PASSING ON

by Richard Banks 

       As he nervously walked up the Pearly Way Harry reflected with quiet satisfaction on the final scene of his life. It had been a traditional, old fashion death, well attended by his nearest and dearest.  He had gone out in style, consoling his wife and exhorting her to marry again should the opportunity arise. As she was nearly seventy-six he hardly expected that it would but Harry felt the occasion demanded a magnanimous gesture. He lectured his children telling them to live good lives, and forgave his sister and brother-in-law for misdemeanours committed so long ago he was at a loss to remember what they were. With his last words, he commended his soul to ‘his Maker’ and then, by some inexplicable process, found himself ascending this strange spiral stairway in his pyjamas. 

         It had been a long climb and Harry was beginning to despair of ever reaching the top when yet another loop in the stairway brought him abruptly onto a small, gloomy landing within four grey walls of unadorned concrete. A light bulb hung limply from the ceiling dimly illuminating two adjacent doors and an overflowing dustbin. 

         Harry took a deep intake of breath. He had never been very fortunate with doors. He remembered, with acute embarrassment, the occasion when he had inadvertently walked into the ladies loo at Geneva airport and been repulsed by a large German woman brandishing an umbrella. On that occasion there had been a sign that should have guided him, but now he was confronted by two almost identical doors. If he were dead, he thought, and that seemed a reasonable assumption, these might, perhaps, be the portals to heaven and hell. They seemed inauspicious portals but the thought carried just enough conviction to make Harry consider his next move very carefully. He sensed that once he opened one of the doors there would be no going back, that he would be drawn inexorably into whatever lay beyond. He remembered a medieval painting he had once seen in which tormented souls were being thrown into a fiery furnace by ape-like creatures wielding tripods; this was definitely something to be avoided. 

         He crept forward towards the left hand door half expecting it to fly open and for someone or thing to rush out at him. Dropping down onto both knees he peered short-sightedly into the narrow gap between door and floor. The impenetrable darkness behind the door was unbroken by demonic bonfires or celestial light. He listened for the singing of hymns or the cry of tormented souls but heard nothing but his own heavy breathing. Crawling across to the other door he made the same observations with the same outcome. For several minutes he remained on all fours, deep in thought and only vaguely aware of the numbing effect of the cold floor on stiff limbs. He struggled to his feet only to find that one of them was now devoid of sensation and unable to support his weight. He tottered drunkenly and with a great flapping of arms fell heavily against the right-hand door which flew open with a resounding bang. To his horror there was a startled exclamation from within and, after the briefest of pauses, the sound of approaching footsteps. A neon light flickered on and Harry found himself staring at two stockinged feet in a pair of open-toed sandals. A bespectacled face peered down at him with unconcealed suspicion. 

         “Can I help you?” she demanded in a tone of voice that suggested she would rather not.

         He sheepishly struggled to his feet. To his surprise the thin, sharp-featured woman of middle years who had towered over him was no taller than himself. While this was reassuring, her appearance, he decided, was less than angelic; he began to fear he might be in ‘the other place’ or at least in a place not much to his liking. “I’m not sure where I am,” he stammered. 

         “Well, where are you wanting to go?” 

         “I’m not altogether clear,” said Harry, the last thing he expected was to be offered a choice. “You see, I’ve only just arrived.” 

         “Oh, so you’re a new entrant then. Why didn’t you say?” Her expression melted to the approximation of a smile. “You had better come in. Take a seat over there;” she pointed to a wooden bench that reminded Harry of a church pew – his hopes were beginning to rise. 

         “There’s just a few formalities to take care of. First of all I need to see your AR1.”

         “My AR1?” he repeated. 

         “Yes, your AR1,” she insisted. “Didn’t they give you one at reception?” 

         Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. He recalled passing an unoccupied desk on a landing someway below; perhaps he should have waited, but then patience had never been one of his virtues. 

         “It’s the pink form,” the woman persisted, “the one headed ‘Application for Residence’. Surely you have one?”

         There was no need for words, the look on Harry’s face clearly indicating that the first link in the paper chain of post-life bureaucracy had been found wanting. 

         The woman frowned heavily. “Most irregular,” she muttered, “I suppose you are on the list? What’s your name? Mr?” 

         “Oldcastle, Harry Oldcastle,” replied Harry, grateful at last to be asked a question to which he knew the answer. 

         The woman disappeared into an adjoining room and re-emerged a few moments later with a clipboard to which was attached a list of some twenty names. With evident relief she discovered Harry’s name towards the bottom of the sheet. “Oh yes, here you are. According to this you should have been with us this morning. Your wife has been in the Reunion Room nearly all day.”  

         “My wife?” repeated Harry, “is she here too? 

         “Yes, of course. Doris has been with us for nearly four years. She’s really looking forward to seeing you again.”

         “But my wife’s name is Laura,” protested Harry 

         The woman’s expression changed to one of alarm. “You are Henry Oldcastle of Rochester Way, Bexley….  Aren’t you?”

         “No,” said Harry, “I live in Southend, at least I did until this afternoon.” 

         “Oh no!” she groaned through fingers that had suddenly enveloped her mouth and nose. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m afraid there’s been...how can I put it… an administrative error.”

         There was an uneasy silence. “What happens now?” asked Harry.

         “You will have to go back.”

         “Isn’t that going to be a little difficult?” 

         “Difficult yes, impossible no,” said the woman firmly. “Remember Lazarus?” 

                                                ***** 

         Harry opened both eyes and was immediately dazzled by a bright light from above. For a moment he wondered whether he had made it into Heaven; then he remembered the woman’s last words. He blinked several times dazzled by the translucent glow of the glass lampshade above the double bed on which he lay. At the same time he became aware of several conversations taking place about him. Through half open eyes he noted that most of the people who had been present at his ‘passing’ were still there. He wondered how they would react to his ‘passing back’. It was bound to be a shock, he thought. He considered how best to break the news. After a few minutes reflection he decided to make some small movement or sound that would allow someone to discover that he was not as dead as they thought he was. Then, as they hurried to his side seeking further signs of life, he would slowly ‘come to’ smiling benignly at their anxious faces and expressing his astonishment at his strange lapse into unbreathing inertia. Well, he could hardly tell them what had happened, no one would believe that!   

