THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

 THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

By Bob French 

Ann Henderson sat at the foot of her grandmother, spellbound, as she listened to her mumblings.  It was the first time she had heard the story that most of her relations, thought was an old wives’ tale.

“Be aware of the curse, I tell you.  If it wasn’t for Henry, none of this would have happened to us.”

Ann looked up into the wrinkled old face.  “Sorry Grandmama, what do you mean, ‘if it wasn’t for Henry?  What did this Henry do that was so terrible?”

“He was a British cavalry officer who, in the confusion of the
battle of Waterloo, rode down and killed a group of Irish nuns who had been helping the wounded. Once he realized what he had done, he dismounted and tried to help them, but it was too late. It is said that he knelt down beside one very old nun and tried to give her water, but she pushed his hand aside and asked him his name.  When he told her, she put a curse on him and his family: ‘that the eldest child of each family that bears the name of Henderson, and those who followed would be taken at the beginning of Sow-in Samhain.”

Ann not knowing what she had said frowned, “what is Sow-in Samhain?”

“Tis the same as Allhallowtide child.  The Days of the Dead.”

It was just before Ann’s twenty-fifth birthday whilst sheltering from the rain in Rayleigh Library that she picked up a book about ‘tracing your ancestry,’ a subject that had pricked her imagination many times since that time, eighteen years ago, when she had listened to her grandmama talk of the curse placed upon the Henderson family. 

She found a seat made herself comfortable and started to read.  Within a few hours, she was hooked; borrowed a few books on the subject, and she made an appointment with one of the family history researchers who operated in the library. As she went to leave one of the ladies who had also taken up the hobby explained that she should get in contact with as many of her living relatives as possible as it would save her hours of unnecessary work.

It didn’t take her long before she received replies from many of her relatives who made up the five branches of the Henderson family.  As she consumed this information, she started to build up the family tree.

Even after four weeks of raising false hopes and coming to dead ends, she concluded that she was still a novice. It also became clear that she was impatient and easily frustrated, something her mother had told her on several occasions. Some evenings she would be glued to her laptop searching for past relatives well into the early hours and coming up with nothing.

Her mind was invariably preoccupied with the research she had done the night before, and sometimes she would arrive at work, not knowing how she drove down the busy A12 to Colchester.

In time, the family tree started to take shape and after a grueling six-hour stint one cold, wintery October afternoon, it suddenly dawned upon her that nearly all the eldest children of three branches of the Henderson’s had died before their time. 

She stared at the screen for a while, trying to understand something that was nagging her, but she was exhausted, so closed her laptop and decided to have an early night.

Early the following morning, she was woken by a phone call from her mother to say that Cousin Mary had passed away during the night from alzheimers. She was fifty-two. Ann had never known Cousin Mary, so thought nothing of it, but made a mental note to update the family tree, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Lengo Stomerwitch, a 35-year-old Polish heavy goods driver had just landed at Harwich, having driven across Europe during the night, and decided to stop just outside Colchester to grab a McDonald's breakfast, before he continued on down the A12.

Driving in the opposite direction was Ann.  She was tired and running late having gone back to sleep after her mother’s dawn phone call.  As she moved quickly along the outside lane, her mind drifted back to the moment when she thought she had an epiphany. She tried to recall what it was, but weariness and frustration quickly took over her. Then it began to rain.

Lengo Stomerwitch, swore at the English weather as the rain increased and his visibility started to fade.  He was tired and needed to rest, but he knew that if he did not reach Chelmsford in time, he would lose his bonus, so increased his speed.  He was approaching the Witham turn-off, a known trouble spot on the A12, when he first felt his eyes close, but quickly took a deep breath and regained control of his huge truck.

Ann, was deep in thought.  Something was there, staring her in the face, but what was it?  Then it came to her.  She was the last eldest child of the fifth branch of the Henderson family.  As she changed up and accelerated to overtake, she shook her head; there was something else that bugged her.  She felt it on the tip of her tongue, but what was it?? 

As the rain thundered on the roof of her car, the noise around her increased. She leaned forward and turned up the radio.  All around her horns were starting to blare; large trucks and cars were slowing down, but Ann kept her foot on the pedal. Then she heard the DJ wish everyone, “a happy Trick or Treat or Allhallowtide if you are into old witch’s tales.”

Then it came to her as the bright lights of something very large came crashing towards her on the wrong side of the road.

It was the last day of October; Halloween. She was the last of the eldest children of the Hendersons.’ In a blink of an eye, everything made sense and she screamed, “Oh God! it’s me.”

Everything around her shook; her windscreen shattered; her seat belt wrenched at her neck and shoulder and she felt the car start to tumble through the air, then a cold still silence settled around her.  After a few seconds, the light in her eyes started to fade.

