The Family Meeting

 The Family Meeting

by Sis Unsworth

My Grandma called a meeting, it was some time ago,

there was Mum & Dad, and uncle Fred who came with auntie Flo.

The problem was that my old Gran, who lived there on her own,

was feeling quite abandoned, living all alone.

“Could one of you please take me in, I’d not be in your way?

I do get rather lonely, now I’m old and grey.”

Gran sat in the corner, a strange look on her face,

she listened as they argued, who would take her to their place,

we children listened tentatively, all sitting still and calm,

but as the rows got heated, they filled us with alarm.

Dad said “our house is full, no room for Gran to stay,

go to Fred and Flo’s” he said, “It’s better off that way.”

Uncle Fred got rather cross, and shouted at my Dad,

I glanced across at my old Gran, she did look rather sad.

My Mum then screamed at aunty Flo, “we can’t have her with us,”

we children loved our dear old gran, and wondered why the fuss.

Just then we heard the doorbell ring, out there in the hall,

and then a strange thing happened, Gran stood up really tall.

A huge black chauffeured limousine, arrived at Grans front door,

there was total silence, as she walked across the floor.

“That will be for me,” we heard our smiling Grandma say,

“for I have won the Euro, now I’ll be on my way.”

What happened then, I rubbed my eyes, I just could not believe,

for Mum & Dad & Fred & Flo, were all down on their knees,

“Oh come and live with us,” they all began to cry,

Gran just said, “you had your chance, and waved us all goodbye.

They all sent begging letters, and were shocked about the news,

that Gran had had a facelift, and gone off on a cruise.

She was kinder to us children, I really have to say,

we had expensive presents, each Christmas and birthday.

But Grandma did return one day, much to our surprise,

she pulled up in a taxi, right before our eyes.

“Could someone pay the taxi?” Gran said with a grin,

“as I’ve spent all my winnings, now who will take me in?”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Tylywoch ~ 19

 Tylywoch ~ 19  Luckless Thieves

By Len Morgan 

For Galt the busy cloth merchant and his entrepreneur wife Amree, clothing designer commissioner of exquisite creations for court and streetwear, life went on as usual.   People still needed clothing be there peace or threat of war.   She kept busy visiting her seamstresses whilst Galt met and dealt with his merchant acquaintances, buying and selling, turning a profit.   Food, clothing, precious metals and gems were at a premium, given the uncertain political climate.   There were pickings to be made by a man with a cool nerve and he was cooler than most.   Back at the premises, their new assistant Weilla was hard at work receiving and despatching goods on promissory notes penned in Galt’s fair hand.   She was in control having full powers to use their finances as she chose, paying large sums on little more than verbal instructions.   The leader of a local gang of racketeers rubbed his hands together at the thought of easy money, deciding to give the premises a call whilst Galt was not around.   His reputation as a tough operator meant nothing, in his absence, not when a young slip of a girl could be bullied into parting with more than the paltry sum currently being paid for their protection.   So, the foot soldiers took it upon themselves to go in and rob the establishment, and make it appear that looters had hit the premises.

To some women, the slim 17 year old would be considered good looking, but unfortunately, he had several rather anti-social traits.   He was a thief, he didn’t wash nearly as often as he ought, and harboured a penchant for violence towards his female acquaintances.   It had become so bad that even prostitutes avoided associating with him.   But, his biggest mistake to date would be his last.   He approached the cloth merchants’ premises with the intention of robbing and overpowering the young female assistant and…   He licked his lips in anticipation. 

Weilla’s eyes followed the approach of the cocky young street shark with interest.   She read his fortune in his dirty unkempt appearance his threadbare clothing and down at heels footwear.   His self confident swagger only added to the effect, confirming his felonious intent.   As he and his nefarious looking cronies entered the premises she fixed them with a confident friendly smile.  

“Good morning gentlemen, can I be of assistance?”

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she answered, “What kind of a greeting is that?”

He reached out to grab her, by way of reply.

She took half a step back, he gained confidence, an ugly smirk appeared on his face.

“Anybody leaving a store in the care of a ripe little plum, like you, deserves to return and find it empty and the ripe fruit plucked!”  He lunged, she side stepped easily out of his reach, her trailing leg tripping him into a heavy fall, which looked like a complete accident. 

“Get her!” he yelled from his unaccustomed sitting position.   The two heavies rushed her from either side, grabbing air where she had been.   Neither saw the powerful Rabat punches that displaced several cervical bones causing instant paralysis.   “You little..” he rushed her, his face red with anger.   He didn’t see the balled fist that fractured his trachea, folding him in half like a rag doll.   He drowned in his own blood, but within minutes she had deposited them across the street.   They look, to the casual observer, to be just three more drunks sleeping off their overindulgence of the previous night.

Had somebody observed the incident it would have appeared that they entered the shop and collapsed in a drunken stupour.    But, the keen eyed Wilden had witnessed the confrontation and knew better.   He’d located a member of the 13^th Clan, a new arrival in the city.   Could she be turned, He wondered?

 

[To be continued]

 

Copyright Len Morgan

THE GREAT BIKE BOOK

 THE GREAT BIKE BOOK

by Richard Banks

      The first time I saw the old man he was sitting on a wooden bench outside Holy Trinity between the churchyard wall and Rayleigh High Street. He seemed deep in thought, and gloomy thoughts at that. In fact, I have never seen such a despondent expression. Although the focus of his unhappy gaze appeared to be directed across the road at the Half Moon public house, he was as oblivious to the comings and goings of its clientele as he was to the high performance sports car which came screeching to a halt in front of a red traffic signal. The lights changed to green and the car roared away through the thickening winter haze that was beginning to obscure the moon-like luminance of the church clock. It was no night for lingering, especially for someone of his age, so I decided to see if he was okay. As I crossed the road towards him he raised himself up and with a sad shake of his head headed-off through the church lychgate and down the pathway that led towards the old church. By the time I reached the gate he was out of sight.