         He began by moving an arm slowly across the eiderdown towards the side of the bed. When this wasn’t noticed he affected a palsy-like tremor allowing the hand to drop over the side and swing back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. 

         The steady hum of conversation continued unabated. He raised his head slightly off the pillow and took stock of the dozen or so persons conversing in several small groups. To his surprise, none of the conversations taking place seemed to be about him. Young Matt was regaling one group with an animated account of Tottenham Hotspur’s last home game, while cousin George was telling an inappropriate joke about a travelling salesman and his involvement with a young woman of inconspicuous virtue. Occasionally the shrill tones of Vicky, Laura’s older sister, could be heard relating the details of her recent operation to the vicar who was looking wistfully towards the door. 

         Abandoning his previous attempts at subtlety Harry emitted a loud groan just as a collective guffaw greeted the punch line of George’s joke. For a moment he thought they were laughing at him and he indignantly sat up only to realise that they were blissfully unaware of his reanimated presence. It occurred to him that his short excursion into the after-life had rendered him invisible and mute. The thought of being relegated to observer status in some kind of fourth dimension threw him into a sudden panic. “Can nobody hear me!” he bellowed in a voice that was heard halfway down the street. “Can you….?” He stopped in mid-sentence as twelve horrified faces stared back at him in disbelief.

         A loud thud greeted Vicky’s sudden descent onto the floor. Almost immediately she was trampled underfoot by Matt whose attempt to flee the room coincided with Laura’s coming in with a tray of teas. The tray flew upwards almost hitting the ceiling before a mixture of broken crockery and hot tea ricocheted, like shrapnel, onto the heads of those below. Vicky leapt back to her feet with remarkable agility for someone of her age and cannoned into George who, for reasons he is still unable to explain, aimed a punch at the vicar who staggered back against the light switch plunging the room into darkness.

         At this point, Harry reached the unlikely conclusion that his intervention in the melee was needed to restore order. Attempting to step out of bed his feet became entangled in the sheets and he too collapsed, head first onto the floor. Someone screamed, “he’s coming!” and there was a panic-stricken rush to exit the room. Pursuing them down the stairs he arrived at the front door just in time to see Vicky abandon her Zimmer frame for the back seat of Matt’s motor bike.

         “Come back,” he shouted, as the bike careened wildly down the middle of the road, narrowly missing George. “You don’t understand, I’m not really dead. It was an administrative error!”

 

The End

Copyright Richard Banks

 

The Moon Belt (Part 1 of 2)

 The Moon Belt (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

“Sarge, look at this!”

“What is it, Proby?” 

Sherry was just three months out of the police academy; the new girl(a probationer).  She gestured urgently so Cheu looked over her shoulder at the tapes of the Jewel Heist that went down the previous evening…

“So what, it’s the heist, we’ve all seen it!”  Several colleagues sensed a putdown, so gathered behind him to share in the joke. 

“Don’t you see Sarge, there were four of them, not three…” 

“Run it from the start Proby.”

  They watched as the robbery took place.  Three Perps in Trump masks burst in through the main door, with automatic weapons, one fired in the air to get everyone’s attention.  They disarmed the security guard, took his keys, and locked the doors.

“Everybody down on the floor, NOW!” The five customers present did as asked.

“Hands on your heads, don’t make no rash moves!”

“He’s the leader,” Mell commented.

“Ya don’t say,” Amellio replied. 

They watched the tape from start to finish, “So, what did you see?” Cheu asked.

“Well,” Sherry rewound it two-thirds, and stopped it.  “You can see a man's arm and shoulders far right, he rolls over and turns a half-moon stud on his belt upside down,” she advanced the tape one frame at a time… and the man was there then he was gone… “How do you like them apples?” she rewound and played the tape again and again.  “One more thing, there’s a door at the rear behind the display counter, it was closed when they entered, now it’s open…

“Tapes been doctored, stans to reason,” Mell said, “she’s pullin your chain Sarge.” 

“Mell, shut it!  You and what’s your name Proby?”

“Reed sir, Sherry Reed.” 

“You and Reed. Check outside camera’s in the area, I want chapter and verse on their getaway, see if any cameras got the license plate on that blue Toyota or sight of the driver.”

“On it Sarge!” 

“Tonni get forensics to re-check that tape.” 

.-…-. 

They checked on all the nearby stores, no joy. As they returned to their patrol car something caught her eye, a glint of light from a fifth floor window in the tenements opposite. 

“We should check out the apartments in that high-rise Mell, just saw a flash in a fifth floor window, could be a camera up there.”

They canvassed the facing apartments on the fifth floor.  She showed her badge to a woman in 116.  There was something about her; she acted furtive as if she couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. 

 “Can I use your rest room please?” Sherry asked.

The woman hesitated then nodded, “Second left.” 

Sherry gazed at the thin-faced young redhead returning her gaze from the medicine cabinet.  She would not go far with her ‘plain Jane looks’.  She smiled as she recalled her mother's rhyme ‘A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes the girl look exactly what she aint,’ must get me some lippy she thought.  Nothing suspicious in the cabinets. 

Her Mum had arrived in New York, aged 20, in the 1980’s, as a reporter for the London Times, she’d retired to New Hampshire three years ago. 

As she closed the cabinet Sherry saw the reflection of a heavy belt hanging on a hook behind the door.  It had the metallic half-moon adornment on it, she recognised immediately.  It was heavy so she fastened it around her waist as evidence; easier to carry she thought.  She came out of the rest room, and gave Mell a warning nod. 

“Is there anybody else on the premises,” Mell asked, pointing to the door of a  second room; “bedroom?” 

“No!  Don’t go in there,” the woman became alarmed. 

Mell drew his gun, “Don’t move!”

Sherry opened the door, and lying on the bed fully clothed was the disappearing suit, still wearing the twin of the belt she was wearing; ’two’ she thought.  His hand went to the belt; she thought he had a gun, so she grabbed him.