Copyright Bob French

 

Riddles 06

 Halloween 1920

Have you ever thought how it was celebrated in earlier years?

Pre: WWI,  WWII, before the Korean conflict?  Before covid... 

Well, the Riddler knows...

A man describes his daughters saying:

They are all blond but two, all brunette but two.  

they are all redheads but two...

How many daughters does he have?

The Riddler

The Indian Summer

 The Indian Summer

By Sis Unsworth 

We had an Indian summer, that took us by surprise.

The colours of this autumn, are enhanced before our eyes.

Lovely dry warm afternoons, the sun in all its glory.

The nights beginning to draw in, but that’s another story.

People in their summer clothes, adorn the parks and streets,

packed tables outside restaurants, and queues waiting for seats.

Nature looked quite puzzled, not sure of anything,

The sky so blue, the earth so warm, it surely can’t be spring?

the Indian summer now is gone, seems it just moved on,

Nature now is less confused, awaiting winter's song.

Then on the weather forecast, someone mentioned snow,

so treasure all your memories, of that lovely autumn glow.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Riddles 05

 Riddles 05 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  A Plane crashes off the coast of Bermuda.  Every single person died, yet there were two survivors.  How could that happen?

 

No 2.   What 5-letter word becomes shorter when two letters are added? What is that word?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

Halloween Fantasy

 Halloween Fantasy

By Jane Goodhew

Was it really that time again, it was so hard to believe that it was a year ago that it all happened, it seemed like only yesterday.  Everyone was getting ready to go to the Halloween Ball and had worked hard to make sure it would be perfect.  The rose petals had been stored since summer but still looked as fresh as the day they had been picked.  So many colours, some pastel others more vivid and vibrant for those who wanted to be noticed and there would be plenty that did as this ball was special as the prince himself would be there.  The future king of Fantasy Land, a land full of fairies, pixies, elves and of course witches both the good and the bad.  They all inhabited the gardens of those who still believed in dreams and love and forever after.  If you go out into your garden and are very, very quiet, look carefully, you will see them, busy trying to get the hall ready, sweeping leaves away to be re-scattered later to cover the floor in a thick, luxurious carpet of warm rustic brown and burnt orange which will crackle underfoot as the guests enter the hall and later as they dance around the floor.  The pixies are putting the tables out made of twigs and bark from the silver birch with small mushrooms for stools so that everyone can be seated for the banquet which will take place at 9pm before the dancing which goes on until Midnight.  The large mushrooms provide shelter should it rain, and the spider’s webs keep the draught out and catch any mischief makers who might try to spoil the evening.  As it is Halloween there are often many who would rather create chaos and mayhem than just have fun and enjoy the night and so the spiders keep a watch and throw out the troublesome ones or keep them stuck fast to their web until the night is over.                            

Annabella had looked forward to the evening all her life, she dreamt of growing up and meeting her Prince and then as in the story books living happy and content for the rest of her life with the man she loved and the children they had together.  Life was going to be bliss.  She had been to the dressmaker that very afternoon to pick up her ball-gown made of the most delicate rose petals that he had to offer in soft shades of pink and lavender that would glisten in the moonlight as if they were covered in a thousand diamonds that sparkled and lit up the room but were the dew that had remained upon them and would until the dress was packed away to be made into potpourri as a memento of the evening.  She was so excited she could hardly wait, and she was determined to look her best and not be outshone by any of the other fairies especially as she knew they had come from far and wide in the hope that the prince would notice them.   Annabella had been told from an early age that she was the prettiest girl for miles around and although she was not vain she knew this to be true because her Mother had a mirror just as in the old folk tales that would say who was the most beautiful fairy in the area and it always said ‘Annabella is the most lovely and exquisite in the whole of fairyland, there is no one more attractive than she’. 

Annabella thought of the previous year and a dark sadness overcame her as in her mind she went back there and recalled every hideous moment which she had been watching through her globe and wished she could find a way to make up for all the hurt that had been caused that night even though she was not to blame but her evil twin Pandora.  Pandora had always been jealous of her sister and had teased her ever since she was able to talk and would play unpleasant jokes on her or blame her for things that she herself had done.  She was popular amongst the locals because they feared her and preferred to remain on her good side if there was one.  Just like today, everybody had been working hard to make the evening a great success and it would have been if Pandora could have just left her black magic at home.