      It was not until several weeks later that I discovered, from a long-standing resident, that I had seen nothing less than Rayleigh’s very own ghost. He was, by all accounts, an unusually prolific ghost who was unstinting in his personal appearances even to the extent of wheeling a bicycle into the library on one stiflingly hot summer’s day. Indeed, few of the people who saw him ever knew he was a ghost. He looked real enough and although his clothes could hardly be described as modern they were not sufficiently dated to attract much attention. As to who he was, nothing was known. Neither local records, nor the colourful recollections of the town’s old stagers, succeeded in identifying a single credible candidate for Rayleigh’s ghostly cyclist. The only clue to his identity came from several eye witnesses who claimed that the words ‘Donaldson Flyer’ were emblazoned on the frame of his machine, a name unknown to local cycling clubs and the British Cycling Federation. It was a mystery that might have remained a mystery had it not been for a remarkable twist of fate that brought me to a hotel in Dumfries some two years later. 

         I was on holiday and heading for the Ayrshire coast when an unseasonable mist descended from a grey sky, reducing visibility to a few yards. Within an hour I was lost, and with the evening darkness beginning to gather I was resigned to spending the night in my car at the side of the road. I pulled over and turned-off the engine and in the quiet of a country road heard the unmistakable tones of a traditional Scottish Dance Band. To my immense good fortune I had stopped within fifty yards of the Blair Inn, a small pub cum hotel, which that evening was hosting a wedding party. They had one vacant room left and I lost no time in checking in. The landlord’s wife, good soul that she was, cooked me dinner, which I ate in the relative peace of the small snug bar next door to the wedding festivities. There were several large black and white photographs on the walls which, for the want of nothing better to do, I examined in detail. In one, a group of about forty country people were gathered in the hotel forecourt, apparently prior to boarding a coach which could be seen in the background. It was an unremarkable photograph, in which I was fast losing interest, when I saw a familiar figure standing slightly aloof from the group with bike in hand. It was him, unmistakably him, the same old man I had seen on that winter’s evening in Rayleigh! 

     “Have you finished, sir?” Unobserved by myself the landlord’s wife had entered the room and was standing to one side of the table where I sat. 

     “The photograph…” I stuttered. 

     “Yes, sir?” She gave me a queer look that made me get a grip on myself. 

      “The photograph,” I repeated. “Was it taken long ago?”

      “Just after the war, sir. All the young men were just out of the forces, and my father, who was then the landlord here, organised this day trip to the coast to celebrate.” 

     “Are you in it?” I asked. 

      “Yes, sir, bless you, although you won’t recognise me. That’s me, the little one in pigtails, at the front with the other children.”

      “And what about” - I scarcely dared ask, would she remember?

       “the old man with the bicycle, who is he?”

      “Oh,” she replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “that’s Willie Donaldson, a real character if ever there was one.” She began to clear away the dinner things.

      “Did you know him well?” I said, trying to delay her departure and keep her talking on the subject of Willie Donaldson. She seemed surprised at my interest but needed little prompting to continue talking. 

      “He was the village blacksmith and a bit of an inventor on the side. That bike there is one he designed and made himself. The Donaldson Flyer he called it, much to everyone’s amusement. He tried to get it patented, but it cost too much. A pity that; my father said it was a good machine that might have sold well had Willie been able to get financial backing. However, you can’t keep a good man down and after he retired Willie decided to go travelling on his bike and to write a book about it; a kind of travelogue that would be of interest to other cyclists. Said he was going to call it the Great Bike Book of Britain and that it would make him rich and famous.” 

     “And did it?” I asked. 

     “No,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, “but not for the want of trying. In the next two years Willie travelled far and wide, keeping a daily record of his journey in a log which he kept in his saddle bag. He used to send my father postcards from different parts of the country, which were read by all the village folk who used the Inn. After a while my father hung a map of Great Britain in the public bar and charted Willie’s progress by sticking drawing pins in the places he had passed through. One of the customers kept a count of how far he had cycled. By the time Willie reached Essex he had done over five thousand miles. The last postcard we got from him was posted in Southend, near London. It was the day before the Queen’s coronation. That evening he reached a small town called Ranleigh, or some such name, where his bicycle was stolen. The poor old chap hung about the place for several days, hoping to catch sight of it, but it was never seen again. Even worse was the loss of his precious manuscript with which he had hoped to make his name. He returned to the village soon after but was never the same man again. A few months later he was dead; died of a broken heart they say. I don’t doubt it, life can be cruel. What a pity he wasn’t to know that within a few weeks his saddle bag and the manuscript within it would be found and returned to the village. Of the bicycle there was no trace.”

      “And what became of the manuscript?” I asked. 

    She laughed, “It’s right behind you sir, in that glass case on the wall. No one knew what to do with it, so in the end all the regulars clubbed together to have it put on display. It wasn’t quite the fame he was hoping for, but I think the old fellow would have approved.” 

      I left the hotel the following day without disclosing the story of Willie’s ghostly apparitions. After pondering some while on what to do, I eventually wrote to the landlord and his wife, setting out the facts as I knew them and enclosing all the supporting evidence I could muster. With their agreement, and the support of the local antiquarian society, we had Willie’s manuscript published on the worldwide web, along with an account of his life and his equally colourful afterlife. To date the site has received over 400,000 hits and has achieved something approaching cult status.

      Willie’s ghost still continues to haunt the precincts of Holy Trinity, but we think that he quite likes the place now. He was last seen smiling broadly at the brass plate that we had fixed to the church lychgate. It reads, ‘Here is remembered William Donaldson, author of the Great Bike Book, who visited this town in June 1953. May he rest in peace’.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 My Sister’s face

By Janet Baldey

It was when my sister’s heart stopped beating that suspicion dawned.  We weren’t close and I’d been called to her bedside as her only living relative, my parents having recently died - I hadn’t attended their funeral, as I said, we weren’t close. 