“Get off me bitch!” she clung on; she saw Mell and the woman now still like statues. 

The man struggled hard and wrestled himself free, but she had already cuffed him.  His struggles were incredibly fast, he looked like a shadow.  She knew he couldn’t get away, but he hit her with a heavy blow that sent her to her knees.  She pulled out her stick and struck at where he appeared to be suddenly he reappeared, clutching at his leg.  She struck him again, hard, and he lay still.  She removed his belt and turned the half-moon tag to upright and clipped it around her shoulder… 

Mell and the woman were now moving at normal speed, “Cuff her Mell! They took part in the robbery.”

“How do you know,” he said.

 “Call it in Mell!”

(To be continued)

 Copyright Len Morgan

Billy’s extra Christmas Beer

 Billy’s extra Christmas Beer

By Sis Unsworth 

Billy was a happy soul, so full of Christmas cheer,

he came back from his local, where he’d had an extra beer.

He slowly found his door key, and turned it in the lock,

when he entered his front room, what he saw gave him a shock.

a vision from a fairytale, right before his eyes,

sat Santa Clause in his armchair! It was a great surprise.

Then Santa started talking, and asked him ‘where he’d been?’

He wasn’t going to answer, which did seem rather mean.

“I’ve been down to my local,” Billy then did say,

“I don’t suppose you know it, as you live so far away."

“I do come back quite often,” said Santa quite sincere,

“In fact my job description, brings me back here every year.”

“Why have you come to my house, is what I’d like to know?”

“I’ve come so I can help you,” he answered soft and low.

“I heard that you’re unhappy, at this time of year,

and it is a time for happiness, and jolly Christmas cheer

Celebrating Christmas, you don’t do that for sure.”

Billy laughed, “why that’s not me, you want old Fred next door.”

Santa looked embarrassed, and apologised to Billy

He felt sorry for old Santa, as he did look rather silly.

But one thing he’d learned today, though full of Christmas cheer,

When he goes down to the pub again, he'll avoid that extra beer!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Two Haiku

 Two Haiku

From Robert Kingston

(Published this month, in ‘Blythe Spirit’)

London boat race

pulling the oars

from another cloud

 

feeling the chill

around my stomach

horizon moon

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

RATS

 RATS

By Len Morgan 

I line up my sights and take careful aim, above its head on the metal post behind.  It would be a warning shot, not a kill shot.  My wife thinks I aim to kill but miss because I’m a bad shot.  But, I have a deep-felt belief that every living thing has a right to live on, even when we humans consider them to be vermin. 

 

The rats like grey squirrels go to incredible lengths to steal from our bird table.  I allow them just enough to feed their family.  So, the clang of the pellet on steel sees them off for a few days maybe a week.

 

Like it or not every living thing is here for a reason filling a niche in the ecosystem.  For now, the world continues to exist, but not every creature, insect, or microbe can be held accountable for the current plight of the world.  Only Homo Sapiens are contributing positively to its demise, and though we can’t say conclusively that we are wholly responsible; it’s likely that if we had never existed global warming would still be happening. 

 

The world began with an atmosphere that we couldn’t breathe constant eruptions and constant bombardment by meteors, for billions of years.  Not all meteors were bad news.  Many brought water, yet still, there was no life on earth…  But this is not meant to be a lecture about the past 5.5 billion years.  There have been umpteen extinction events, and ice ages, none of which happened in living memory so we assume change doesn’t happen.  Yet 99.9% of species that lived on earth have become extinct.  Not our fault!

 

I do believe we may also die out by plague, wars, pestilence, crass stupidity, earthquakes, meteor strikes so many possible endings… 

 

Who or what will then inherit the earth I wonder?  My money is on communal creatures like mice, rats, squirrels, and baboons all resourceful survivors.  However, I do have a soft spot for the Meerkats ~ a safe bet since nobody will be around to collect… Rats are possibly the most numerous, so just in case, I’ll continue hedging my bets by just scaring them off.

 

Copyright Len Morgan 

 MOVING ON

by Richard Banks             
                                                                                             

For Ronnie Harper, Christmas Day was a pleasure confined to its anticipation. He enjoyed the warm glow of Christmas lights on bleak winter evenings, the contagious excitement of his children, the office parties, the evening get-to-gethers with friends, but Christmas Day was never more than a tantalising glimpse of a greater happiness unfulfilled by the event itself. He wished it was different, sensed it could be, but something within him would never let it happen.

     The solution, although unappealing, was well within his reach. He could have stayed home on Christmas Eve, spent time with Laura and the kids, but the necessity of taking a day’s holiday when he would only be required to work until midday persuaded him that work was the better option. 

      In truth, he needed little persuading. Of all his working days Christmas Eve was the one he liked most. It was special; it started with the train journey into London. People who never talked to each other not only talked they laughed, told jokes, discovered that the familiar faces sharing their carriage were just like themselves, 'real people' with personalities never warmer than on the 7.34 to Liverpool Street. If on the completion of the journey he had stayed on the train and let it take him back to Rayleigh, Christmas Day would have been safe, but the idea of doing so was absurd and the lure of pleasures yet to come irresistible. 

      On arrival at the office he would switch-on his terminal and sift through his in-tray prioritising what needed to be done that morning and what could be left until after the holiday. His colleagues were doing likewise and for a while the familiar routine of the office was little different from any other morning. 

      At 10.30 Sharon was dispatched to the café for sandwiches. On her return, workstations were abandoned and an unhurried queue formed at the coffee machine. An hour later the girls disappeared into the toilets reappearing in high heels and party dresses. Terminals were being switched off and everyone was looking towards the floor manager who appeared unaware that his charges were ready to vacate the office for the public house on the ground floor. At 12.30 he would glance at his watch and, with a smile seldom seen on other days, wish them a merry Christmas. Having observed their rapid departure he too deserted his post for a gathering of senior management in the boardroom. 