 

The hall was full to bursting and everyone was so happy, laughter filled the air and smiles lit up the room as did the light from the full moon.     The pixies had just finished clearing away the last of the dinner plates and the goblets were being filled with pink champagne so they could all raise their glasses and give thanks to another successful year.  That was the last time that anyone who had been there that night knew what it was to smile or to be happy or to give thanks because since then all their lives had been plunged into blackness and an overwhelming sadness that they could not find a way out from.  A wind had come out of nowhere and started to get stronger and stronger until the guests were being lifted off the ground and thrown into the air then as suddenly as it had come, it ended and they came down to earth with a bump.  Stunned into silence they looked at one another as the thunder crashed and the lightening zapped through the hall setting light to the leaves that were tinder dry, the fire quickly spread and panic overcame each and every one of them as the smoke became so thick that they could not see the exit.  They cried out to each other, they tried to fly but something kept their wings from working so they huddled together that was the end, the last anyone remembers because the next day there was nothing to show of the disaster that had just occurred.  When I say nothing that is not quite true because the difference was that everyone who had been there that night had changed, they were no longer young and beautiful and fit and healthy but old, craggy, bent over and their memory was failing, some days they could not even remember their own names.  Annabella and all her friends had been spared because they were too young to attend, this year would be their first ball and they were hoping that a miracle could be performed and that the spell that had been cast a year ago could be lifted, that love would succeed and hate would fail, that Pandora would see the error of her ways and find forgiveness in her heart.   It had not been meant that she would not receive an invite to the ball, it was a genuine mistake, the elf who had neatly hand-written out every letter had not known that Pandora had been born at 11.59pm and Annabella 12.09am so Pandora had been old enough to attend and had felt slighted at being missed out.  She had worked herself up into such a state she could not think straight and instead of going to the Mayor and explaining the error which would have been easy to rectify she instead reeked misery on all those who did go which also meant that all their relatives suffered too when they saw how their children had become.  Since that night no-one had heard or seen Pandora, she had vanished into thin air which is why the curse could not be lifted because only the fairy who placed it could remove it, that or a new love that would last a lifetime and it was that love that Annabella dreamed of.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

                 

 

                                    

             

 

 

                                                                                                             

 

 

Coming events...

 Coming Future Events:

We are planning to sell copies of our anthology at the events listed below.

We have events booked for 2024 as follows:

1. Mill Hall ~ Trinity Fair Sunday 9th June 2024 11am to 4pm.  Volunteers will be required as it's an 'all day' event.  You need only turn up for an hour to allow others to take a hospitality break.

2. INGATESTONE SUMMER SHOW ~ Saturday, 20th July 2024. 12.30 to 5pm.  Venue: the Seymour Field, Ingatestone.

Peter Woodgate & Rob Kingston sold 72 books; well done guys, an excellent effort!

3. 

Timings, directions to venues, and if volunteers will be required ~ (to be added when available)...

4.  

About us

 

ABOUT RAYLEIGH WRITERS

The idea to start a writers’ group in Rayleigh came about as a result of a questionnaire circulated to residents asking for ideas to improve their local library. Our first meeting was held in 2001, and we have continued to meet at the Library ever since. From the start, it became clear that our writers were a lively, friendly bunch who enjoyed each other’s company, so much so that our regular gatherings were soon augmented by additional activities that have recently included a writing workshop and summer social.

         An early initiative was the decision in 2003 to publish an anthology of short stories and poems under the title ‘Writers Reign’. The following year, hot off the press, it won a First Prize Certificate in a national competition organised by the David St John Thomas Trust and Writing Magazine.  Astonished rather than surprised we sold the book in support of a local hospital charity, and having done so promptly began a second book. The publication and sale of anthologies has since been a core activity of the Group.

         We not only write and produce our anthologies but sell them at craft fairs and other events throughout the county. In 2010 the Writers took to the stage for an evening of readings and recitations as part of the Essex Book Festival, an activity that later featured in some of our launch evenings for published books.

         Three years later, we were awarded a ‘Special Certificate of Recognition for Services in Rayleigh’ by Rayleigh Town Council and, at the request of the Council, adjudicated a children’s illustrated poem competition, funding one of the prizes.

         During the first Covid lockdown, the Group banished social isolation among its membership by setting up a blog on which members were able to communicate with each other and showcase their work. In the three years it has been running hundreds of stories and poems have been posted and viewed by many people in the UK and abroad:

http://RLWG2020.blogspot.com

               Recently, in June 2023, the Group presented the Air Ambulance with a cheque for £1,200 bringing its charitable giving to £9,700. And we’re not through yet! Another anthology, our seventh, has recently been published and is presently on sale at various events and venues, including Rayleigh Museum. Now bearing the title ‘Essex Tales’ it will, yet again, be sold in support of the Air Ambulance.

         Apart from its charitable endeavours the Group exists to encourage a regular writing habit among its members, a number of whom have pushed ahead with their own projects that have resulted in the publication of novels, the winning of prizes in literary competitions and the publication of poems and prose in national magazines.

         New members, whether they be established or aspiring writers, are welcome to attend our monthly meetings at Rayleigh Library beginning at 2.30pm on the second Thursday of each month. Membership costs the exorbitant sum of £1 per meeting attended. We look forward to seeing you.

