, but the former president’s reluctance has created uncertainty. Trump’s Reluctance In recent interviews, Trump expressed hesitation over formally nominating Hassett, citing concerns about market volatility and potential political backlash. Analysts suggest several factors could be influencing his reluctance: Public Scrutiny: Nominating a high-profile economist invites intense media attention and political debate. 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Economists argue that hesitation in announcing a nominee could signal indecision or caution, which may affect investor sentiment. “Markets value predictability,” says Julia Ramirez, a senior economist at Global Insights. “A prolonged period without a clear candidate can create temporary instability, particularly in sectors sensitive to interest rate changes, such as banking and real estate.” Hassett’s Profile Kevin Hassett is widely recognized for his academic and policy expertise. He co-authored several influential works on economic growth, tax policy, and productivity. During his tenure as Chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers, Hassett emphasized tax reform, deregulation, and measures aimed at stimulating investment. Supporters argue that Hassett’s experience equips him to manage complex economic challenges, including inflationary pressures, labor market fluctuations, and post-pandemic recovery strategies. 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