      Such was the unchanging ritual of office life on Christmas Eve. It was a ritual too good to miss and at 1pm on yet another Christmas Eve Ronnie was not surprised to find himself in the saloon bar of the City Exchange buying a round of drinks for the dozen or so people who worked directly for him. He had, however, decided that this year one thing would be different, that at 4pm he would buy another round and then leave. At 3pm this was still his intention, even at 3.45, but at five minutes to four it happened, the moment when he realised that life had never been better, could never be better, and that this moment might continue, if only he stayed. 

      Had this moment occurred in the same way as before he would have had warning, would have known what to do when to leave, but the interactions that constructed the moment could never be predicted. While Ronnie was only too aware that alcohol would be a factor, other things were also needed and at five minutes to four they duly arrived. He was reaching for his wallet, about to buy the round of drinks that would precede his departure when Darren placed a restraining hand on his arm. It was, he said, his shout, he hadn’t brought a round yet and no one was going to say that he was a mean bastard who didn’t pay his way. After five pints, Darren was not a man to argue with, anyway who wanted to get into a row on Christmas Eve. Best to let him have his way, drink-up quickly and then leave.

      Ronnie checked the timetable he always carried and saw that there was a train at 4.45. Providing he was away by 4.30 he would still be home in time to put the kids to bed. Then Darren returned from the bar and the 4.45 train became an irrelevant number on an irrelevant piece of paper. Instead of another pint Darren had brought him a whisky, an Ardmore malt. He put the glass to his lips, breathed in the scents of liquorice and aniseed, and allowed a few drops of the precious liquid to fall down onto his tongue. The moment expanded and engaged his other senses. His favourite song was on the jukebox, a joke was being told, people were laughing anticipating the punch line, and Julie was smiling, making eye contact in a way that seemed to be saying that she fancied him almost as much as he fancied her. In that moment, in that long sweet moment, he knew that 'now' was a pleasure he could not bear to end.            

                                            **********      

At seven o’clock, only the die hards were left, mainly single guys living close by in rented flats. They decided to end the evening with a curry in a Bethnal Green tandoori where Ronnie was sick in the toilets. He tried to read the time on his watch but could make no sense of it. A sudden fear gripped him that he had missed the last train home. He returned to the table where the guys had been sitting, to find that only Darren and Urzil were left. The bill had been paid, they said, it was time to go, the restaurant was closing. They left him in Bishopsgate in sight of Liverpool Street station and watched him totter towards it until an icy wind persuaded them to begin their own journeys home. 

      On reaching the station, Ronnie discovered not only that the trains were still running but that the next one to Southend was about to depart from platform eleven. He scrambled on board and sat down beside a young woman who immediately changed seats. Further down the carriage two youths and a girl were singing ‘White Christmas’. It was snowing in Chelmsford they said, by morning the whole country would be covered. The train started and slowly pulled out of the station. In forty minutes he would be in Rayleigh. Whatever else happened he must not fall asleep. He had done that once before and ended up in Southend. On that occasion, he had got a cab home but tonight was different, it was Christmas Eve. Would there still be taxis at the station? 

      He watched a snowflake hit the window and slowly dissolve. Another followed, then three more, then too many to count. The train gathered speed, passing over the dark shapes of streets and buildings that seemed bleak and unfamiliar. He fixed his attention on a long line of street lights until the condensation misting the window transformed them into a single orange streak. He wiped the window with the palm of his hand and the image of his face and shoulders appeared. He stared back at himself through eyes half shut.                                                      

                                         **********

      He had, he thought, only closed his eyes for a few moments when he felt a rough shaking of his shoulder. He looked up to find a burly man in a peak cap towering over him. For a few seconds he didn’t understand what was happening, then the words ‘power off’ jolted him back to consciousness. He asked where he was and was told Wickford and, that the train was stopped, terminated. An emergency bus service was about to leave. If Ronnie wanted to be on it he would have to hurry.  

      He stumbled onto the platform just in time to see another straggler pass through an open gate towards the taxi rank where the bus was waiting. He wanted to hurry, tried hard to hurry, but the snow on the platform and the unwillingness of his legs to respond to the signalling of his brain reduced his progress to a haltering jog.

      Outside the station the bus was being readied to depart, engine revving, doors opening and shutting, an impatient voice wanting to be off, more revving of the engine, then another voice giving the command to go. The driver beeped his horn and the bus was off. Its departure from the car park coincided with Ronnie’s arrival at the gate. He shouted and waved his arms but to no avail; the bus continued on until only its rear lights were visible. His scrambled brain struggled to take in what had happened, what he should do next, then he remembered the 25 bus – that went to Rayleigh; he would catch that. He hurried down to the High Street, to the bus stop outside Costas. The street was ankle-deep in snow, silent, deserted, sharp gusts of wind chasing down even more snow.

      His certainty that the 25 would still be running was shattered by the realisation that it was a quarter to twelve. Of course, there were no buses, the last one had long gone. He decided to phone for a taxi but the pocket in which he kept his mobile was empty; he searched through his other pockets without finding it. Had he left it in the tandoori? He wasn't sure. His only certainty was that to get home he would have to walk. He knew the road; it was long and straight. It went up the hill towards the church, then on to the Shotgate, and beyond that to the Carpenters Arms. From there Rayleigh was just down the road. He remembered making the journey by car two years before. If he walked hard he would be home in an hour, ninety minutes at most. There might still be a car or two about. If he saw one he would flag it down and hitch a lift.

       He started off in determined fashion. He told himself that as long as he kept moving he would be okay, it was just a matter of time, time and effort, that’s all that was needed. The worst part of the journey would be the first, that was uphill, the rest was mainly on the flat. It would be a doddle, he had gloves, a thick overcoat, this was no more than a tiresome delay at the end of an overlong day. 

      Halfway up the hill, he could see the silhouette of the church spire against the dark sky. First base he thought. He leaned forward, elbows bent, arms swinging back and forth like the long distance walkers he had seen in the Olympics. Five minutes later he was past the church and at the top of the hill. It had been an effort, but he had made it. He pressed on buoyed by the thought that he would soon be at the Shotgate. From there he would be able to see Rayleigh on the high ground to the east. 

      Ronnie paused at a bus shelter to recover his breath and without thinking sat down on the bench within. He peered back along the road hoping but not expecting to see the headlights of a car. Instead, he saw a single disc of light that was the church clock. He checked its time against that on his watch. It was Christmas Day. 