November 2023

*  FURTHER INFORMATION ON THE GROUP IS TO BE FOUND ON THE GROUP’S NOTICE BOARD AT THE LIBRARY. 

Four from Rob

 A monoku

mood swings the light on my dark side

A tanka

at mother’s home

first smelling the irises

then hydrangeas

I’m left searching

for her own scent

A split sequence haibun

Break point

Waking in the outback is somewhat stilling for some

            tempest weather

be it a tundra, a mountain, a desert or a deep forest

          a storm in a teacup

the first thought generally is to look to the stars and ask why me

            lips out

A haiga

• 
  

 Riddles 04

 

Two more from the Riddler

 

No1

A bus driver goes the wrong way down a one way street.

he passes 2 cops but they don't stop him why?

 

No2

 Turn me on my side I am everything, cut me in half I am nothing

What am I?

 

You aint seen nothing yet!  The Riddler

 

 Northern Reaches ~ 02  Wizomi’s Quest

BY Len Morgan 

They touched down 30 yards from a rocky outcrop.  Wings were efficiently collapsed and ported towards the bare rock face where he recognised the, now familiar, hand print incised at shoulder height.  They, each in turn, pressed a hand into the print and walked into the darkness.  He was pushed forward by Ariel and entered the void.  The wings were laid on racks at either side of the entranceway.  Further in there was a locker room where they removed their flight suits and donned soft synthetic clothing. 

“You can stow your gear in 111,” he was told, “Use your palm print to open it.”  The clothing provided was a warm figure hugging light material as were the shoes.  They headed down a 1 in 2 gradient ramp into a bunker lit by the now familiar ceiling tiles.  The bottom of the ramp opened into a high roofed area two hundred feet long half that wide, and to either hand there were rows of doors.

“So Ariel, this is your lair?”

“No this is our main storage facility, the top floor, there are other floors below.  The sector committee wishes to meet with you first, so follow me.”  She led him to a wall space without a door, indicating that he should activate the palm panel on the wall.  He found himself in a lounge area, in the presence of five others, Ariel did not follow him. A tall slender grey-haired woman greeted him and ushered him to a seating area. 

 

“Greetings Mr Wizomi, My name is Cherrie these are Petter, Fred, Shane & Jeenie.  We brought you here by a circuitous route for security reasons.  We do have, on occasion, uninvited guests.  They tend to follow our fliers but, as 'Standards', are unable to enter our sector lodge they eventually give up and leave.”

“Do you maintain contact with them?” 

“No, but they are human and curious.  There have been a few sensitive minds, capable of gaining access.  We tend to plant doubt in their minds…” 

“Could you not let them in, and educate them?  We are going to need as many as possible to repel the Blutlander’s and later when the Karaxen return.”

“I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Cherrie.  “We haven’t even agreed to help you, and to put it indelicately, we need to know what is in it for us?”

“The Bluttlander’s intend to dominate and take over our world of Abbalar.  They may not be your immediate concern but if we do not stop them and change their philosophy they will eventually reach you.  It would be better for us to combat them now, together.  Because, In roughly 500 years the Karaxen will be released to reclaim the world they consider to be theirs…” 

“Wizomi, we do not live that long, so that is a problem for the future.  We know of the Karaxen, we have met them before…” 

“You have?  You know what they look like?  You know they will exterminate we Abbalons like vermine…” 

“Look,” a picture of an alien-scaled creature filled a wall of the room. “this is our enemy, we can defeat it.”

“What a monstrosity…” 

“They would be a problem, but we have improved our technology, and our numbers are increasing rapidly.  There were pockets of the Karaxen that did not die out or go underground.  We now know their weaknesses and could combat the others on an equal footing.  We are prepared for them.” Cherrie said. 

“So, you would abandon the ‘standards’ of Abbalar?” 

“Why should we be concerned with them, they’ve persecuted us for years, they are no better than the Bluttlander’s, they deserve each other!” said Petter. 

“We were briefed by the Oracle. We were given all this information.  The Oracle was left behind when the others left to bring us back together again,” said Jeenie.

“We need to discuss this!” said Shane. 

‘Ariel, collect Mr Wizomi and take him to the canteen…”  

“Please go out the way you came in.  Ariel will be your guide while you are here. We will call you back when we’ve discussed your request and reached a decision.”

“Wiz, you’ve had a long journey.  You need to eat and unwind,  Follow me,” Ariel said.

“Where are we going?”

“First we shower, change into fresh clothing, then eat and drink with friends.  Do you have a talent; Musician, Dancer, Conjurer?”

“I’m known as Wizomi the Story Teller, If the opportunity presents, I will ply my trade for your enjoyment.” 

“Good!  We, not of the council, are starved of news from the outside world.  Will you tell us about it?”

Wizomi ate a sumptuous meal with the rest of the flight.  During the meal, he told them of his time with the various peoples inhabiting the Southern regions of Abbalar.  They ate, drank, sang, and danced until even Wiz became tired. 

'Follow,' said Ariel, 'tonight you sleep with me …'

.-...-.

They were breaking-fast in the canteen the following morning when they were accosted by four stern-faced men in uniform.

"Visitor Wizomi, the Committee has reached a decision with regard to your plight. please come with us."

"Who are you?" Wiz demanded.

'They are Inquisitors, and they have weapons,' Ariel explained. 'You'd better go with them...'

Ariel rose to accompany him.

"Not you!" the leader said pushing her unceremoniously into her seat.

'This does not bode well,' Wiz thought as They led him away. 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 Riddles 03

The Riddler

No 1.  I sound like one letter but I'm written with three.

I show you things when you look through me.

What am I?

 

No 2.  In a clothing store in Rowayton USA, 

socks cost 25 dollars,

a vest cost 20 dollars

a blouse cost 30 dollars

a tie cost 15 dollars

with this method, how much does underwear cost?

 

Bring it on Riddler

 

 The man most likely to Succeed. 

By Len Morgan

  When I look back on my childhood, one person immediately springs to mind. Barry O’Donnell ~ was a handsome lad ~ and the one most likely to succeed in life.  Dough to his friends, was a charismatic guy, intelligent, witty, and inventive. His passions were modern & traditional Jazz, and Science fiction.   In 1960, at 15 years of age, he was a gifted artist who could paint incredible Sci-fi panoramas so vivid you could imagine you were there.   He idolised an artist, in Weird & Astounding Sci-fi comics, who simply signed his work as DITCO.   Dough was a poet and songwriter, who also wrote stories that could make you laugh or cry.    He would spend endless hours drinking brown ale, and listening to Elvis, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochrane, Jerry Lee and other rock stars of that era.   But mostly he loved the Jazz of Chris Barber, Bix Beiderbek, the Dutch Swing College Band, Duke Ellington, Earl Bostic, Dizzie, Bird, and Ella Fitgerald.  

   At school, he was a gifted ‘A’ stream student, always top of the class.   It seemed that the world was his oyster.   If anybody from Eastbury Secondary School for Boys was going to make a name for himself it was Dough!   But, he had one enormous flaw.   An anarchic antisocial streak that left us, his friends, embarrassed and feeling obliged to apologise for his thoughtless words and actions.   You see we loved him, we appreciated his finer qualities, and wanted others to do likewise.   But Dough, predictable as the weather was guaranteed to do something offensive to alienate somebody - often violently.

“Sorry he behaved like that, he’s really a great guy but, when he drinks…”   Whilst we apologised Dough would wander off, doing his own thing, wreaking havoc, oblivious to the trouble he’d caused and the efforts we put in to make things right! 

   On a school trip, to France, he got drunk and rode off on the local gendarmes bike - there was a gun pointed at his back as we remonstrated with the officer.   We retrieved his bike and apologised, but Dough still spent a night in the cells learning gutter French, and how to drink cheap red wine, with the town drunk; skills he would make use of, in later years, as he travelled the continent as an itinerant grape picker in France, Italy, and Spain.

   Back home he continued to paint and write breathtaking stuff but refused to submit anything for publication.   I believe, that above all, he feared rejection.   But, we will never know, on 5^th Nov 1961 he burned everything, on a bonfire, in his parent's back garden.  

  When he left school he worked in a succession of menial jobs from which he was sacked for disrespect, verbal abuse, bad timekeeping, unreliability, turning up drunk, and fighting.   His longest employment lasted less than six weeks, he didn’t give a toss; he was unemployable. So finally I gave up on him.  I joined a rock group as their singer and saw less and less of Dough.   When we did meet I found myself repelled by his outlandish antisocial behaviour.

   In 1964, I joined the Army for 9 years, serving in Germany, Cyprus, and the Trucial Oman.   I was home on leave the last time I saw Dough, it was in 1969, at 2am in the morning, he was paralytic drunk, and urinating up the front doors of the Barking Town Hall; showing his regard for authority.   I didn’t stop to talk I just looked him straight in the eyes, thinking of all that wasted potential, he glared straight back at me without a glimmer of recognition, and I walked on by.

   In 1974 I read, in the Barking & Dagenham Post with regret, that Barry O’Donnell, aged 29 of no fixed abode, died on the streets of a drug overdose.  Should I, Could I have done anything to change the course of his life?  I think not.

  Some people are like moths.  Try as you will to keep them away from a candle flame, they will inevitably crash and burn.  Sadly, it is their nature.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Didn’t you hear me?

Janet Baldey
 

The heavy oak doors burst open and Leo fled down the curved white steps.  Without hesitation, he heeled to the left and strode down the street.  His mouth was raked into a thin line and furrows scarred his face.  There was just one thought in his mind, he had to get away from the grey faced men and their grey voices and away from the few friends who’d attended the hearing, knowing he couldn’t stomach their clumsy shoulder-pats and embarrassed sympathy.  His anger, simmering just below the surface ever since it happened, flared, and became white-hot.  How could she have done this to him?  He’d reached his car by now and stood thumping its roof with fury.

         At last, feeling dead inside, he got into the car.  For a long time, he sat, watching skeletal trees bowing under a freshening breeze. Slowly, he reached out his hand and switched on the ignition.  Immediately, the husky voice of his wife’s favourite singer, flooded the car.   His hand shot towards the ‘off’ switch but the damage had been done and his shoulders heaved as he lowered his head onto the steering wheel.

         “Why, Catherine. Why?”

         It was almost dark by the time he recovered.  He knew he couldn’t return to an empty house, so he headed in the opposite direction, threading his way through the evening rush hour, out of the city and onto the coast road.

         When he reached the boatyard, it was almost midnight.  Leo parked the car and stood looking out over the moorings.  The wind was blowing hard now, sending tattered clouds scudding over the moon.  All around him, he could hear the slap of the waves, the clinking of halyards and the creak of vessels being buffeted by the rolling swell.  He drew in a breath of salt-laden air and, despite everything, felt himself relax.  He’d always loved this place.  He’d bought Catherine a yacht, just after they’d lost their third child, thinking it might take her mind off her grief.  After, they had spent almost every weekend sailing.  The rougher the sea, the better Catherine liked it.  On his work desk, he kept a picture of her at the tiller.  Her hair was streaming in the wind and her face was beaded with spray.  He never tired of looking at it, when things were tough, it gave him strength.

         Suddenly, the words of her favourite song reverberated in his head….Didn’t I tell you, I’ll love you forever?  Didn’t you hear me?

         They were very young when they first met but he’d known, almost at first sight, that she was the one.  He remembered walking into the church youth club, intent on having a game of table tennis and a laugh with his mates. Then, he caught sight of a small, serious-faced girl with a cloud of black hair and big brown eyes.  She reminded him of a faun, so small, so dark, so silent.  He found himself wanting to protect her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.  He’d meant to do his best but at the very time she’d needed him most, he’d failed her.

         At first, they were happy just to be together.  He remembered one sun-kissed afternoon when they’d ran along the sands at Rye, her slim, brown legs struggling to keep up with his and her protesting squeals as he brushed sand from her hair after they’d made love in the dunes.  She’d been so joyful then, her future stretched out before her, golden with promise like the sands they raced along.

         All Catherine had wanted from their marriage was to be a wife and mother.  She was not interested in a career; “a real home bird” his mother had called her.  But that was before; after losing three babies in a row, they’d started the soul-destroying round of specialist consultations.  With every visit, hope leached away and her happiness faded.  At first, he’d been supportive but as he became more and more caught up in his career, its distractions followed him home and he failed to notice how pale she was becoming.   All she wanted was to hold her baby; that was her tragedy and it was also his that he never fully realised how deep her longing was.  She sank into depression, her spirit languished and she spent long hours sitting alone in silence.  Then, the attacks of vertigo and dizziness began.  At first, their GP put it down to ‘nerves’ and offered antidepressants and it was only when she collapsed that she was taken seriously.  When MS was finally diagnosed, Leo was shocked into realising how far she had degenerated.  At long last, a surge of tenderness welled and he’d folded her slight figure in his arms. 

         “Don’t worry darling.  I’ll always be here to look after you,” he’d said.

         Didn’t you hear me?  Evidently, she hadn’t.  He’d come back from work one day, opened the front door and immediately felt the emptiness.  Pounding up the stairs, he burst into their bedroom only to find her limp body prostrate on the bed, her dark hair a curtain covering her face and an empty bottle of pills upended on the floor.

         Leo knew he couldn’t live without her.  Moving slowly, he raised the sail, heard the snap of the canvas as the wind took it and saw it billowing ghostly in the moonlight.  He nodded, bad weather was forecast and that would suit his purpose.  He cast off from the jetty and hauled on the tiller.  Without bothering to switch on his navigation lights, he set off and as he did, the first squall of icy rain slapped him full in the face.

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

         

 Riddles 02

The Riddler

Two more puzzles today ~ 2:

 

No1 sometimes I'm hot sometimes I'm cold  I can run and I can be still.

I can be soft and I can be hard what am I?

 

No 2 George, Helen and Steve are drinking coffee.

Bert Karen and Dave are drinking coke.

What is Elizabeth drinking?