I stared at the woman lying before me as if seeing her for the first time.  Framing her delicate features, glossy waves of ash blonde hair flowed over the pillow and not a single line marred her face.  Anne Marie looked no different from when I’d left home twenty years ago and I wondered - how could anyone who looked so well, be so dead?

         Her funeral did nothing to assuage my unease.  It was a lavish affair, obviously orchestrated from beyond the grave and without a doubt, my parent’s wishes had been followed explicitly. Anne-Marie’s ornate casket dominated the centre of a large private room in a luxurious hotel, sited in the best part of town.  The décor was immaculate, crystal sparkled and fine wine flowed.  Canapes were being handed round on silver platters by dark suited waiters and the mellow sound of harps was piped from every corner.  I couldn’t help wondering whether the arrangements would have been so extravagant if it had been my funeral.   I thought not.

         I weaved my way through the other mourners all suitably dressed in the obligatory black.  I knew none of these people, my parents always made sure I was kept out of the way when they held their soirees although Anne Marie was paraded before them, wearing yet another new party frock in some pastel shade or other.  My parents liked pale colours, which made me all the more determined not to.

         At last, I stood by the side of her coffin.  Again, I stared at her face, trying to find some family likeness. I searched hard but could see none.  She was fair and I was dark and all at once I saw myself through my parents’ eyes.  The plain and awkward younger daughter.  Then, suddenly something caught my eye and an icy hand squeezed my heart.  I gasped.  If one looked hard, as I was doing, you could see that her face was starting to degrade. Her hands were artfully arranged in front of her but instead of the blue tracery of veins, it looked as though they were strung together with wires.    The room began to jerk and dance around me and I clutched at the white satin lining the casket.  There was the sound of agitated whispering and I heard a low voice mutter something.  As limp as a wet lettuce, I slumped and, as I did, felt a strong arm hold me upright and I was escorted out of the room and into a small office where I was lowered into a chair.

         “Here. Drink this.”  A glass was pressed into my hand and reluctantly I took a sip.  Expecting water, I was shocked into consciousness as the bitter liquid burned my throat. 

         “We thought you knew.” 

         The voice came from Mr Ambrose, the family solicitor.  Open-mouthed, I watched him as the unthinkable sank in.   He must have read my expression, because his buttoned-up exterior, softened. 

“Don’t think too badly of them.  You must remember that before you came along they’d given up hope of ever having a child of their own.  So, they decided on the next best thing and hence Anne Marie.  She filled a need and very soon they grew to love her as if……”  His voiced trailed away.

         “as if she were real.”  My unspoken words finished off his sentence.  I was appalled.  I’d grown used to feeling inferior to Anne-Marie.  She was the bright, glowing elder daughter, the apple of my parent’s eyes, and I was the runt.  I saw the unease in Mr Ambrose’s eyes as he struggled for words and I wondered if he had any idea of what it had been like growing up in a family like mine.  Sometimes it felt as though I was an annoying fly on the wall, at best disregarded and at worse swatted out of the way.  All my parent’s ministrations were directed towards Anne-Marie.  My mother’s face lit up when she entered the room and immediately the spotlight fell upon her and I was ignored.  I could well understand why.  Tall, slim and poised, no blemish ever spoiled the perfection of her skin and she looked equally as good wearing her school uniform as she did the frothy dresses my parents chose for her. Clever too, all her grades were A-plus starred, as my parents were keen to tell their friends, disregarding their glazed eyes.   My A’s, B’s and occasional C’s were not mentioned.  I was the polar opposite of my brilliant elder sister and my looks were not helped by my sulky resentment.  It was a poisonous shock to realise all that time I’d been jealous of a facsimile.

         During my childhood, as far as I was aware, the only advantage I had was that I was healthy and Anne-Marie was not.  Every six months she failed, her complexion dulled her hair grew lank and she took to her bed.  Within days she was admitted to hospital.  “For treatment.  You must be very kind to her Trudy.”  There was invariably a look of reproof on my mother’s face as she said this.  To me, these hospital forays were a welcome respite.  For a week or so, I had my mother to myself and I was so happy.

         However, my delight never lasted long.  Inevitably Anne-Marie would re-appear and the status quo would resume.  Jealousy is a terrible thing, it defiles the soul and it wasn’t until I’d left home and met Laura that I found true contentment.  Laura was the one who bolstered my shattered ego, she was the one who praised the colour of my eyes, convinced me that I was slim and coaxed me out of shapeless garments and into high fashion.  However, even Laura could never have imagined what I now knew to be the truth and I wondered what her reaction would be. I felt a longing to be with her.  I yearned to listen to her voice, as calm as rippling water flowing over pebbles.  In her cool, matter-of fact way, she would make sense of people like my parents who preferred perfection over their own flesh and blood.

         I came to, realising that Mr Ambrose was talking to me.  “Of course, although your parents were wealthy people, looking after Anne-Marie was an expensive business, state of the art technology does not come cheap and there were all those upgrades…” He sighed.

         Upgrades, of course. That was what they were.  Anne-Marie had never seen the inside of a hospital, as such.  My head ached as I fought to come to terms with the fact that I had been fighting a robot and had lost.  Of course, I knew they were now common but the ones I’d seen were clunky-looking mannikins used for chores no-one else wanted to do.  I had no idea they had become so sophisticated.  Of course, money talked as it always did.