      Ronnie recalled the last time it had snowed at Christmas. He and Laura were on holiday in Switzerland on the ski slopes near Lausanne. They had been happy then, free spirits, doing what they wanted, when they wanted. They lived in London, a twenty-minute commute to the office where they both worked. It was after they married that they moved out into Essex. Laura stopped working and they started a family just like they planned. For a while family life seemed okay, a natural almost inevitable progression in his life, but was it better than what he had before? Somehow it was not enough, a step too far, too soon. For Laura, there was no choice. She had two children to bring up, one at school, one not yet out of nappies. Jason was playing football, Tanya nearly walking. He knew this because Laura told him. When she did there was a harshness in her voice that sounded like a reproach. She had adapted to the changes in her life, accepted them, and was moving on. With or without him she was moving on. The thought chilled him, seemed colder than the snow.

       

      It was time to get walking again. His legs were stiff and unresponsive, but he forced them back into action. On either side of him the houses were in darkness. He imagined the occupants in their beds, warm, sheltered, ready for the day ahead. For the first time in a long time, he yearned to be home. The journey to the Shotgate was taking longer than he had anticipated. Either it was further than he thought or he was slowing down; he wasn’t sure which. He passed another bus stop and realised that the next one would be at the Shotgate itself. Ten minutes later he was there.  

      For the next half mile, there were no houses just fields and a recently constructed dual carriageway. In the last remaining house, he saw a light. A voice in his head urged him to seek shelter there. Who would refuse him on Christmas Day? The light flickered off and he continued on, down the road that had no footpath, where pedestrians seldom ventured. But who needed a footpath when there was no traffic? For now, only the weather was of concern. 

      The road before him slanted gently downwards towards a long stilted bridge under which it passed. Two years earlier he had driven down it in a red Lamborghini, taking advantage of a clear road to press down hard on the accelerator. It had taken him only a few seconds to reach the end of the slope and a few more to rise up to level ground. The exhilaration of the experience had deceived him into thinking that the road was shorter than it was. Through the snow he could see the bridge and calculated that it was three hundred yards away. From there it would be a mile, maybe less, to the Carpenters Arms. When he reached the pub he would bang on the door and demand to be let in. He had often drunk there, played darts in the local league. The landlord would not turn away a regular customer.

      He walked in the centre of the road where the snow was less deep, counting each step, knowing that nothing less than six hundred would be needed to get him to the bridge. He was halfway there when he slipped and fell. For a few moments, he lay on his back waiting for his body to tell him if he could continue. His fall had been a heavy one but cushioned by the thick covering of snow. He felt no pain and although this might be due to the numbness of his limbs and body he reasoned that in all probability he was uninjured. Slowly he rolled over onto his chest and pushed his body up onto his knees. Still no pain. His legs and arms were working, doing what his brain was telling them to do. He was okay, normal, nothing changed.

 

      Back on his feet, he continued walking towards the bridge grimly aware that if he fell again and was unable to continue his cries for help would probably go unheard. The wind was stronger now, gusting, unimpeded by the line of houses that had previously protected him from its full force.  He was walking more slowly than before, carefully planting each foot flat into the snow so that the soles of his shoes were making maximum contact with the ground. For the first time, he felt the odds were against him. Could he make it to the pub? Even to the bridge could he make it?

 

     Another gust of wind caused him to stop, stagger back and throw out his arms in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Then he was down, tumbled over three, four times until he was at the side of the road, within touching distance of an embankment that in Spring would be covered in daffodils. His hands and arms were uninjured and he was again able to sit up. A sensation that on another day would have been pain told him that this time there was no getting up. Through a gash, in his trouser leg, he could see the jagged end of a bone. He needed help. Even now there was hope. He called out but the cold air in his chest and throat reduced his voice to little more than a whisper. He tried again and saw a thin stream of vapour melt silently in the wind.

 

      In the distance, he could see Rayleigh, the ridge on which it stood, dark shapes of buildings, the floodlit church and the windmill. He thought of his wife whom he had loved but not loved enough, of his children, of Christmas Days when he was too tired and hung-over to play with them. At daybreak they would be up opening their stockings, Jason climbing onto the windowsill, sweeping aside the curtains, and on seeing the snow, shrieking with excitement. He imagined Laura waking, finding herself alone in their bed, her going downstairs half expecting to see him on the settee beneath his overcoat. 

      By then, long before then, he would be invisible, a small white mound in a far greater whiteness. He wanted to say a prayer but knew none. His last thoughts were of Laura.  

                                                        The End.                                                                    

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                                                        

 

 

 Repent at leisure

By Janet Baldey

Terri felt the breeze lift her hair and took a deep breath, standing quite still until her pulse steadied.  It was such a relief to escape from the havoc in the cottage and into the peace of her garden; although if she ignored the birdsong, she could still hear their voices as they squabbled yet again.  Whoever would have thought they were mother and daughter, sometimes they acted like sworn enemies. She looked past a blaze of red-hot dahlias towards the last of the summer’s roses; how lovely the garden looked despite needing a  tidy-up; she’d neglected her plants for too long, once they’d been her pride and joy, but she’d barely set foot outside since Nadia and her mother took over and the nightmare began.   Today, she’d had enough, she gripped her secateurs tightly, nothing was going to stop her, those roses were being pruned even if murder was committed in the cottage.

         As she worked, she found herself relaxing; once she’d found this boring, now it felt as if she was being given a make-over with every breath she took.  It was all her own fault of course.  Mother always said she was too impulsive and that would be her downfall and this time, it seemed she’d been right, although her motives had been good, and at the time everyone had applauded her.

         “How wonderful and how very kind of you.  If only there were more like you, the world would be a better place.”

This rather trite sentiment, and others in the same vein, were echoed over and over until her head became so swollen that she hadn’t thought to wonder why there weren’t more. Although, to be honest, it wasn’t pure altruism on her part.  After Mother died, life in the cottage had become very lonely.  Buster had done his best of course, she bent to ruffle his fur, but he couldn’t actually talk, not her language anyway.  Although, come to think of it, neither did Nadia’s mother. Nadia did, but she only opened her mouth to complain or demand things. 