 

Answers to Len, so that everybody gets a chance to be clever…

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 APOINTMENT WITH DEATH

By John Smith

Sir Miles Henderson stared at the report, then looked up at his Chief of Staff.

“George, It would appear that the Russians have got the central African nations all sewn up in a bag; arms supplies, military cooperation and training. How do we infiltrate and destroy them?

Before his Chief of Staff could answer, he asked him to arrange a meeting with Bud Wolensky of the US embassy.

 During their brief meeting, it was decided that each would send a man to investigate the situation and restore the balance of power in Africa.

Henry Nielson, eased himself into the cubical in the Railway Tavern just outside Southend Airport, carefully placing his pint of bitter on the beer-stained table and waited. As he stared aimlessly at the faded pictures of bygone locomotives that hung on the walls he pondered the task that lay ahead.  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden cold draft that forced its way into the warm bar.  A tall, well-built man stood and quickly glanced around the room, then made his way towards the bar.  Minutes later he approached Henry.

          “Do you think the Shrimpers will get promoted this season?”

          Without blinking, Henry responded. “The women’s team will, but I doubt the men have got it in them?”

          The man quickly sat down and in a hushed voice spoken with an American accent. “McKenzie, out of Langley.”

          Henry went to shake hands but quickly realized it was not the done thing. “Nielson, Whitehall.”

          For twenty minutes they chatted about nothing of interest.  When they had finished their drinks, they both left and started to walk the streets of Southend.

          McKenzie spoke first. “So, have you done this kind of work before?”

          Henry smiled, realizing that the man had not read his file.  “A bit. Mainly on the African continent.  You?”

          “Yeh, a bit here and there.”

          It started to rain as they began to walk along the famous pier and once alone started to discuss in detail the operation at hand. The next time they would meet would be in May of 2023, in the town of Vesilivka, on the fringe of the Kremenets Mountains National Park, southwest of Kyie in Ukraine; specially selected as the thickly wooded area and the surrounding mountains would shield their satellite communications and avoid detection from those who wanted to interfere.

          It was three in the morning when Henry, sitting in a rented house in Vesilivka, put down the handset and smiled.

McKenzie looked up from reading an intelligence report.

“Who was that?”

“Major Igor Vassilovitch, company commander of the Wagner 43^rd Infantry company.

“One of your inside men, no doubt? Anything interesting?”

“Yes.  He says that Prigozhin, the leader of the Wagner Group is getting really pissed off with General Shoigu, the Minister of Defence and his side-kick, General Gerasuimov, the Chief of the General Staff.  It appears that these two want the Wagner mercenaries transferred under the control of the Army so they can discreetly milk their unlimited financial and weapons resources.”

McKenzie slowly nodded. “That’s good.  Do you think it’s time to start phase one?”

Henry thought for a minute, then nodded.  “I’ll make the call to GCHQ and start the ball rolling.”

Two days later, TASS, the Russian government news organisation reported that hackers had infiltrated the networks of many large Moscow banks and hospitals including the total disruption of the rail, tram and bus services in and around the Russian capital. The consequences were as expected and the people wanted their government to sort it out, and now!

McKenzie smiled as he read the Russian newspapers, then glanced at Henry. “Phase two, I think? I’ll give Langley a call.”

Within 48 hours, The Russian intelligence services noticed a huge increase in traffic from Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat users across the country openly complaining about the incompetent way the country was being run, how the war was going, and some very disturbing comments about Putin.

It was the end of May. McKenzie took a satellite message from the telex machine and read it quickly, then glanced up at Henry.  “You need to read this.”

As Henry read the telex which stated that the Wagner Group had to give a lot of ground due to a shortage of ammunition. McKenzie lent over and studied the map of eastern Ukraine. “Phase three to begin.”

Henry nodded.  I’ll contact Igor and warn him.”

“How long have you known this Major Vassilovitch.  Can you really trust him?

Henry smiled. “I met Igor at Cambridge. We both read law.  When the Russians invaded Crimea, Igor returned to Ukraine and joined his country's intelligence service, then when the Wagner Group entered Ukraine, he crossed over to them. He was a lieutenant then, and now he commands an infantry company.  Of course, I trust him.”

Within three days, Igor had covertly intercepted the supply convoy just as it crossed into Ukraine and discretely spirited away the ammunition, supplies and money destined for the Wagner Group through his black-market network. Yevgeny Prigozhin, went ballistic and immediately got onto Moscow, insisting that he speak with the Minister of Defence, demanding to know where his supplies were.  Gerasimov, the Chief of the General Staff took the call and was totally unaware of what had happened and attempted to pacify Prigozhin.  He was met with threats that if he could not supply his men in the field, then he would come up to Moscow and cut his throat, and that of that idiot, Shoigu.

Two weeks later it happened again, and as predicted, Prigozhin publically advocated that he was going to Moscow to execute the Minister of Defence.

On the 24^th of June, American satellites picked up a small Wagner battle group crossing the Ukraine border and slowly starting to move towards Rostov-on-Don, enroute to Moscow. They also picked up that General Shoigu had fled from Rostov-on-Don and, shortly after, the private jet of Putin had flown from Moscow to St Petersburg, later that night.

Social media throughout Russia, driven by the CIA, quickly latched onto this coup against Putin.  Within a matter of hours, the story had gone around the world.  All of a sudden, Yevgeny Prigozhin was the people’s new crusader.

Igor, who had a good working relationship with Prigozhin, spoke to him before he left for Moscow and attempted to warn him that Putin would see his move on Moscow as mutiny, and if captured, he would be eliminated.  “You will have an appointment with death, Sir.”

Prigozhin smiled at him. “Then you must save me,” was all he said, before he turned and climbed onto his tank.

Henry turned to McKenzie. “Right, phase four. Can you get everything ready?”

A week later, once the move against Moscow had petered out, TASS reported that Putin had refused to meet Prigozhin and was going to charge him with treason. Then, after public outcry, again orchestrated by the CIA, It was declared that Putin had asked the president of Belarus, Alexander Lukashenko, to mediate the terms in which the Wagner Group, would be disarmed and sent to Belarus in exile.

During the weeks that followed the attempted coup, phase five was enacted.  The Canadian Globe and Mail, CNN, The New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal all published names of senior Russian generals who, based on reliable sources inside Russia, were complicit in supporting Prigozhin’s attempted coup.

Henry had to hand it to McKenzie.  His misinformation campaign proved very effective with eight senior Russian officers being quietly removed on the orders of the President by the FSB, never to be seen again.

Then on the 23^rd August, the private jet carrying Yevgeny Prigozhin and nine of his senior Wagner officers, flying from Moscow to St. Petersburg was shot down by Russian anti-aircraft missiles, killing everyone.

Early on Monday the 30th August, Henry, Igor and McKenzie flew back to London.  At the debrief, later that day, Sir Miles sat spellbound as Igor explained the last phase of the plan.

“As you know Sir, the Wagner Group was sent into exile on the 27^th June.  I knew that the Boss still had a lot to do with the closing down of his businesses in Moscow. 

Once I got his itinerary, I began to plan.  The first thing I had to do was to recruit a look-a-like and position him in the toilets of the Central Bank in Moscow, which was the penultimate bank on his program.  The others knew of the plan to switch him during the day.  The Boss pretended to have a bad cold, so he wore a scarf, and his favourit thick woolen hat. I have to say, his double did a convincing job of fooling the FSB, who closely followed them everywhere they went.  At the last moment, the Boss went to the toilet and the switch was made.”

“I had already visited the airfield where his jet was parked late that night and removed something that would cause the jet to fail its pre-flight test.  In the morning I explained to the senior aircrew officer that his jet was to be thoroughly checked before take-off.  In the event of it failing its pre-flight routine, I explained that I had a back-up jet in hanger 27. Sure enough, the Boss’s party arrived on time, and, as expected, the jet failed its pre-flight checks, so the aircrew rushed over to hanger 27 and quickly loaded everyone on board, then took off.  Fifteen minutes out, the bomb I had placed on the jet exploded, killing everyone on board.”

One of the officials sitting in on the debrief suddenly sat up. “You killed your Boss, but why?”

Sir Miles Henderson frowned at the man. “Do pay attention, Smithers.”

The boys back at Langley spread the word that Putin had assassinated the leader and his command team of the Wagner Group, by shooting down his jet.   And on the 29^th of August, the whole world watched as the Boss was buried in St. Petersburg. Again, Russian media exploded with threats against Putin.

“And where is Yevgeny Prigozhin at this moment, young man?”

“Long after his party had left the bank, he exited from a side door disguised as an elderly woman, crossed the road, and met up with Sergeant Major Max Stanislas, one of your boys I understand.  They caught the train down to Starobud, just inside the Russian border where a Ukrainian helicopter, hedge hopped across the border, picked them up, and flew them to Warsaw International Airport.” 

Major Igor Vassilovitch glanced at his watch.  “They should be landing at Stansted about now Sir.”

Sir Miles Henderson leaned back in his chair.  “Gentlemen, well done.  Has Mr. Prigozhin agreed to cooperate?”

Igor smiled.  “Yes Sir.  He has agreed to give us and the American’s the full breakdown of the whole central African weapons distribution chain, including who the main ring leaders are.  The breakdown of the Russian deployment along with what is left of the Wagner Group.”

McKenzie cut in.  “We also destabilized the Russian government, removed several high-ranking officials and turned the population again Putin.  Not a bad couple of months’ work.”

 

Now the question is, is he alive or not?

Copyright John Smith