         I tried to concentrate on Mr Ambrose.  He was talking money now and as suddenly as if someone had thrown iced water over me, I came too.  The small sum he mentioned was, to me, not small at all.  If we were careful, and thrifty Laura would make sure we were, there was enough to make all our dreams come true. I felt like jumping for joy.  My past might have been a desert but I was head for the sunny uplands.

Copyright Janet Baldey

A JUBILEE CELIBRATION NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN

By Bob French

I had just cleared the arrivals terminal at Stansted when my mobile bleeped.  I was tired and hungry and all I really wanted to do was have a quiet beer and get my head down.  A taxi pulled up just as I stepped out into the bitter cold wind of May, causing me to curse the English weather.  That’s the problem with working overseas.  Whenever you got back to Blighty, it was always bloody freezing or raining. The driver asked me “Where to?”  and I told him to head towards Braintree, then rested my head back and drifted off.

My nap was interrupted by my mobile going off again, so I eased it out of my pocket and read it

”RV at 218-2115.2805”.

I smiled; always the James Bond. The text told me that Geoff, my brother, wanted to meet me at quarter past nine in the evening on the 28 of May at the pre-arranged Braintree Premier Inn, room 218. I was inquisitive as why he wanted me to get back to home for June. 

I had left Blighty some five years ago having completed my tour of duty with the Royal Marines and took a job out in Saudi Arabia teaching the Royal Body Guards close quarter protection. Even though Geoff wrote to me once in a while to tell me what he was up to and how much Mum missed me, I rarely replied. I knew he had found his niche as a wheeler and dealer; a sort of modern day ‘Dell Boy’, something I didn’t totally go along with.

Whenever I got any leave, I would normally go off scuba diving off the Seychelles or climbing in the Himalayas rather than go back to England, that was until I received his letter last month.  It sounded serious and that he needed my help, so I came.

The taxi dropped me off outside McDonalds where I grabbed a Big Mac and a coke and devoured them as I walked through the park to my home.  I let myself into my small hideaway bungalow on the outskirts of Braintree, emptied my kit into the washing machine and crashed on the sofa and started to think what my brother was up to.

Geoff was always involved in shady deals and if there was a lot of dosh involved, he’d take a chance.  I was surprised that he hadn’t yet come un-stuck with some of the low life he delt with.

It was raining on the evening of the 28^th of May, as I gave the pre-arranged knock-on room 218 and smiled.  Geoff pulled open the door and dragged me inside and gave me one of his hugs that nearly took my breath away.

“Good to see you, Mike.  How’s tricks?”

          After an hour of catch-up and some intense discussion about what the job was, I stood, nodded my acceptance and went towards the door. Geoff blocked my way, then hugged me again and started to reiterated the task.

          “Now remember Mike, it has to be done on the fifth of June at three in the afternoon at the Palace.  I smiled at the mention of the place and now how difficult it would be to gain access. There will be hundreds of people milling around all over the place and increased security around the Palace and throughout London.  I have been informed that it will be by invitation only, so you’re going to have to fix that, OK?  I will tell you who your target is nearer the day, until then just do your normal recce thing, look at your approaches, escape route, you know, all the usual stuff OK.”

I nodded and left the room, taking the back stairs to the car park and noticed that it had stopped raining. As I started to slowly walk home, I thought how I was to get close to my target without being noticed. There would be cameras all around and as Geoff said, Security would be beefed up. 

          I rose early on Monday the 30^th of May and walked down to the station and caught the train into London to recce the areas surrounding the Palace; the approaches, the security arrangements and possible exit routes including back-up plans in case things went west.  I could see the place was already getting ready for the Jubilee celebrations, but made sure I was not noticed.  I stayed until after three to make sure things didn’t change. Once I was happy with everything, I quietly made my way back to Braintree.

Plans and options rushed through my mind. I knew the whole city would be packed; with people wanting to see the celebrations being provided throughout the weekend. I was glad in a way that the job wasn’t on the same day as the thanks giving service at St Paul’s; being a good Irish Catholic, you never interfered with the business of God, no matter how important. 

It was late on Thursday the second of June, when I received a phone call from Geoff. All he said was the name of the target, before the phone went dead. I sat stunned.  The one person I would love and serve until my dying day. So I finished off my pizza from Dominos and relaxed back into my easy chair with a beer to watch the TV.  Everything was set.

The morning of fifth of June was a bright sunny day as I drove my hire car to Hatfield Peverel and parked up.  Bought a return ticket into London with cash and waited for the Colchester Train to arrive.  When it did, it was packed with revelers, all singing and waving Union flags and singing, so I mingled with them.

Geoff had explained the need for timing so I gauged my arrival in London to give me bags of time to approach the Palace, sus out the security before gaining access and doing the job.

As I sat in the park eating a cheese and chutney sandwich, I listened to the noise of the crowds as they filed past, some singing, some already too far gone with drink. Then I hear a church bell chime in the distance and knew it was three o’clock. I knew from experience that if someone else knew when a job was going down, the first thing you did was arrive late, so the security bods would think it was a hoax and relax.

Binning the remains of the sandwich, I casually strolled towards the Palace.  I could see that the surrounding areas were packed and security had been beefed up but I had a distraction planed.  At exactly ten past three, the two kids I had given five pounds to and some Chinese fire crackers, set them off.  Instantly the two Men in Black turned and ran towards the threat.  I slipped past them into a busy stateroom full of people.  The heat of the place and the smell of tobacco and stale beer hit me in the face as I quickly glanced around the room, until my eyes fell on a very elderly white-haired woman in an elegant pink dress sitting in an arm chair with a Corgi sat at her feet. 

I made a determined move towards her, but it was too late.  I had been identified and people were starting to point at me and screaming; some running towards me.  I had to get close to my target so started to increase my pace. I could see the fear in her eyes, then she put up her arms as though to stop me, and screamed.

I knelt down and took her hands.

“Hi Mum, I’m home. Happy birthday.” 