In the beginning, Terri had hoped for some sort of companionship but it hadn’t worked out that way, although when they’d first been introduced at the Centre, Nadia had seemed charming and so kind to her own mother that she’d quite won over her heart.  It was only later, when they were alone in the cottage, that she’d caught the first glimpse of the real Nadia.  Her smile had faded the minute Pauline drove away.

         “Is small…..” she’d looked around, discontent settling on her face like a well-worn frock.  “And dark….”  Her full lips drew together as she pouted.

         After that, the only time Nadia opened her mouth was to whinge about something.  Her room was too cramped, she wanted a new bed, the stairs were too narrow.   Nadia’s complaints shocked Terri.  She’d done her utmost to make the cottage attractive.  She’d freshened up the paintwork, bought new cushions for the sofa and new mattresses for the beds which perfectly fine, and she really couldn’t afford new ones.  But Nadia wouldn’t be placated, she seemed to dislike everything, including the food, pushing it around her plate before declaring that it didn’t ‘taste nice’.  As for companionship, forget about it.  Pointedly and in small cruel ways, Nadia made it quite clear that one old lady was all she was prepared to tolerate, and that only barely, as she and her mother fought frequently, spitting out foreign words at the tops of their voices. 

It wasn’t working out and just at that moment, the splintering sound of breaking glass proved her point. What had they broken this time?  She just hoped it wasn’t more of Mother’s precious cut-glass.   After the last breakage, she’d packed most of it away, but maybe some had been missed.  She stood, fighting an urge to find out and gradually the urge receded.  It was too late now anyway.  What was done was done and couldn’t be undone and she refused to let it spoil her moment.  She continued to snip, pushing to the back of her mind images of what she might find when she went back in.

At least the kitchen would be clean.   Worn out by complaints about her food, she’d reluctantly handed over that task to Nadia’s mother, a decision she now deeply regretted.  ‘The Witch’ as she’d secretly named her, had a slap-dash attitude to cooking that involved every pan Terri had and she filled the kitchen with greasy clouds of smoke as she burned each of them so that soon the counter-tops were cluttered with blackened pots each with a residue of charred food superglued to them.  Terri could have borne that, albeit with gritted teeth, if the food was to her taste but it wasn’t.  Inevitably it was either chillies or curries, both so hot they numbed her mouth, or a sort of goulash that bore a suspicious resemblance to something Buster would eat.   To make things worse, ‘The Witch’ didn’t believe in washing up, maybe she thought casting a spell would be enough.  When that failed, the task fell to Terri as it was obvious Nadia wouldn’t dream of chipping her varnished inch long nails. So, night after night she toiled as the moon rose, until the kitchen was fit enough to withstand another onslaught and it was time to go to bed.

She finished with the roses, looked and found other jobs, plenty of them.  She worked on until Buster began to fuss and she realised it was time for his evening meal.   Reluctantly, she turned on the hose to sluice dirt off her tools.  Buster whined again, hurrying her up and Terri suddenly realised she really didn’t want to go back in.  The cottage didn’t seem hers anymore, somehow Nadia and ‘The Witch’ had made her feel like an intruder in her own home.  This was no way to live but she had no idea what to do about it.  It had only been three weeks and she had something like another twenty-three to go.  If it wasn’t for Pauline, she’d throw in the towel.  She’d take the next bus to the Centre and demand they take back Nadia and The Witch, she’d be as hard as stone and insist they be re-homed like unwanted animals.  But Pauline was so sweet, as plump and pink as a marshmallow she’d quivered with delight at the thought of the two pathetic refugees safely delivered into Terri’s capable hands.  Pauline was also new to the charity, and this was her first success, so how could she sully her philanthropic zeal?  Terri sighed, remembering that her mother had also said she was too soft. 

She tried to stop thinking about Pauline.  It would do no good, she was probably happily married and as Mother had pointed out, some women were born to be alone.   She looked down and her eyes met Buster’s.  They implored and she pulled herself together. Buster couldn’t starve, and she couldn’t freeze, the light was fading fast and now the soft breeze had an edge, it really was time to go in.  

The cottage seemed very dark after she’d closed the door, it was also very quiet.  She guessed Nadia had gone out.  Recently she’d taken to going out a lot. Terri didn’t ask where, Nadia wouldn’t tell her anyway, but she did notice that when Nadia returned, she smelled funny, a musky aroma that clung to her clothes and lasted for days. It didn’t smell like cigarettes and as she didn’t smoke inside the cottage, Terri figured it was none of her business although she couldn’t help wondering where she went.  Maybe there were other refugees in the area, and she made a mental note to ask Pauline.  Anyway, wherever it was, it never seemed to improve Nadia’s mood, she was just as bad tempered when she came back.   Terri groped for the light switch and clicked it on, looking around to check for damage but couldn’t see anything.  ‘The Witch’ was in her normal seat by the fire studiously ignoring her.  For as long as she’d been there, she’d been knitting some sort of shapeless garment that could have been a scarf, or even something else entirely.  It was difficult to tell because it never seemed to grow, even though the clicking of her needles never stopped, except when she was flinging pans around the kitchen.

“Where’s Nadia?”  she said, not expecting an answer, and indeed she never got one, except for a split second, ‘The Witch’s eyes flicked towards the door.  Terri stared hard at her crumpled, brown paper bag of a face.  So, she did understand English - the thought wearied her, what had she done to deserve being treated like the enemy?   She turned away, ostensibly to get Buster’s kibble but really to hide the sheen of threatening tears.  She knew she mustn’t let them get to her, but it was all such a disappointment.

The next day, she took Buster out for a long walk.  He was delighted but she felt selfish as she watched him gambolling through the long grass because she hadn’t taken him out for his sake; it was for her own because she couldn’t stand being in the cottage anymore; the place that had been her home for fifty years.  It was then she realised that, as much as she liked Pauline, she had to risk disappointing her.  Her lips stiffened as she fished out her mobile, there was no time like the present.  She dialled the number.

“Hi Terri, how nice to hear from you.  Is everything OK?”  She listened to the bubbles in Pauline’s voice, they lifted her spirits, she seemed genuinely pleased to hear from her, then she remembered why she was calling and was immediately cast down.

“I’m not sure Pauline.  I would really like to have a talk with you.”

“Of course, my dear.  I’m tied up today, I’m afraid.  Can it wait until tomorrow?”

They agreed that it could and as she packed away her ‘phone, colour flooded back into Terri’s life.  She noticed for the first time the stunning autumn foliage, from the bright red of the maples to the yellow of the rowans.  All around the woods and hedgerows flamed and her spirits soared.  She’d be seeing Pauline tomorrow and everything was going to be alright.

Still dazzled by nature’s beauty, she walked up the garden path where irregular leaves studded the ground like discarded jigsaw.  That, and the faint aroma of woodsmoke in the air comforted her, but her good mood rapidly drained away as soon as she opened the back door.  The very first thing she saw was a huge pair of worn-down boots sticking out from beneath the sofa.  She froze and her eyes tracked upwards, past an equally huge pair of knees to where an enormous man was sitting, clearly making himself at home.  Her mouth opened but before she could utter a word, Nadia swept in from the kitchen bearing a steaming mug of tea.  Two surprises in one go, she didn’t think Nadia knew where the kitchen was.  Nadia’s simper disappeared as soon as she saw her.

“This is my brother.”

“Your brother?  I didn’t know you had a brother?”

Nadia’s face conveyed the opinion that Terri didn’t know everything about her, which was true enough, she supposed.

“He stays here now.”

Seconds passed before she remembered to speak.  “Oh no, I’m sorry that isn’t possible.  There’s no room. Where would he sleep?”

The expression on Nadia’s face didn’t change.

“He sleep on sofa.”

“What?  That’s impossible.  I’m afraid he’ll have to go back from wherever he came from.”

“He come from War.  He wounded.”

For the first time she noticed the man was wearing a grubby sling around one arm.  She shook her head, “I’m sorry but the answer is still no.  If he needs medical treatment, he should go to a hospital.”

Nadia glared at her and she glared back; even for Nadia this was a step too far.  Then, slowly the man stood up, uncoiling until he almost reached the ceiling and her pulses started to dance.  Suddenly, there was a flurry of black fur and Buster darted forwards.  He snapped at the man’s ankles who let out an oath and drew back his leg.  There was a shrill yelp, and a small dark shape flew across the room where it lay in a corner, quivering.  White hot anger took the place of fear as Terri ran to Buster, scooped him up and turned to face the ogre.

“How dare you?  Get out of my house immediately.”

There was a burst of activity and seconds later a huge hand gripped her throat crushing her against the wall where she slumped, staring into a pair of cold eyes the colour of the North Sea.  Through her terror, she heard the rattle of a lock and heard Nadia scream something just before the man opened the cellar door and shoved her through.  Dropping Buster, she grasped at nothing as gravity took over and she sprawled down its stairs like a rag doll before landing in a heap at the bottom.  It was then that she discovered. you really do see stars when your head comes into violent contact with a hard object, and it was only when her vision steadied that she noticed other sources of pain. The whole of her left side stung as if grazed as did her right wrist and she guessed there’d be some spectacular bruising when she got out.  If she got out, she tried to quell the panic that thought generated and it was then she remembered Buster.  Her heart quickened, poor thing, he’d never even been shouted at before, he must be terrified after being both kicked and dropped.  She prayed that he wasn’t hurt.

“Buster” she called.  There was silence and she felt clammy with dread.  She was about to call again when a small cold nose nudged her hand.  “Buster!”  He whined and gently she ran her hands over him.  She heard the thud of his tail and tears flooded her eyes as she held him close.  This was all her fault; she’d brought danger into his small world, and felt so guilty.  

The thought of danger reminded her, what on earth was she going to do?  She couldn’t force her battered body back up the stairs, anyway she was sure they would have locked the door.  She tried to think back, had she heard the key turn?   It was all a blur although one thing she did remember was Nadia screeching something just before she was sent flying. “Not down there.” She’d yelled.  Was it possible that Nadia had a softer side and was trying to protect her?  As likely as the stars falling down, Terri decided. 

Her head began to ache and she lay still with the whole of her body on fire.  She could hear a strange noise, the air was stifling and smelled odd; gradually a dark veil crept across her eyes so she closed them and after a while must have slept.   When she woke, her headache had gone, and she felt a bit better.  As an experiment, she stretched her arms and legs and apart from being stiff, they seemed intact.  She looked around, what little light managing to struggle through the dirt-encrusted windows had disappeared, so it was obviously night-time.  Hauling herself upright, she started to search for a torch when she realised it wasn’t necessary.  There was a strange green glow coming from the far end of the cellar.  She couldn’t imagine where it was coming from but in that weird light, she found she could see well enough to wind her way towards its source. As she did, the heat increased, and beads of sweat started to roll down her body.  Suddenly she stopped, the breath dying in her throat as she stared at rows of broad-leaved shrubs that had been planted in troughs covering three quarters of the cellar. Electric lights, running from generators, were rigged above the plants, the lights turning their leaves a sickly yellow.  Both the heat and the hum from the generators combined to re-ignite her headache.  At last, she remembered to breathe and as she did, the same smell that had come from Nadia’s clothes made her gag.  All at once, she realised what had been going on under her very nose and stood as still as a brick staring at the cannabis.  “God”, she thought. “I must be so stupid.  Why on earth didn’t I catch on before?”   She realised they must have picked their moments carefully, probably when she was walking Buster or hiding in her bedroom and there had been a lot of those moments, she admitted.  

Thoroughly unnerved, she almost screamed when her pocket started to vibrate just before her mobile broke into the giddy little tune she’d chosen.  Not being part of the tech-savvy generation, she’d completely forgotten she was carrying it.  Still staring at the plants, she fumbled the ‘phone out of her pocket.

“Hello, is that Terri?” 

It was Pauline and Heaven’s angels couldn’t have sounded as sweet. She pressed the phone against her lips and whispered into it.  “Pauline, can you hear me? I’m trapped in the cellar; Nadia and her brother pushed me down.  Please call the police, say it’s urgent.  I think they must be drug traffickers.”

“What! Whose brother? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later.  Be quick, please Pauline. They may be dangerous.”

It seemed an age as she sat and waited.  She cuddled Buster to her and worried.  What would she do in their place?  Goosebumps stippled her arms as she concluded their best course of action was inaction. Given that her circle of friends was not large and very rarely did anyone come to the cottage unannounced, all they had to do was sit tight. She prayed that Pauline didn’t let her down.  A tear slid down her face at the thought, but she barely had time to brush it away before she felt Buster tense. Then he started to yap and although the sound threatened her eardrums, her spirits soared. He was hearing something she couldn’t. She held her breath and seconds later, there was a sequence of muffled thumps and the cellar door creaked open.

“Is anybody here?” roared a voice and a beam of light, worthy of the Eddystone Lighthouse, flooded the cellar as she staggered to her feet.

She needn’t have worried and later, when the police and paramedics had done their jobs and disappeared, they sat and drank tea, just the two of them, three if you counted Buster. Despite everything, she felt happy.  There’d been no sign of Nadia and Co., probably on hearing the sirens, they’d disappeared into the gathering mist now shrouding the cottage, but all the same, Pauline wouldn’t dream of leaving her on her own. 

“I think it’s best that I stay.” She said.  “Apparently, the police suspect cuckooing and think they aren’t real refugees at all but criminals exploiting the situation.”  Her voice started to break up.  “There’ll be an investigation but it was my fault. I should have checked more carefully.  I am so sorry, Terry, I failed you.”

She looked so sad as she sat drooping over her tea that she acted on impulse yet again and said,

 “Don’t worry Pauline. I’m just grateful you decided to phone me today instead of waiting until tomorrow. Anyway, I should have noticed something before now.  We all make mistakes.”

 Reaching out, she covered Pauline’s hand with hers - so warm and soft, it felt like a little bird as it trembled under her touch.  Pauline raised her head and as their eyes collided, they held each other’s gaze and smiled as one. Terri squeezed Pauline’s hand and dared to hope that, for once, her mother had been wrong.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Tylywoch ~ 31

 Tylywoch ~ 31  Fighting Back II 

By Len Morgan 

   Aldor’s force entered the city to a warm reception, it was just one hour after Weilla made her speech.   By that time the Surbatt had only one stronghold left, the Emerald palace.   The morale of their troops within the palace was at rock bottom.   Sickness was rife, but the forces loyal to 'the Divine Light' seemed to be immune to the vomit fever and dysentery that left members of Taleen's force with no option but to surrender.   They could not fight in that debilitated state.   So when called upon to surrender many members of the 9th Clan and their sympathisers, gave up without protest, in return for the aid dispensed by Aldor's medical specialists.   Those not affected by the sickness drove their Surbatt masters, to the throne room, and threw down their arms, surrendering to the startled red guard, who had formed a cordon around the throne room, prepared to sell their lives dearly in a last-ditch stand…   Instead, Veille the highest-ranking officer was given the far less onerous task of accepting their surrender and locking them up securely.   When the Empress was shown to still be alive, most of the 9^th displayed great surprise, overwhelming her with their demonstrative displays of loyalty.  

The 9^th willingly re-joined the other clans in equal partnership and were to play a significant part in the war against Bluttland.   Far from splitting the Clans, the 'Surbatt Incident' had served to galvanise the sense of oneness in the hearts of all inhabitants of the Cheilin Empire.

As far as history is concerned, the Tylywoch took little part in the proceedings.   History would recall the Red Guards' daring escape from the dungeons and their triumphant humiliation of the evil Surbatt cult, but the Empress and the Guard knew what really transpired.   

Prince Taleen disappeared from the palace without a trace.   

Several days after his incarceration Wilden was exhumed from his living tomb.   To his surprise, his addiction was completely cured!   'Wilden's cure' as it became known, was used to successfully rehabilitate most of the others infected by Glamhorten, amongst them Galyx.   

In gratitude, for a royal pardon, Wilden renounced Bedelacq and became a trusted advisor, to the Empress, on all Bluttland matters.   He would prove to be a loyal trustworthy and invaluable advisor in the struggles yet to come.

The Blutt Conflict: 

 Jax closed his eyes…

"Good news!" said Orden "Aldor has entered the Eternal City.   The Empress is alive and well and the Surbatt uprising has been put down.   Aldor will soon be leading an army from the west to support us.   We have only to hold them back until he arrives." 

"That is good news indeed.   I also have news, but it is not good I wish it were, the witch woman from the ship has evaded us, she could now be anywhere!" 

"If that is true, she will now be well beyond your sector and therefore no longer your concern," said Terrek.  "We will catch up with her eventually; it's just a matter of time.   There has been a breakthrough of sorts in this sector.   Two ships discharged in a hidden cove we were not covering.   There may be what you called a witch woman with them.   If so, it's possible that your one will try to join up with that group.   If she is located I will let you know.   Is there any further information to be passed on?" 

"Only to confirm the weather will break overnight and the improved conditions will accelerate their attempts to land,” Said Orden.   “A ship is a big problem logistically, and they must be running low on food and water.   The conditions will have deteriorated markedly for the troops on board, so their priority must be to make landfall.   They were relying on the Surbatt rebellion to succeed and split our forces, they may not yet be aware that prince Taleen and his witch woman, are no longer a threat to us.  I believe you both know Galyx, one of Aldor's Tylywoch?   He killed the witch woman, and Taleen fled the city.   If the Blutt commanders are aware of it, they will know that time is now of the essence if they hope to get a foothold on Cheilin soil.

Terrek laughed, "The man with no name, who introduced me to Jax and persuaded me to take him as my apprentice."

"Quite!   It's unlikely they will attack before dawn, so pass the word to your commanders that everyone should get warm meal and a good night's sleep.   Who knows when we will next have that luxury!" at which point Orden broke off the mind link.

 (To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan