The Zombie Drug…

 The Zombie Drug… 

By Len Morgan 

   Marcus was smooth, suave, and sophisticated. He liked drinking in different bars, as the mood took him; he had an ulterior motive. He had a host of clever chat up lines that he used to good effect to lure young women into his influence.  If one line doesn’t pique a woman’s interest he would try another.  But, if there were other equally desirable young women in the bar he would simply change his tack and hit on them, in the certain knowledge that his good looks and fake charm would grab their attention.  His method was to treat a young woman as if she was the only girl in the room, offer to buy her a drink, then another and another.  Eventually she would have to visit the ladies room.  That is when he would slip a roofie into her drink... 

Veronica, Cloe, and Crystal were young women on a mission, trolling the bars looking for their mark.  Cloe checked out the bar, “He’s in here,” she told the others, “Far end, propping up the bar.”

Veronica entered the bar and in a short while Marcus sidled up beside her. 

  “Hi I’m Marcus; it seems I’ve been stood up by my date.” 

  “That’s a shame, maybe we can talk while we wait, I’m also alone, a friend was supposed to meet me here but she hasn’t arrived yet.” 

  “That’s my good fortune,” he smiled, disarmingly “What’s your poison?” 

  “Oh that’s kind of you; I’ll have a gin & tonic.” 

  “I like this bar, it has a nice atmosphere, and the music is background; not too ‘in your face’,” he said. 

  “I’m Ronnie,” she said, “Oh look, there’s an empty table over there, why don’t we sit and chat.” 

  “A good idea, let me take the drinks over,” he smiled again.

‘Maybe he wasn’t the mark they were looking for,’ she thought looking towards Crystal and Cloe. Cloe nodded to confirm he was the one they were looking for. 

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to visit the ladies,” she smiled and headed across the room.  She visited a cubicle to relieve herself. Leaving the cubicle she freshened up her lippy, whilst waiting for Crystal to arrive.    

  “He did it Ron, Cloe confirms he’s the one!” 

  “Are the rest of the girls outside?” 

  “Ready and waiting,” said Crystal taking a small vial from her purse and handing it to Ronnie.  

“Are you sure this will work?” Ronnie asked as she unscrewed the lid and applied a little of the green fluid to her lips, “here goes nothing…” she said. 

Ronnie gave him a pleasant smile as she sat at the table. “I noticed there are nuts on the bar, drinking always makes me hungry, would you mind asking if they can spare some?” 

  “I’ll find out,” he said and went over to the bar. While he was out of sight she poured her drink into a nearby potted plant and refilled the glass with water. 

He returned triumphant with a small dish of nuts, “you haven’t touched your drink, is something wrong with it?” he asked. 

  “It’s fine,” she assured him, and emptied the glass in one. 

“Let me get you another,” he said, taking their glasses back to the bar. 

When he returned she leaned across the table and, spontaneously kissed him full on the lips, “you’re Angel,” she said, before drinking it down. Then, she took a napkin from her bag and wiped her lips. 

  Crystal joined them at the table, and said “stand up.” Marcus obeyed. 

  Ronnie took out her phone and dialled. “Hi girls, the fish is in the net, come and join us!” 

Two ladies entered and headed for their table. 

  “He’s the one,” Cloe said, preparing to attack him. 

  “Shhh,” Crystal soothed her.  “He’s completely under our control.  My grand mother was a voodoo priestess, and we used one of her potions to turn him into a zombie it will only last for 24 hours.  So let’s take full advantage of that time; unleash a little girl power.” “We’re taking him back to your apartment.” Ronnie said.  “We’ll humiliate him like he did to you, and heaven knows how many others.”

“Great idea! Let get out of here,” Cloe said. 

”Follow me!” Crystal commanded, Ronnie, and Marcus headed for the door, the others followed them.   

“Don’t feel sorry for him Cloe, his bottle of tablets is less than half full so you were not his only victim,” said Ronnie. 

Back at Cloe’s apartment they stripped him, dressed him in ladies underwear and wrote abusive words on his chest with waterproof lipstick. 

“Do you have your tattooing kit ready Ronnie?” 

“I have luminous red ink and a special stencil prepared,” she said.

“When you’re done, we can take him to the park and leave him on the ‘roundabout’, leave his clothes in a neat pile beside him. 

Two young constables took one look at the ‘RAPIST’ tattoo on his forehead, found the bottle of roofies in his jacket pocket and called for a car to take him to the station.

Two weeks later, the girls saw his picture in the local paper and read the story ‘6 month for possession and use of ‘rohypnol’, the banned rape drug.’

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

The last Will and Testament

By Barbara Thomas

Hold up your hands how many reading this now have actually made out a Will

Let me tell you about one specific person who never left a Will and on dying therefore was not able to instruct how he wanted his funeral either burial/cremation Christian or Humanitarian

But the main object of the Will was to find out who was down as his next of kin.

Being a ladies man this man had a chequered past married twice with at least 3 common law wives plus a scattering of lady friends.

You can see the predicament, to whom or who will receive his worldly gifts.

Also without a Will who will pick up the tab?

I’ll help you out, you see it was our son who passed away suddenly.

During his working life he had been on the river Thames as a waterman worked at a timber mill, as a bus driver, taxi driver,

And manager at both his father and aunt’s pubs.

At the time of his untimely death he had been working with mentally ill patients in a residential setting near where he lived with a girlfriend in Catford, South London. 

Unfortunately, he had been found outside his workplace unconscious, and died still in a coma 3 days later. He had suffered a massive heart attack and because he wasn’t found for one hour he received severe and irreversible brain damage and the life machine was switched off by two of his four children on July 2nd 2021.

Heartbroken my husband and I tried to make sense of it all as he was only 58 years old.

Then reality set in. Who was going to pay for the funeral, as we now know there was no Will.

It fell on both my husband and I to contact solicitors and ask for advice

As I mentioned our Steve loved the ladies but where was the second wife and had they divorced?

The current ladyfriend made big ripples, I had to freeze all his bank and credit cards as at first she was having a great time spending

We were advised to become Executors,

giving us the authority to look into any life insurances Steve may have had. I texted, phoned emailed determined to collect some monies somehow.

There were papers galore I had to collate including Bank statements to check, the list goes on.

We had some luck when a family member remembered where the last wife used to live, we followed the lead and it turned out that this wife had never moved out of the home she had shared with our son and they had never divorced, apparently she told us Steve used to often visit her.

So now we have next of kin, who legally could claim anything she liked only she didn’t want to be involved. They had only been married 1 year before they parted

More problems once we had contacted her we were then only errand boys.

Our hands were tied so we went back to the solicitors and paid another £1,000 for Deed of variation to allow us to intervene for the reluctant next of Kin. 

Then came the funeral, his harem all wanted a piece of him, there was a lot of bad feeling, especially from Steve’s latest lady friend

I put my foot down and said as his parents we would be picking up the tab and the funeral would not become a circus but a celebration of a life gone before his time. 

The funeral went as well as could be expected some even said it was lovely with all the funny anecdotes that Steve got up to plus all the tunes we knew he loved especially at the end “I’m for ever blowing bubbles” he would have loved that being an ardent West Ham supporter all his life like his Dad and Grandad before him. 

The wake was interesting to say the least women eyeballing each other. Oh Steve we had no idea you were such a ladies man. 

I discovered a life insurance “hurrah“ followed by monies from his days as a bus driver. 

Now the monies at last was coming in the outstanding bills were being paid out. Alas not much savings for all those years of working hard, Steve lived for the day. There were credit agreements although sadly did not die at his demise.

It’s ok getting a credit agreement but you never know how your circumstances will be over a length of time and this is what we had to cope with.

A Will would have saved us the stress that we went through at that period.

 

So my message to all you people what ever walk of life please find out about making a Will.

Find time otherwise it may fall on your loved one’s shoulders. 

Apparently I am told you do not have to go to a solicitor as long it is signed witnessed-and dated.

Leave getting a Will at your peril!! 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

 JABA’S LAST WILL AND TESTIMONY

By Bob French

I glanced around the quiet room then stifled a yawn, It was warm and stuffy and covered in dust, just like Mr. Fotheringham, the solicitor, who had summonsed me to the reading of the last will and testament of James Alfred Bernard Yearsley, Jaba to his friends and my best mate for the past twenty years, but now, sadly no longer with us. 

Sitting to my left was Melony, his deceitful, twisted, and cruel wife, who did her best to make Jaba’s life hell. To my right sat two other women in their early twenties, who I took to be Jaba’s kids, well not kids any more.  They looked just like their mother. I swore that if ever there was a performance of Cinderella, these two brats would get the part of the ugly two sisters without a doubt, and Melony would have no problem playing the cruel step mother.

Fotheringham gave a polite cough, as though to demand obedience, just like our old maths teacher did when he suspected foul play at the back of the class where Jaba and I normally sat. 

One of the two brats looked up from her i-phone, starred at Fotheringham, then gave a huff and went back to her i-phone.

 We had been sitting here in this stuffy room for over an hour whilst his clerk, who had been summons to bring in the Yearsley file, frantically tried to find it. 

Suddenly there was a clatter of heavy footsteps outside the door.  Then the door burst open admitting a tall, pimply faced youth, flourishing the said document in front of him.  He paused and with a degree of ceremony, slowly placed the file down in front of his master. He paused, expecting some sort of thanks, then beat a hasty retreat, praying to himself that this was not to be his last day at Fotheringham, Wentworth and Belchley.

Fotheringham gave a cruel smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I shan’t keep you long.”  He took a deep breath, opened the file and looked down at the document, which had just been delivered.

Then, without warning, he quietly swore, stood up, excused himself, left the room, stormed off down the corridor and into the practice office.  We could hear old Fotheringham yelling at the top of his voice at the young man who had delivered the incorrect file. He gave the incompetent clerk five minutes to fine the correct document, or he would be out on his ear.”

 Whilst Fotheringham was tearing strips off the young office clerk, Melony decided that the office needed some fresh air and moved to the back of the room and opened one of the large windows. Within seconds, the office was full of rain and flying papers. As the rain and cold air blasted into the office, the two daughters started to scream abuse at their mother. One of the daughter’s had jumped up, sending her chair crashing backwards into a tall African Palm which Fotheringham’s youngest son had given to him when he had become a Partner and he had nurtured it every day for the past fifteen years.

Luckily, I was seated away from the direct blast of the wind and rain that was slowly trashing the office, so was able to view the Armageddon in relatively comfort.

The force of the impact caused the Palm to rock in its large pot, then slowly fall to its left.  Directly in line of where the Palm was expected to make land-fall, was a small very expensive looking mahogany side-table with two Royal Scot Christel decanters and a beautiful model of HMS Arc Royal, which the officers of the old aircraft carrier had presented to Fotheringham on his retirement from the Royal Navy.     

I watched as the tall African Palm, slowly and majestically fell, destroying the model of the Arc Royal, and shattering the beautiful decanters, and lastly, with the sound of an explosion, it turned the expensive side-table into match-wood.

By now the wind was slanting into the office causing more files and papers to take to the air, and condemn those files that fell to the floor to slowly become waterlogged. 

It was then that I heard Melony scream and I turned to see where she was.  I was met with a blast of foul language and as far as I could understand, she was a little concern about her hair, which to be honest looked a complete mess and thought that when this is over, I should tell her to use old Ma’ Mavis’s over on Connaught Street, rather than that posh hairdressers on the high street, where the snobs of our society went, just so they could be seen and envied by the lower classes of the town.

I’m not sure if it was that Fotheringham had found his file, or the screams and howling wind and rain coming from his office had caused him to return.  Either way when he forced open the door and stood there, the look on his face told me he was not very pleased.

“What in God’s name is going on.  Who is responsible for all this mess?”

Before Melony and her two brats could come to their senses, I slowly pointed an accusing finger towards Melony who was sitting in a puddle on the floor soaking wet trying to tidy up her £50 hair do.

Then he caught site of his retirement present, well, what was left of it, and the very expensive decanters and mahogany side-table. 

“My God, what have you done?  Who caused all this damage.

Again, I slowly raised my hand and pointed to one of the brats.

“My God!” he bellowed at the top of his voice.”

I could see that we were not going to achieve anything this morning whilst he continued to ask God what had happened, so I raised my hand like a school kid.

“Excuse me Mr. Fotheringham.  Could I suggest that if you don’t have Mr. Yearsley, file to hand, we hold the reading at another date and time and possibly another location?”

This seemed to quieten him down. I could see his mind turning over trying to process the damage to his office.

“I agree, but who is going to pay for all this damage?”

I said nothing, but slowly turned and looked at Melony.  Whose face was already starting to go red as she started to build herself up into one of her famous tantrums.

She staggered to her feet. “You don’t expect me to pay for all this do you?”

Fotheringham seemed to pause for a minute. “Who opened the window?”

I pointed to Melony again.

“And who knocked over my African Palm?”

I didn’t wait for the little brat who smashed her chair into the tree and caused the, I pointed my finger at her?”

“Well Mrs. Yearsley, as far as I can see, you seem to be the one liable for the damage to my office. Once the Will has been read, I shall demand that you pay for all the damage from the proceeds of your late husbands Will.

“I will do no such thing!”

Fotheringham ignored her rant. “That’s fine then.  You will receive a summons for the damage to my property, and subsequent recovery of the hundreds of case files damaged by the rain and wind, which was caused by you and your daughters.”

On the way-out Melony crept up behind me. “If you think you are going to get a penny from Jaba’s Will, you are very much mistaken.  He never had a bank account cause he left me to do all the house bills.”

“A week later, the five of us sat in Fotheringham’s new offices.  After the Will of Jabs had been read out, there was a pause.

“Are there any questions?” Fotheringham said in a tired voice.

I lent forward.  “Could you tell me the registration and make of Jeba’s car and where I can find it please?”

Fotheringham glanced down at the Will.  “You will find it parked in the multistory car park, bay 29 in Hounslow.  It’s a Bently Flying Spur, Its registration is JABA 007.  See me after and I shall give you the keys.

Melony then in a quiet voice asked how much capital she’d been left to by her beloved husband.

“Mrs. Yearsley, I bring your attention to my last letter of the 20^th of this month.  The amount your husband has left you, besides the house and his collection of beer mats, comes to the same amount of the invoice I sent you. If you wish to settle now, today, the matter of your late husbands Will is closed.  However, if you wish to pay in installments, the settlement date of your late husband’s Will, and my bill, will be 23^rd May in five year’s time.  Which is it to be?”

That afternoon I caught the bus down to the multi-story car park and made my way up to the second floor where I knew I would find bay 29.  I stood and stared at the Silver Grey Bently Flying Spur for ten minutes before opening it and sliding onto the soft leather seat.  The smell of polished wood and leather kept me mesmerized for another ten minutes until my eye caught sight of a note in the glove compartment.  It directed me to the boot of the car.

As I lifted the boot, I smiled.  The reason Jaba never trusted banks was because he stored all his ill-gotten gains in his battered old brief case in the boot of his old banger, as he used to call it.  After quickly counting the neat piles of £20 notes, I whistled to myself; £75,000, then promised my-self that I would raise a glass to him that evening down at the Duck and Pheasant.

Copyright Bob French

 

In the year of our Lord 1603 

By Barbera Thomas 

13 men secretly gathered in one of the dark taverns in London Town.

The main speaker was Robert Catesby who seemed to have commandeered the group.

These were catholics sharing the same hatred of King James 1st but also knowing that at anytime King James 1st’s guards could come crashing in and arrest them all, firstly breaking curfew secondly being a Catholic which in a mainly Protestant country would always be treated with suspicion.

Robert Catesby wasn’t from London, as were several others of the would be traitors.

But each had one goal, to blow up the Houses of Parliament, kill the king and replace him with the Spanish king.

During the evening the men were given their jobs.

One of those men was Guy Fawkes,

recently recruited, soon after coming to London.

 

Unlike the other men Guy Fawkes had been a soldier in the army against the Netherlands and also knowingly spoke openly against King James 1st who he wanted to replace with the King of Spain.

 

He had knowledge and technical knowhow of placing gunpowder he was seen as a bonus among the men gathered there.

The date was eventually decided would be the the 5th November 1605.

 

As they scuttled away back to their homes

Guy Fawkes lingered behind.

As Robert Catesby was clearing away he glanced up and saw Fawkes standing there.

Between them there was an instant bond for here was a man willing to die for the cause.

Robert Catesby was well known to both Parliament and king for his views against both and was monitored regularly.

 

Robert Catesby immediately made Fawkes his second in command.

 

On the night of the 5th it had just stopped raining which was a relief to the collaborators as during the weeks before, barrels of gunpowder had been brought in and stored beneath the Houses of Parliament these were bought through a tunnel that had been dug out by Guy Fawkes (who had changed his name to John Johnson for whatever reason only known to him) the property was owned by Catesby which he had required for the sole reason of his men to climb through un-noticed to the bowels of Parliament.

 

But the deed was not to be as unknown to the other 12 men, there was one man who had doubts and anonymously sent a letter to William Parker 4th Baron Monteagle Catholic member of Parliament.

On receiving this terrible letter and not fully understanding its full meaning, the Baron immediately rode to London and handed the letter to a Member of Parliament none other than Cecil, the then Earl of Salisbury whereby the Gun Powder Plot was thwarted.

 

Below is the letter that saved both the King, Parliament, and the country:

 

“My Lord, out of love I bear to some of

your friends I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at this Parliament; for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. And think not slightly of this advertisement but retire Yourselves into your country where you may expect the event in safety for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be condemned because it may do you good and could and can do you no harm; for the danger is passed as soon as you have burnt this letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you 

Action was taken, instantly.

The Kings army was sent below the cellars of Parliament immediately but all they found was Guy Fawkes, he was arrested on the spot and dragged out into the open, taken to the Tower of London and tortured for days until he confessed, then taken to the old Palace yard of Westminster and as he climbed with great difficulty up the stairs Guy Fawkes suddenly threw himself off the scaffold and immediately died from a broken neck thereby escaping the terrible ordeal of being disembowelled whilst still alive. Although his body was disembowelled and sent to the 4 corners of the kingdom after death. 

His partner in crime had been urged to abandon the plan but chose to ignore the advice days before.

But once he had heard that Guy Fawkes had been discovered, he galloped as quick as he could back to his country home in Holbeche joined by some of the 13 would be assassins.

 

It was decided that each would stand their ground where they stood, against the might of the Kings men and their weaponry.

 

The Kings men arrived and both Robert Catesby and his men fought gallantly side by side.

He and another papist took the full blast of a cannon ball.

 

Robert Catesby’s family, although shocked, secretly collected the body, but this was discovered and while making preparations for the funeral, the Kings soldiers rode up dragged Catesby’s body out on the ground then disembowelled and hacked the head off which was taken and put on a spike to be displayed on the highest part of the roof in the Houses of Parliament in Westminster square London for all to see as a reminder that that is what happens to enemies of the crown.

 

People were shocked and when the 5th of November came round the next year 1606 an effigy of Guy Fawkes would be paraded throughout the streets of London.

When it became dark bonfires were burnt as a reminder of what could have happened but thankfully thwarted surprisingly through an anonymous letter.

To this day the tradition carries on with the added bonus of fireworks.

 

Chants were sang:

Remember, remember the 5th of November

Gun powder, treason and plot. For there is no

reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot

 

Also I discovered a poem named: 

The night Poem

Guy Fawkes, ‘‘twas his intent to blow up

King and Parliament

Three score barrels were laid

Below To prove old England’s other-throw

By God’s mercy he was catches

With a dark lantern and lighted match,

Holler boys, Holler boys, let the bells ring

Holler boys Holler boys

God Save the king

 

Halloween 

A small child asks her Mother a question.

“Why do children wear witches and wizards clothes and knock on neighbours doors on Halloween night carrying pumpkin buckets asking the question “treacle or treat”

If it’s treat we would be given sweets but if they choose treacle we have to recite a poem or song” 

The mother thought for a while and then told the child that in ancient times there were people called “Pagans” these were people who believed in different Gods who were sun worshippers and the devil

Their beliefs through the decades were transformed into folklore of the unknown and fear of the dead.

“Yes Mother” the young child asked

“But that still doesn’t answer why we dress up on that night”

The mother tried to explain without frightening her child.

“The belief was that if people dressed up in strange clothes, they could chase away bad spirits from their homes”.

This day in our calendar is the 31st October also known in the holy bible as “All Souls’ Day “ where it was believed in ancient times that bad spirits would visit the homes that they had once lived in.

That’s why people dressed up to frightened the spirits away.

It was believed that the souls that died in sin would forever be cast away in purgatory, This means souls were forever restless.

By you and other children going from house to house you are frightening away these spirits.

The sweet treats that you have now are to make sure you do not visit their house again.” 

The child then put on her scary makeup and put on her witches dress picked up her sweetie bucket and set off with her friends to visit her neighbours houses.

This made me think about both Robert Catesby and Guy Fawkes as their souls did not have the churches holy sacraments, in a christian funeral or burial from any Father of the Cloth therefore in the believers eyes forever in purgatory.

I would like to think that both their families would have prayed that their relative be forgiven for all their sins and ask God for forgiveness and contrition so to allow their restless souls to enter the kingdom of God

“Only our maker knows”

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

 Riddles 19

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What flies when it’s born, lies when it’s alive, & runs when it’s dead?

 

No 2.  Who makes moves when seated?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

A GUILTY SECRET

By Richard Banks

“Have you heard the news?” Mason speaks in a hoarse whisper that he don’t want anyone else to hear. He’s scared, no mistaking that, and for a few moments so am I. After all, when you’re locking-up at night, your back towards the street, the last thing you want is for someone to be creeping-up behind you, maybe gun in hand and about to demand everything you’ve just put in the safe.

         “Damn you Mase! What the heck are you doing? It’s 2am. You trying to give me a heart attack!”

         “It’s happened again.”

         In another place, another time I would be asking him what has, but it’s only too obvious.

         “Who is it this time?”

         “Lorna.”

         “Lorna Ruiz?”

         “Yes, of course I mean Lorna Ruiz. Who else do you know called Lorna?”

         He’s got a point. In a two bit town like Bylow, population 934, and decreasing, the only other Lorna would likely be her mother but she’s not around and maybe never was. For once in his life Mason’s right, that’s not what I should be saying.

         “Same as before?” I ask.

         Mason’s startled by the roar of a Chrysler 300 that’s speeding towards us before braking and turning left at the cross. He’s desperate not to be seen so we go around the corner. Into the side way that’s almost cellar black. What he’s got to tell me, he says, is for my ears only. He needs a favour and if he can ever do the same for me he’ll be glad to do it. After all, that’s what friends are for. Don’t I agree?

         I’m not sure I do but it seems I have no choice but to hear him out. At first he tells me nothing I won’t reading in the late edition of the Clarion. Lorna’s been found on waste land, ten miles out of town, throat cut ear to ear, just like numbers one to three. This he knows because he was pulled over by a cop he once knew in High School. Mase is only a hundred yards or so from where she was discovered and the cop’s asking him what he’s doing there and where he’s been.

         “And that’s when you told him you were with me.”

         “Sorry, Jimmy.”

         “So where were you? With a broad?”

         “Why a broad?”

         “Because that’s what you do on a Saturday night. For goodness sake, Mase, tell the cops her name and the motel you were at. Don’t even think of trying to protect her good name. Even assuming she has one, it’s not worth the two thousand volts that could be coming your way.”

         “Can’t do that man, it’s Carla.” 

         “You’re kidding! Mase, do you have a death wish? Whatever possessed you? She’s Tony Pescaro’s girl, big Tony, enforcer for the Bandini family, but then you already know that.”

         “Which is why I said I was with you. I’m sorry, Jimmy, I had to say something, couldn’t tell him I’ve been on my own all evening. How suspicious would that be? No, buddy, if you don’t back me up I’ll be chief suspect, I know it. I need an alibi, and one that sticks.”

         “Mase, this isn’t going to work. I was behind the bar. If I saw you so did a hundred other guys but none of them did. I’m sorry you’re in the shite but saying you were here isn’t going to work.”

         “No, Jimmy. Now listen to me, I’ve got it all figured out. I wasn’t in the bar. You took a break, went back for a smoke and saw me there trying to get cigarettes out of the machine, which as we know is broke, so you got some from the storeroom and I paid you in cash.”

         “And this was when?”

         “Eight pm. According to the cop, Lorna was found at nine, no more than an hour dead. If I was here at eight there’s no way I could have done it.”

         As alibi’s go it’s probably the worse I’ve ever heard. Also, he’s only got the cop’s word that she died around eight;  initial estimates of death, even by those qualified to give them, are often wide of the mark. But then it matters not. He’s not needing an alibi; there’s no evidence against him. Mase’s only problem is in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His fingerprints and DNA are not at the crime scene and once it’s established that he was in Houston when murder two  took place he will soon be well down their list of suspects. This I should be telling him but I don’t; he’s in a panic and listening to no one but himself. So, it’s agreed: I saw him at eight, an hour into my shift, sold him two packets of Ryman and he departed saying he was going to burn some gas before driving home.

         Alibi agreed, he heads back into the glow of the main street lights and, after furtive glances left and right, hurries off to wherever he’s left his car. I give it five before returning to mine. The next day it turns out that Lorna wasn’t murdered at eight but two hours earlier when Mase, pre date, was in a diner. He’s even found the receipt in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s in the clear and, with the cops tight lipped and short of anything resembling a lead, there’s nothing to be done but speculate which of our Southern belles will be next. But not for long. The good folk of Bylow have organised a meeting to which all the abled bodied men of the town have been invited.

         It’s a call to arms and within an hour the Bylow Defence League not only comes into being but is given its marching orders. We’re organised into eight platoons whose mission is to parade about the town after dark with all the firepower we can muster. As none of the murders have been in town it’s by no means clear what good this is going to do, but everyone feels better for making the effort. Four guys who haven’t volunteered are now under surveillance and followed everywhere they go by another four guys who wear camouflage jackets that don’t exactly blend in to the urban terrain. It’s a farce and when someone accidentality gets shot in the butt the cops impose a curfew that’s probably not legal but at least keeps the womenfolk indoors after dark.

         This is bad news for the bar I run for the Bandinis who use it to launder some of their ill-gotten gains. They aren’t best pleased that we have to close at seven each evening but, as I say, what can I do about it? They’re the ones with the power, and the ear of every crooked politician in the county. Why don’t they get the curfew lifted? It might take a bribe or two, but nothing that can’t be made good in a few weeks. But they have a better idea which is probably why Tony Pescaro is at the head of their delegation. He wastes no time in telling me what’s on his mind.

         “No murderer, no murders, no murders, no curfew,” he says with an indisputable logic that won’t have escaped everyone else in town. As to the how bit he hasn’t come here short of a plan, and whether I like it or not, I’m in it.

         “So, who do you think did it?” he asks.

         “How should I know?” I say, feeling like the room’s closing in on me.

         “Maybe you don’t,” says Tony, “but you will have a better idea than most. I mean you’re behind the bar serving guys booze until they can hardly stand up. When that happens they get indiscreet, let things slip they wish they hadn’t said, odd little things that a smart guy like you will pick-up on. OK, so no one’s going to confess all, but someone, sometime is going to say a little bit too much and this is the place where it will happen – maybe has happened. So, who’s your money on, Jimmy, give me a name, three names, more if you have them. I’m all ears.”

         “Tony, I hear what you’re saying, guys often bend my ear in the early hours. Sometimes their wife’s been giving them grief, sometimes it’s the boss, sometimes it’s about money. I don’t want to hear it, but I’m the barman, it’s my job to listen and let them get it off their chest. I’ve heard it all, ten times over, but no one, absolutely no one, has given me any reason to think they’re a killer.” 

         But Tony’s not taking no for an answer. If I don’t know who it is, and he never thought I would, I can, at least, point him in the direction of someone who fits the bill: someone with a grudge against women, a wife beater, some weirdo who don’t fit in and no one likes. All he needs are some names. His plan, such as it is, is to abduct whoever I say and beat them within an inch of their life. If they happen on the right guy it’s problem solved, he gets what’s coming to him and everything gets back to normal.

         “And if you don’t get the right man?”

         “Then we let him loose to tell everyone in town what these hooded men did to him, and why. The way I see it, by the time we’re down to number three on your list the real murderer, if we don’t have him, will be hot footing it out of town to some place far off where he’ll be safe from us and free to start again. But that’s not our problem. Ours is to get the curfew lifted, so let’s start with a few names.”

         “I’ll need to think about it,” I say. This is a chance to settle one or two scores but as Tony’s idea of a good beating sometimes winds up being a homicide this is something I don’t want to get involved in. But that’s supposing I have a choice?

         Tony senses I’m less than keen. “Tell you what, Jimmy, I’ve got a name of my own. We’ll put that top of the list which means that for now I’ll only be needing two names.”

         “Who’s your man?” I ask.

         “A guy called Mason Brady. Perhaps you know him, a friend perhaps?”

         “Yeah, I know him. Wouldn’t call him a friend. Just a guy who does odd jobs about the bar. Why do you think it’s him?”

         “Information from someone who knows. Something of a ladies man is our Mr Brady. Tries it on when the girls don’t want it and then cuts up rough.”

         I want to tell him that Mason isn’t like that. He wouldn’t swot a fly, but if I make too much of it that won’t go well, either for him or me. But why do they think it’s Mase? It don’t take long to figure. He’s broken-up with Carla like I told him to and now she’s getting back at him like the viper she is. If I’m to keep Mason safe I need to give Tony exactly what he wants, three prime suspects, all of them far more likely to be their man. So, that’s what I do: two ex-cons with a history of violence and a bar room brawler who’s crazy on coke. I write down their names and say where they can be found. Tony smiles and shows his appreciation by thumping me on the back in a way that makes me think that sometimes he does this with a butcher’s knife.

         Have I done enough to protect a friend? I’m not sure, but most of all I need to look after myself. It’s time to empty the safe, pack a suitcase and drive far, far away to a place where I’m not known and won’t be found. Perhaps this time I’ll be a George or Henry, a good fit for a guy coming up to forty. Jimmy was good while it lasted, a likeable sort of name for a regular guy that no one had a bad word for; a better name than the two before, but they all served their purpose.

         Tony never spoke a truer word when he said his crew would scare-off the murderer, but even he will be surprised how soon this is going to happen. So, it’s goodbye Bylow and hello some place else.

         Maybe I’ll wind-up somewhere near you. But don’t worry, America’s a big place and I’ll be holding off for a while. Will you see me coming? I doubt it, no one else has and no one ever will. It’s a whole new canvas and I’ll be colouring it red. Ready or not I’m on my way!                                                  

           Copywrite Richard Banks                    

PICASSO (ACROSTIC)

 PICASSO

(ACROSTIC)

Peter Woodgate

 

Concluding that the world of art

Used naturalistic images

Because the masters showed him so,

Irregular lines and shapes and colours

Surged from his mind and onto canvas,

Modern art had left the womb.

 

Riding on a wave of eccentricity

Unparalleled in critic’s eyes,

Lay the product of an inchoate vision

Expressing abstract thoughts

Symbolic of the man.

 

Oh, that we could understand

Kinetic brainwaves on the move.

Copyright Peter Woodgate