Copyright Bob French

Up cycling

 Up cycling 

 

By Rob Kingston

 

On the side is a jumper. It’s a colourful jumper with a pattern that speaks of a journey.

It has buttons now, the buttons are not the same size nor colour, with one standing out with a picture of a clock. Closer inspection reveals it is buttonholed to the right.

 

learning to write

with his best arm behind

war soldier

 

morning news…

in Ukraine a surgeon 

teaches skin grafts

to seventy students

in a week

 

Tylywoch ~ 18

 Tylywoch ~ 18  Reaction Force

By Len Morgan 

“Hello sister,” said Soren, smiling broadly.   “Soon after you left, pigeons began to arrive, and the council felt it expedient to send you some additional support.”

“It's good to see you brother,” She smiled warmly. Hildi arrived half an hour later, and Mynach a quarter of an hour after that.   Galt outlined the current situation for them.

“The main force of 36 Tylywoch will be in the throne room with ‘the Divine Light’.   There are a dozen or more detained in the cells beneath the palace, caught out by the speed and ferocity of the Surbatt attack.   There are three quads currently in contact with us and two deep Non-Operational units acting independently who will have been activated by the situation, they will have their own agenda and should be discounted” he explained.

“Galyx has gone in to gain intelligence and to release as many as possible of our people and red guardsmen held below” Weilla added, "We need to know what is happening, whilst providing as much support as possible.   Galyx went in openly, but I think we should employ stealth.  They are guarding against a possible breakout but won’t be expecting a break-in.   We need manpower for guerrilla warfare, and the prisoners will know the territory.   The four of us should be able to get in fast, and clean up the guard as we go…”

 “No!” said Galt firmly, “my daughter Schell is an espionage specialist, she will go with your quad.   You are now the commander and our only remaining Generalist, if Galyx is dead your job will be to coordinate and lead, you must leave the doing to others!" 

“Your right of course I should have grasped the situation immediately.   It's likely there are other ways into the palace, do you know any of them Schell?”

“I do.”

“Good, then you will lead the quad.   Avoid open combat on the way in if possible, we don’t want the Surbatt alerted until we have release the prisoners.   Take out the guards if possible but hide them well.   Get Galyx out with as many of our people as possible, if the red guard want to join us, release them too but leave them in no doubt that we are in charge!   If you have sufficient force to take the palace do so, otherwise, get out, and get back here." 

They slipped past the external guards with ease.   They scaled the turret tower walls and overpowered the guards on the roof, beneath the dome, three levels and sixty feet above ground. The guards hold have keys that would allowing them access to the upper level rooms.   There were five guards to silence, each increasing the possibility that one might be missed.   Descending to the second level they discovered three off duty officers.  Unfortunately, they were silenced before Mynach could listen to their speech and mimic it.   Then, as so often happens, chance took a hand.   They heard raised voices below on the first level, upon investigation, they were coming from the first room at the bottom of the stairs… 

Mynach stopped to listen at the door whilst the other three passed him and entered the second room.

“Don’t be an idiot man!  How long have you been a captain in the 7^th?   Long enough to know that a member of the Surbatt should not be dismissed out of hand, regardless of rank.   He will now report your intransigence to prince Taleen, you could find yourself back in the ranks but then I’m only a simple sergeant what do I know?   Do us both a favour and hand him over to the Surbatt, it would make our lives so much easier…”

“You're right old friend, we’ve been through a lot together you and I.   God, but it's so much easier in combat.   All we have to do is face the foe and kill him.   The problem is he's not just an old friend, he also happens to be right!”

“Then sign the order and let's be rid of him, he may be a decent chappie but he’s political suicide.”   There was a short pause in the conversation when all Mynach could hear was the unmistakable scratching of goose quill on parchment.

“There it's done, but hold onto it and only hand it over as a last resort, after all else has failed, that’s a direct order sergeant Lakei!”

“Aye sir, Captain sir.” Said the crusty sergeant.

“This is how we proceed,” the voices went very low at this point and could not be heard.   The others failed to emerge from the second room, but the lack of an alarm meant they had been successful.   Hearing heavy footfalls approaching the door Mynach retreated up the stairs out of the line of sight.   Seconds later the sergeant, a heavy built man, emerged from the captains quarters and went to the second door.

“Roust yerselves me laddies, Captain Vadeem has a wee job fer us,” he yelled, thumping on the door with a huge hammer-like fist.

He’s a Northerner, from the hills, a career soldier, he isn’t native to the seventh Clan, Mynach noted.

“D’ya hear me!” he yelled opening the door and diving in.

He’s not used to being ignored, Mynach thought as he heard the big man grunt and the sound of him hitting the floor.   Soren’s face appeared and broke into a smile waving Mynach down.   Moments later he was, dressed in the sergeants uniform, strutting as the older man had done.   By then, Captain Vadeem had also been overpowered and bound securely.   Soren fixed the lock so it wouldn’t open to a key and they headed for the lower levels, spending as little time as possible on the heavily manned ground floor.

“Roust yerselves me laddies, Captain Vadeem has need of your assistance in a leetle matter!” said Mynach loudly,  a perfect imitation of Lakei’s voice.  He thumped the heavy wooden door on the lower level.  The bolts were shot sharply, and the door opened.   Mynach swaggered in heading towards the nearest closed cell door, “Open it!” he commanded.   The soldier turned back to bar the main door, then ran to do as the sergeant ordered, taking a bunch of keys from a shelf outside the cell door, it was his last action in this world.   “Tylywoch?” Mynach said in a loud voice.

“Third cell on your right” a voice answered from within.   “There are four guards, one is in the tunnel to the left, and two in the guard room at the end of the passage, I take it the turnkey is no longer with us?”

Hildi headed for the tunnels, the quad would take care of the other two.   “Your name is?” Mynach enquired.

“Lieutenant Veille of the Red guard, cousin to the empress our ‘Divine Light’, at your service.”

“Thank you Lieutenant, we are going to get you all out of here and take back the palace, depending on opportunity and happenstance.   We will have need of your red guard, but only loyal warriors who are prepared to give their lives freely for the Empress.”

“She lives!” Veille said with relief.  A cheer went up from the prisoners.

“As do you and I.   We will need help to release your men quickly and quietly.”

“Sergeant!” he called.   As Mynach and Veille shook hands warmly an older man stepped forward taking the keys.

“Leave it to me, sir.   Outside, quick and quiet” he said to the occupants of the cells, “line up against the far wall out of sight of the door grill.”   They acted swiftly with military precision. 

Hildi acknowledged Mynach with a nod as she passed the cell door, handing him a short sword, which he duly passed to the sergeant.

“Arm yourselves with what you can find.   As we break out, captured weapons will be passed back to those behind you,” said Mynach. 

“Galyx is not here!” Soren reported as the prisoners lined up in the tunnels.   There were twenty cells, with 10-12 occupants in each. 

“They’re all out now” said Schell.

“He's not here,” Hildi confirmed.

“Your seeking Galyx?” asked one of the elder Tylywoch.   “He was never brought here, there must be another location?”

“Lieutenant Veille, where else would they hold an important prisoner for interrogation.” 

“There’s another guard post on the opposite side of the palace,” he answered at once.   “It can be reached from outside the palace, or through the palace.

“There is another way,” said Schell, “over the rooftops, under the dome.”

“Yes, but the tunnels will get you across the palace, below ground, safer, quicker, and with a lot less hassle.   However, you would need somebody who is familiar with the route or you could get lost forever down there,” said the Red Guard sergeant.   “I just happen to have a man who could get us through blindfolded.   Hibbs!”

“Yes sergeant!” said a small mousy man stepping smartly forward.  

“Hibbs, was the ‘subterranean sanitary official’ before the attack.   He ensured that miles of tunnels were clean and relatively clear of vermin.”

Hibbs gave them a gap toothed grin, “Oi know dem tunnels loik der winkles on me babies bum.” He assured them.   “Ders no map, it's all in heer.” He tapped his head three times to emphasise his point.  

“We need to know the numbers and location of the enemy forces.   We need to know who is loyal to the empire, and who we can rely on in a fight.   What are you views lieutenant?” Schell asked.

“The Red Guard are even more impartial than the Tylywoch, they are non-sectarian.   They are the pick of the empire, selected from the very best men of all Clans.   You can rely on my men 100%.  All are loyal to the Corps and fanatically loyal to ‘the Divine Light’.   I will stake my life on that!” 

“You may need to do so, I hope your faith is justified.   We will be sending a quad by each of the suggested routes.   Those who go over the rooftops and conventional routes will be given fifteen minutes grace before we attack the troops in the barracks nearest to us.   The primary objective is to grab arms, supplies, and gain intelligence.   We then allow them to force us back into the dungeons.   We will carry out a fierce fighting retreat, bar the doors, and go into the tunnels.   Our main force will start off into the tunnels even before we set the bars in place.   The rear-guard must be a swift mobile and fierce unit.   They will have to keep the enemy in sight and off our backs until they are completely lost in the tunnels, then they must be able to vanish like smoke.”

“How far would you say we will have to lead them to accomplish that Mr Hibbs?” asked the lieutenant.

“I doubt dem coves could memrise more dan ten er twelve turns, afore dey ferget der modders name.   In der heat o’battle it cud be cunsidrubly less…”

“How long would it take them to find their way out?” he pressed.

“If dey’r extremely lucky six hours, if not two days…   or more...”

“Good!   The fighting should be long over by the time they get out.   The more we can lure inside the better,” said Schell.   “Thank you, gentlemen.”

[To be continued] 

By Len Morgan

 

  IF   [Part 2 of 2]

by Richard Banks           
    

          The last few words slip out before I know I’ve said them. I’ve gone too far, that’s not what I want. I wait nervously for his response. He’s silent and by the look on his face, he hasn’t a clue what next to say. Fortunately for him, the waiter comes over with our meals and our only conversation is with him. Brad takes up his knife and fork and makes an incision in the steak he has ordered before relegating both implements to the side of his plate. He buries his face in both hands and then with a deep sigh begins to gather his thoughts. “I’m not cut out for this,” he says.

 

         What follows could be him talking to himself or him to me; I’m not sure even he knows which. “It shouldn’t be in my job description,” he mutters. He mutters on. Some guys have the gift of the gab, but he’s not one of them. He should be running agents, taking part in covert operations. That’s what he's good at. He’s a doing sort of guy. Pussy footing about sweet talking people out of their secrets is not what he signed up for; at least he didn’t think so. He only wished he had checked-out the small print in his contract. It’s not right, he never wanted to do it, he’s sorry, he couldn’t be more sorry.

 

         My brain’s racing trying to keep up with all this, then the penny drops. He’s CIA and this has everything to do with my job in MI6, but that doesn’t explain Ronnie. How does he fit into all this, whatever ‘this’ is?

         Brad still has his head in his hands and a tear is trickling through his fingers. At last, he steadies himself, gives his face a quick wipe with his serviette and raises his eyes towards mine. “You’re still here,” he says.

         “Yes,” I say, “I’m still here, and I want some answers.”

         “Shoot.”

         “CIA?”

         “Yeah. AMB as well, but that’s mainly a front.”

         “So, why Ronnie, why me for that matter? but let’s start with Ronnie. What makes him so interesting?”

         “He’s a Russian agent.”

         “What?”

         “Been passing-on classified information for nearly two years; then we close in on him and overnight he disappears. Probably back in Moscow by now. His real name, if you’re interested, is Aleksey Platonov. We assumed the two of you were part of the same cell but when we asked MI6 to pull you in for questioning they closed ranks around you. Even when the top brass in Washington got involved the answer was still no, which led us to believe that you were being protected by a high ranking mole in the command structure.”

         “You must be joking,” I say. “I’m just a paper pusher. All the important people work on the fourth floor up. I’m on the ground floor, in the post room.”

         “What about Martin Frost?”

         “What about him!”

         “You know him?”

         “Yes, I know who he is, but so does everyone else in MI6. I’ve never even met him.”

         “But you did, for nearly half an hour at the Department’s Christmas party. By all accounts, he was very taken with you.”

         “I spoke to dozens of people that night. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

         Brad reflects solemnly on what I have said. “Well, you can understand how it looked, so the Agency decided that if the Brits weren’t going to investigate you, then it had to be us. However, we couldn’t do it officially, which is why I was given the job of discovering the truth without the Brits knowing, and, if possible, without you knowing. What a mess I made of that.”

         “So, you never really loved me; it was just your assignment. How dare you!” I take a firm grip on my plate with the intention of covering him with everything on top of it, but his own hand shoots out and closes around mine.

 

         “But I do, I mean love you. From the first time I saw you in Oxford Street, flouncing along in your blue dress and that goofy straw hat I was head over heels. Even if I hadn’t been ordered to follow you into the first bar or restaurant you stopped off at I would have done so anyway. You didn’t make it easy for me. If you had turned out to be the self absorbed, stuck-up bitch I was half expecting I would soon have come to my senses, but you weren’t. You were smart, funny, good company and utterly adorable. When you took off your shades your eyes sparkled like the sea off Palm Beach, and all I wanted was to dive right in.”

         “And what a splash you made. But you were playing me. I thought it was all about you and me. You don’t play with other people’s lives, not if you really care!”

         “OK, but hear me out. I was supposed to have everything sorted in a couple of weeks but I couldn’t go through with it. After three they told me to get a move on or I would have to spike your drink with this new tongue loosener that has side-effects likely to put you in hospital. So, at last, I got down to doing what they wanted me to do; and that brings us up to today. I knew from the off you were no spy but I needed proof, for you to tell me things you thought were going no further than me. It didn’t happen. Mission over, objective not achieved.”

         “So, what happens next?”

         “I make my report and you tell your people what I tried to do. There’s a diplomatic spat, I get fired for telling you what I was up to, and if that’s construed as aiding and abetting the enemy I’ll be serving time behind bars. Probably no more than I deserve.”

         “And what’s the alternative, I imagine there’s an alternative.”

         “There’s always an alternative. You say nothing to your people and I’ll tell mine that my deception was completely successful and that all the things you told me pointed to your innocence.”

         “So, you’re off the hook and I stop being a person of interest to the CIA. Game over and everyone goes back to the way they were?”

         “If that’s what you want. But if not we could let the dust settle, quit our jobs and take-up ranching.”

         “Do what!”

         “You heard. It’s the family business. We’ve got 200,000 acres in Oklahoma state. Dad wants me back home and on the board, thinks I’ve served my country long enough; that’s why he’s jetting over next month. Join me. You will need to earn your keep of course. It’s a hard life ranching, long hours in the saddle and the steers aren’t the best of company, but if that’s not to your liking we could always find you something else to do. We’re diversifying into real estate and retail. There’ll be no shortage of post rooms and who knows what opportunities await you on the floors up above. You can do whatever you want, or do nothing at all. Whatever makes you happy.”

         “If you’re hankering for a cowgirl I’ll be needing more than a ring through the nose.”

         “Is that a yes?”

         “You haven’t asked me yet.”

 

         “You’re putting a lot of pressure on a man who was nearly wearing your dinner. I’m asking, of course, I’m asking. Ladies and gentleman, everyone in the restaurant, I want you to be my witness. I’m asking this young woman to be my wife, to make me the happiest, most fortunate man since Moses was pulled out of the bulrushes by Pharaoh's daughter. And if that don’t count because Moses was a baby at the time then I’m definitely top of the list. Make it happen, honey! What do you say?”

         I decide to keep him waiting. “I’ll think about it.” 

 

[The End]  

 

Copyright Richard Banks      

            

             

                                

Haiga ~ Stumped...

 Stumped... 

by Robert Kingston

Copyright Robert Kingston

IF [Part 1 of 2]

 IF 

by Richard Banks 

        If I had turned left into Regent Street, like I intended, instead of continuing down Oxford Street we would never have met; call it fate, call it an absent minded moment, call it what you will, it should never have happened, but somehow it did. At the time I couldn’t have been more pleased. Well, let’s face it he’s quite a hunk and having just become unengaged I was definitely in need of someone to boost my self-esteem. Not that I was looking for anything serious, well not this soon, but I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, and being out and about with someone else was the best way to avoid that. Anyway, as I say, he was quite a hunk and in the looks department a definite upgrade on the departed Ronnie. Perhaps, I thought, the rumour would get around that I had dumped Ronnie so I could be with him. I wouldn’t say this of course but on the other hand I wouldn’t deny it. 

         The reality was that Ronnie had dumped me but no one knew this for sure except, I guess, his own friends and his friends were not to be found among mine. I was safe to construct my own version of events and with Brad on my arm and the widest of grins on my face, no one was going to mistake me for a jilted lover. Of course, I was not unhopeful that Brad might prove to be the real thing, whatever that is. He was good looking, in a Ryan Gosling sort of way, charming and wearing all the right labels. He was also American and had come to London to set-up a new office for a company called AMB. What AMB did I never really found out but it must have been a thriving business for they were paying Brad more dosh than he knew what to do with. So, why shouldn’t he be spending some of it on me? No reason at all, I thought, and if he’s single, like he says he is, who knows where this might end up. 

         But if is a big word. One ‘if’ had brought us together and the next might well see us apart. Was there a band of skin on his ring finger that was slightly less tanned than the rest of his hand? It was a fine judgement that was soon rendered impossible by the additional colouring of a warm summer sun. If he had a ring he certainly wasn’t slipping it on and off to suit the company he was in, and when he said that his father would soon be visiting and looked forward to meeting me I was,  needless to say, reassured. Indeed, I rather hated myself for doubting him. Why shouldn’t Brad be for real? Of course, he was attracted to me, and for all the right reasons, or at least all the usual ones. 

         Well, why shouldn’t a man appreciate an attractive woman? I like to be looked at, and admired. I take a lot of trouble over my appearance, I dress well, make the most of what I have, and on a balmy July day the sight of me in a summer dress, high heels and expensive shades will always be worth a second, lingering glance. Of course, I don’t rely entirely on my looks, I don’t have to, I’ve been to college, got the equivalent of a degree. If a man wants clever conversation, then no problem. I’m a chameleon, and for the right sort of man, I can be anything I need to be which makes me wonder why things ended so badly with Ronnie. What was it I did wrong? He never said.        

       Anyway, why am I still thinking of him? Brad’s my man now and judging by our first few weeks together I’m doing everything just fine. And if he’s thinking the same thing about himself he couldn’t be more right. We’re a team, the dream team and there’s not a west-end club or restaurant that don’t recognise us and treat us like A-listers. Well, why not, and if no one knows what it is we actually do that only adds to our appeal.        

But, what do we know about each other? “It’s important, to be honest,” Brad says, so he starts to unravel his past and how he works for this American company that’s also big in Europe and Iceland. Why Iceland, I’m thinking? Did I hear that bit right, probably I didn’t. What I was really listening out for was the nitty gritty of his personal life. Heaven forbid he has a skeleton in the cupboard that’s going to throw a spanner in the works - if that what skeletons do - but the worse he can come up with is that he was once engaged to a girl who broke it off because he voted Democrat.

         “But that’s wonderful,” I say.

         “Are you sure?” he replies, looking less than convinced.

         “Of course it is,” I assure him, “it’s yet another thing we have in common,” and I tell him about Ronnie and his sad lack of commitment.

         “What a jerk,” he says, and for the next half hour we talk about nothing else but Ronnie, how we met, what he did, what we talked about and, was I possibly still in touch with him. At first this is cute, he’s showing concern, empathy, I think, but after a while it’s sounding like he’s more into Ronnie than me. When the answers to his questions become shorter and occasionally a little tetchy he takes the hint and switches the conversation to his former beau who, he says, wasn’t a patch on me.

         “Wasn’t?” I say, “what about now?” 

         He says he doesn’t know about now having not seen her in over a year, but he doesn’t suppose she’s changed much in that time. “Anyway,” he says, “I don’t care no more about her. Why should I? When you have prime steak in the grill why go out for a burger.”

         While the analogy is less than flattering the mention of food at least reminds him that we haven’t eaten since lunch. If he wants me to stay over until Monday he will have to feed me, and it won’t be at MacDonald's.

         We go to Santini’s. They are fully booked but after a short negotiation involving a £20 note the waiter changes his mind and we are seated in an alcove that’s just big enough to take the two of us. The lights are low and it looks as though everything’s set for a romantic evening. Perhaps he’s going to propose, I think. After only a few weeks together that hardly seems likely but who knows. Best to be prepared, I think, so what will I say? “Yes!” of course. If he was filthy rich and old enough to be my father I would still be saying yes but Brad’s not, I mean old enough to be my father. He’s young, gorgeous and loaded in more ways than one. Of course, I’m going to say yes. But then, what do I say and do next? Should I throw myself across the table and into his arms – probably not a good idea if the food’s been served – or be lost for words and shedding tears of joy, like I once saw Greta Garbo do in that old WWII movie. 

         Fortunately, while all this is going through my head Brad is ordering the wine, the one I like, which he says is, “so so.” Yes, this is it, I’m thinking. He’s looking serious and more than a little nervous. There’s definitely something he wants to get off his chest.

“About Ronnie,” he says.

What! I’m thinking, but manage not to say.

         “I’m sorry to keep on about him but I think we should be totally honest with each other. After all, I told you everything about me and Lana. It don’t seem fair if I know less than you.”

         “OK,” I say, “what do you want to know, but make it quick. I don’t want to be talking about this in ten minutes time.”

         He winces as though this is not going to be anywhere near enough.

         “Cut to the chase,” I say.       

     So he does. He’s heard that our break-up had something to do with the job I do. “Is that so?” he asks. Before I answer he wants me to know that whatever I say is between the two of us, no one else. “Lovers should have no secrets, whatever they might be.”        

    This is definitely not the way it should be. Secrets should be exactly that. But what the heck is this all about? Why is he connecting Ronnie to my job. There is no connection. Ronnie knew nothing about it, apart from what I told him which is what I tell everyone. I’m a clerk in the Civil Service I say. “Oh,” they reply, “how interesting” which is not what they’re thinking and the conversation moves on to other things in double quick time. I explain this to Brad who asks which department I work for. Something tells me that he already knows this which poses the question ‘how,’ swiftly followed by, why does he want to know? This is creeping me out. I thought I knew this man but maybe I don’t. Time to put the ball back into his court, so I have a strop like the one I had before. 

         “Ronnie’s yesterday’s news,” I tell him, “he’s history and I don’t want to hear his name mentioned again, he has nothing to do with my work, never had. Now let it go or I’ll have to let you go.”

         The last few words slip out before I know I’ve said them. I’ve gone too far, that’s not what I want. I wait nervously for his response.

[To be continued.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks