PAMELA’S LAST DAY.

By Bob French

Jill Burnham sat looking out over Huntington Beach just west of the small town of Costa Mesta in California.  It was turning seven on a Friday evening, one of the best times of the day; the groaning sound of traffic on Highway 55, replaced by the gentle sound of the waves as they gently crept up the sandy beach, and the exotic birds that came out to serenade the beach lovers and tourists.  If the air was clear, you could see all the way out to Cataline Island.  Jill was at the top of her game in the high-end sales department of Partridge and Partridge, the estate agents to the movie-stars.

Bartram McKensie worked up state Los Angelese, in the blue-chip market place of fast-moving stocks and shares, futures, bonds, and foreign banking, which Jill found thoroughly boring. Their relationship was an unspoken arrangement, woven into the fabric of their busy lives.  Neither of them had time for romantic entanglements, but when a rare free evening presented itself, they would meet up and dine at Mario’s over at Long Beach or some of the other renown restaurants in LA.  Indulging in fleeting moments of companionship before returning to their respective financial empires.

Jill felt mentally and physically drained.  It had been an extremely busy fortnight, ending at lunch on, with her closing a multimillion-dollar deal with one of the stars who’d chose to remain anonymous. There had been much drinking to her success, and as the sun gradually faded behind the western horizon, Jill closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, oblivious of the prearranged dinner date with Bartram at Santa Monaca’s best fish restaurant at eight.

Monday morning Jill was up early and was in work by half Seven.  Met by her dizzy secretary, Pamela, she settled in to studying the markets, whilst Pamela supplied her with copious cups of double latte with three brown sugars and a Danish.

Jill always held her meetings with her staff at mid-day on Monday’s, to go over the properties that had been flagged up earlier.   Jill felt uncomfortable.  So far Pamela had not made any blunders which disturbed her, then realized as she glanced around the room that she’d forgotten to circulate the agenda for the meeting. As Jill and her area managers were still on a high from last Friday’s drinks, everyone seemed to grin and get on with the meeting.

It was coming to the end of the meeting when Jill suddenly sat up, as though someone had just slapped her across the back of the head.  She had just remembered that she was supposed to have met Bartram in Santa Monica last Friday evening.  She knew that sometime today she would have to apologize to him; something she hated doing.  Ignoring the winding up briefings from the various area managers, Jill decided that she had had enough of this pretend affair with Bartrum. she wanted something with a little more zing, something that would make her feel good inside, relaxed and carefree. Bill from down Santa Anna way popped his head in to Jill’s office. 

“I have had a good look at the French chateau in Le Bouscit near Bourdeaux Jill. Very promising.  I visited it last week and the owner of the Chateau is a chap call Maurice du Champion.  Speaks good English. He is also the bank manager of the town. I‘ve left a report with Pam.”

It was just past two in the afternoon and Jill had been trying to convince herself that this casual affaire with Bartram wasn’t what she wanted, but each time she tried to come to a decision, her mind told her to just wait a little longer.  Then the door to her office burst open. Pamela rush in, note pad at the high port, and in a complete flummox.

“Jill, it’s him, on the phone!”

Jill staired at Pamela, and slowly stood.  “Who is it on the phone Pam?”

“Its him, the bank man, you know.”  Jill froze.  She had made her mind up to dump Bertrum once and for all, but she felt unsure of herself.  Could she do it?  They have been friends for nearly six years.

“Thank you, Pam, put him through on my private line then switch off your line, No interruptions until I tell you, understand?”

Jill sat there in silence, staring at the little red winking light on her telephone. Her thoughts going over and over in her head. She knew He was going to call her and rebuke her for missing Friday’s date and she dreaded it. God! it was only a dinner date.  She spoke out loud  “I shall take command of the situation and tell him straight how she felt about him, and more to the point, that she didn’t want to see him again. Don’t let him get control of the conversation, just tell him what you expect in a relationship. Then she took a deep breath.

“Before I explain, I want to get something off my chest.  I’m sorry but what I want in a relationship is something you don’t seem capable of providing, I want to meet you at my front door after a busy day, slowly remove your clothes, item by item, smother you in kisses, as you devour me.  Then have slow and crazy sex with me on the sitting room floor, before you pick me up and take me gently to my double bed where I want you to explore every part of my body until I drift off into oblivion.  After that I want to sit naked in bed with you, drinking iced champaign and eating lobster sandwiches and watching Fifty Shades of Grey. Then, as mid-night chimes, I want you to take me down town to Saint Philippes, on fifty first and second and dance exotically like those young Latin kids until I wet my pants.” 

She heard him try to but in, but she was having none of it.

“Don’t interrupt me, just listen!  After leaving Saint Philippes, I want you to take me down to Emerald Bay and swim naked and dance in the sand as the tide gently come in.”  Jill took a deep breath, then eased herself back into her plush office chair. 

“Well what have you got to say?”

There was a short pause. Then she heard a voice that she didn’t recognize.

 “Well I can certainly fulfil your desires up until I take you dancing down at Saint Phillips, then I think you lost me.”

Jill suddenly sat forward. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Maurice du Champion.  I hope I am speaking to Ms Jill Burnham?”

Jill stood up, pushing her chair back and screamed at the top of her voice. “Pamela, get your sorry backside in here!”

Copyright Bob French

 A BIRTHDAY PARTY WITH A BANG

By Bob French

The court room was full of chattering parents and kids from Hamilton-Wenham-Regional High, in Essex County. The press were there in force, some looking for the truth, others looking for more dirt on the boy who had got his thirteen year old girlfriend pregnant, stollen dinner money from at least 35 pupils, bullied most of the 12^th grade and virtually destroyed his parent’s house, car, swimming pool and the property of his neighbors on each side of his parent’s house.

          At the High Bench, three empty red velvet backed chairs, were placed.  These belonged to the three court officials, who were currently discussing the evidence presented to the court and the degree of punishment to be awarded, behind closed doors.

          At ten o’clock on the morning of the 12 of September, the front doors to Essex County Court opened, allowing a mob of angry people who had looked forward to this day; the down fall of John Wicks and hopefully the incarceration of one of the most wicked, mischievous, bad-tempered individuals who had ever been allowed[1] to roam the streets of North Hudson.  There were some mutterings among the crowd that if this thug had been caught back a way’s, there would have been a lynching from the grand-oak tree outside the court house in North Hudson rather than a trial.

Suddenly the door behind the high bench opened and the marshal of the court called for everyone to stand and be silent, as the officials took their seats.

The judge, having listened to over six and a half hours of evidence the previous day, from the Sheriff’s Department, Frank Mason, the County Fire Chief, Mr Phillips, the head of the school science department of HWR High, and several pupils in the 12^th grade, took a deep breath and looked up into the angry faces of everyone in his court room. They had been waiting for over two hours whilst he and the other two court officials deliberated over the seriousness of this boy’s crimes.  He banged his gavel for silence…

* * * * * * * * *

          It had all started on the last day of the summer term. It was Mr Phillips last words of encouragement to the science class that he wanted each pupil to create, a project that would benefit and improve the good and welfare of North Hudson, and support this with a 5,000-word thesis. He then explained that the science professor from Wentworth University, Dr Henderson, would judge their project and award a full scholarship to the winner.

As the school bell sounded, heralding the end of term, Mr. Phillips called out over the heads of his departing students’, “Remember! If you want to start you next term as a student of Wentworth University your project has to be spectacular, literally, blow his socks off.”

“Ja mean like a bomb, Sir?”

Mr. Phillips looked at Wicks, the class joker, a nuisance at the best of times, and a young man who was quickly following in his father’s footsteps; an intimidator, a racketeer and a thief and well known to the sheriff’s department.  

“I hope you’re joking Wicks, but metaphorically speaking, yes.”  

As Wicks pushed his way through the rest of the class, closely followed by his hangers-on, he raised his voice so all could hear, “I’m going to build a bomb and blow this class room to kingdom come.”

* * * * * * * * *

          Ben Hastings was the kind of boy most people overlooked, except for the bullies. Ben was a quiet, unassuming seventeen-year-old with a fascination for science, he spent most of his days tinkering with old gadgets, pulling apart machines and dreaming of a future where his inventions would change the world.  But at HWR, he was the favorite target of John Wicks, a loud-mouthed attention seeking bully who took great pleasure in humiliating Ben in front of his friends, including his girlfriend, Janet McClusky.

* * * * * * * * *

 Having avoided the crowds of cheering and hysterical students, Ben made his way to the far end of the sports field where he had arranged to meet Janet.

After a quick kiss, they held hands and wandered down the winding path that ran alongside the river.

Janet spoke first.  “Have you given any thought for your project?”

“Not really.  Have you?”

Janet was silent for a while, then turned to face Ben. “You may think I’m mad, but how about we create a bomb?”

Ben looked into her deep blue eyes and squinted.  “You sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“Look, Wicks has given us a perfect excuse.  I very much doubt that he has the brains to make a bomb.  So, let’s help him.”

“Sorry, but you’ve lost me.”

“Everyone heard him say that he was going to build a bomb, then blow up the classroom. Well, what if we build a bomb and discreetly planted it in his garden shed.  We can detonate it after his birthday party is over.

“What birthday party? I didn’t know there was a birthday party.”

“That is because you didn’t get an invite. He is holding his 18^th birthday party on the weekend before school starts.  Perfect timing to set off a bomb that looks like it was made by Wicks so he could carry out his brag.  ”The first person the sheriff’s department would want to speak to would be Wicks, after his threat.”

“Brilliant idea.  In one fell-swoop, we could get rid of him once and for all.”

By the time they had reached the end of town they had discussed the outline of their plan and how they were going to create a fool-proof alibi.  Ben, now full of enthusiasm wanted to recruit a few of his mates to help with plan but Janet held up her hand.

“I think if this plan is to work, we both must swear an oath of silence.  We must not discuss the plan or write anything down, show an interest publicly or we shall be implicated. I will sit down this evening and draw up the plan.  Then we can discuss it between us. So, if you have any ideas or questions, keep them in your head until tomorrow afternoon.”

* * * * * * * * *

Janet, with the help of Ben and his garden shed, had created a small bomb using a mixture of a thunder flash, CS gas canister, a purple paint bomb and with Ben’s clever idea, a mobile phone detonator.  They then both went through each of their sheds and bed rooms to ensure that anything they used in making the bomb was removed and their sheds were thoroughly cleaned.   All they had to do was smuggle it into the shed in Wick’s back garden prior to his party on the week end before the new term started.

Janet had invited their friends from the science class to an end of summer term barbecue, which would end around ten in the evening. As the light started to fade, Janet asked Ben to get some more Coca-Cola. Ben understood the coded language and slipped discretely through the back gate and into Wick’s back garden. Placed the bomb against some empty petrol cans, then spread around the shed and garden some of the items that had been used to make the bomb, knowing that the fire brigade would find them in the debris.

The bomb, when it had exploded on Saturday before school started, completely destroyed the shed, blew out most of the windows of Wick’s house and those of his neighbors, sprayed everyone who was in the back garden and the pool with purple die and set on fire his father’s BMW.

Within hours, the sheriff’s department, after some simple questioning of the guests at the party, followed the evidence to the son of the Wick’s family.  Then the Fire Department studied some of the components of the bomb with what they found scattered around the garden, then briefed the Sheriff’s Department with what they had found.

* * * * * * * * *

The court room fell silent. The judge looked up from his notes, and cleared his throat.

“After much deliberation, I find you, John Wicks guilty of all the charges laid against you.  The matter of you impregnating a minor will be dealt with by under a separate court hearing, where they will place a financial provision order upon you for the support of the child when it is born.”

Wicks smiled at the people sitting in the public galleries, knowing that the judge could not send him to prison because of his age. The judge, after a pause, looked up again at Wicks.

“As you are no longer a minor, I hereby sentence you to 8 years with no parole in the Massachusetts correction facility.”

Wicks stood and stared at the judge, then screamed, “You can’t I’m a minor. Stop, you’ve got this wrong.  I’m a minor.”

”Take him down, then clear the court.”

In the cool of the evening, Janet and Ben sat on the porch drinking ice cold Coca-Cola. After a period of silence, she draped her arm around Ben’s shoulder and gently kissed the side of his face. 

“Although we could never claim the prize of creating a project that would benefit and improve the good and welfare of our town, it was fun.”

Copyright Bob French

A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

 A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

BY BOB FRENCH 

The judge at Edmonton Crown Court cleared his throat, thanked the jury, for their service, then glanced up at the young man standing in the dock.

“You have been found guilty of grievous bodily harm against Miss Victoria Smith.”  The judge stared down at his papers then adjusted his glasses.”

“Charles Alexander Fenwick, you have been convicted of the offence of manslaughter, by the verdict of a jury.  The court has heard that on the 31^st of December 2023, You and the victim, Miss Victoria Ann Smith, caught the 11:10pm train from Bristol Temple Mead to Exeter. According to several witnesses, you were both drunk and arguing.  At around 11:30pm, you were seen swearing and fighting in the carriage corridor of the train with Miss Smith, and that during this fight, you opened the carriage door and pushed Miss Smith out onto the track whilst the train was moving.”

“I have considered the aggravating factors in this case, including the fact that you were both drunk and fighting in a public place, I have also considered the mitigating circumstances, and the evidence of Doctor Yellington regarding the medical state of Miss Smith.”

He turned to the Doctor. “Doctor, as of nine o’clock this morning was Miss Smith still in a comma?”

The Doctor stood. “That is correct Your Honour.”

“And is there any indication as to when she will recover?”

“I am afraid that only nature can tell us Sir.”

The judge turned his attention back to Alexander. “Your lack of remorse about the health of Miss Smith’s condition is plain to see.  I therefore sentence you to a term of twelve years imprisonment. You will serve half of this sentence in custody before being eligible for release on license." 

That night in the Duck and Pheasant, Alexander’s second home, everyone felt sorry for their star rugby player.  Some gave their penny worth about a fair trial, others thought Victoria should have been in the dock and some thought that Alexander should have been given a much longer sentence, whilst the majority of his friends thought that Victoria had it coming to her.

 Victoria Ann Smith had arrived in the small town hoping to get a job at the Bristol Royal Infirmary.  She had qualified as a nurse in Liverpool, but decided she wanted to live and work down south.  It didn’t take her long to find, then mix in with the ‘in crowd’ which centered around the local rugby team.

On a cold, wet and windy Saturday afternoon in November, some of Victoria’s friends decided to go and support the local rugby team on the understanding that the third half was always a great hoot, with good food and drink. Victoria had never been to watch a game of rugby and was surprised how rough it was. Half-way through the second half, three players collided with each other and spun across the muddy touch line, knocking three of Victoria’s friends over.  All six ended up in a deep muddy puddle. 

Without thinking, Victoria donned her nurse’s hat and jumped into the pile of groaning bodies, quickly administering medical advice to those who followed her.

Two of the players were classed as walking wounded, but one player, a tall six-foot blond-haired man had to be stretchered off the pitch.  Victoria stayed with him until he reached the dressing room.  The coach, an elderly man who by the state of his nose, was an ex-rugby player, thanked her and asked if she could stay and help administer first aid?

“Sure.  Let me examine him properly first.” 

The coach, whose name was Bert, dug out a rusty old tin with a white circle and red cross on it.  “This is all we have.”

Victoria grinned and thought ‘when had the health and safety rules changed the marking on first aid boxes to white with a green cross.’

“Alright Bert, help me get this muddy jersey off him, but be careful, it looks as if he has a dislocated shoulder. After a great deal of gentle pulling and pushing, Bert swore.

“Sorry love.  We are going to have to cut him out of it.”

“No! it’s my favorite shirt.” The player shouted.

“What’s you name?” Victoria looked him sternly in the face.

“Alexander.  Do you really have to destroy my jersey?”

“No, not really.  I can leave you in your stinking, muddy shirt and wait until infection sets in.  Then I doubt you will ever play rugby again.  Your choice?”

Alexander reluctantly gave in and lay back down on the physio bed.

“Now just relax.  I will count to three then you will feel a sharp pain as I put your shoulder back in its right place, OK?”

“One, Two,” then she pulled his shoulder back into its original place.

What followed was a string of foul language, including some words that Victoria had never heard before.

“Right, lets look at the rest of your injuries. Bert, can you sponge his legs down so I can get a good look please.”

“umm! This looks bad. I think you are going to need stitches.  Do you have the kit to do this Bert?”

“Yes. Not sure if it’s clean and sterile though.”

“Have you any antiseptic?”

“Yeh, got that in a bottle over there. I’ll get it.  Do you need some cotton wool?”

Victoria thanked him and continued to study his legs.

Once Bert had finished cleaning the mud from his legs, Victoria completed her inspection.  She noticed that Alexander had so many scars from playing rugby; it was little wonder that there was any space left for more scars.

After the game had finished, the bar, club hall and dressing room started to fill up.  Bert suggested that he’d bring Alexander out once he’d got him sorted.

From that moment on, for over a year, Victoria and Alexander became an item.  They were never seen apart. Then in the summer, he invited her to move into his flat and for a few months’ life was bliss. They even decided to pool their resources and open a joint account.

Alexander gradually became aware of her variable behaviour and was a little surprised.  She was not slow in coming forward so that she got her way. Alexander was what one may call a gentle giant, a bit of a push over and he thought it was just first or second date nerves.

At Christmas, he wanted to take her up to London, take in a show and then have a nice meal at one of the posh restaurants. But she had other ideas. She wanted to go dancing down at Chinnerys in Southend.

A few months later they were contemplating a spring holiday. Alexander suggested Cyprus, but Victoria vetoed that idea and they spend two weeks in Val d’lsere, costing a fortune. On the last day of their holiday Alexander decided to have it out with her.  What was suppose to be a discussion between two people who were in love, it quickly turned into a real fight. To defend himself, Alexander had to pin her down until she relaxed, leaving bruise marks on her wrists and upper arms.

Alexander knew many of Victoria’s friends and one evening met up with them in a local pub.

“Thanks for meeting up with me and please forgive me if I cross over any boundaries of friends trust.  Since we got married, Victoria’s behaviour has deteriorated to the extent that on our last holiday we ended up actually fighting each other, and it wasn’t nice. One friend suggested that she might be on some sort of drug, but the other friends shouted her down.

A week later Alexander suggested that they follow the rugby team down to Bath staying at a really nice hotel.  To his surprise she agreed and the train into London was without problem.  Then on the Great Western Railways train she found a bar on board and started to have a drink, then another until she was tipsy. Then they started fighting.  He chased her down the corridor.  Then they started to struggle and without reason, they crashed against the door which suddenly flung open.  He tried to grab her but the suction caused by the rushing air past the open door sucked her out. That evening the Bristol police arrested him in the hotel and took him back to London.

It was the late afternoon on the 24^th of December and Alexander was about to start his eight years in prison.  Alexander kept himself to himself, but the word got out that he had beaten his wife into a coma and she had died.  As he watched the rugby game one of the Prison Staff touched him on the shoulder and quietly said that he had a visitor.

“Who is it? No one ever visits me.  Are you sure?”

“Just get a move on. I want to watch the game as well.”

Alexander went to the visitor’s room, sat down in the cubical and waited.

Then the door opened and a woman entered the other side of the glass.

When she took off her scarf and glasses, Alexander stood up and stared at the woman.

“God! I thought you were dead.”

Victoria grinned. “No.  I just popped in to wish you a happy Christmas before we, that’s Manuell and I are off on a holiday in the sun.”

“But have you told my solicitor that you have come out of your coma and that I want to challenge my sentence. I still have money you know.”

Victoria gave a quiet laugh.  “Alexander sorry but you have no money any more.  Remember we had a joint account and I took great delight in spending it all.  As far as your solicitor knows, I died last year.  I have a new identity now and my boyfriend is taking me to Spain on his yacht, then onto the Caribbean.  Goodby Alexander have a happy Christmas.

Copyright Bob French  ~  Dec2024

NO TIME TO RUN

 

NO TIME TO RUN - (out of time)

By Bob French

It was a crisp February morning, the mist still hung over the meadows and fields that led into the High Street of Little Easton, in Essex. The air smelt of pine and damp grass.  Roddy Crocket, ‘Davey’ to his friends, ignored the early morning dog walkers and paper-boys as he strode purposely down the High Street towards the little cottage next to the bus stop, adjusting his large military ruck-sack as he went.

He knew not many people would recognise him.  When he left five years ago, he was a pimply, five-foot three-inch boy who was always being picked on in school.  Now he stood six foot two, sported a tan that some would die for and was well built.  He felt sadness creep throughout his body, knowing that his mother’s neighbour had written to him, to tell him that his mum was very poorly. Once his platoon sergeant heard about it, he was on the first flight out of Afghanistan.

When he reached the bus stop, he glanced down at the little cottage set back from the high street and was angry with himself. The peeling paint, sagging porch, and the rose bushes and shrubs that his mother cared for since his dad had passed, looked wasted and desolate.

He rang the door-bell, then realized that it didn’t work, so he banged on the door a couple of times.  Within minutes he heard the “ow-ee” from Mrs. Jones, her next-door neighbour.

“Can I help you young man?”

“Mrs. Jones. It’s me Roddy.  I have come home to see what’s the matter with Ma; I can’t thank you enough for your letter.”

“Come around the back.  The front door is a little warped.”

Roddy followed her around the side of the cottage and his eyes picked up more neglect; windows cracked and drain-pipes leaking, then he caught site of the once beautiful garden.  It now resembled some of the sites he’d passed through on patrol in the Helman Province.

Mrs. Jones pushed open the kitchen door and moved quickly into the front room.  The stench of body odour and dampness stung the back of his throat.  There sitting in his Dad’s old arm-chair was his mum.

“Angie.  I got someone who wants to see you.”

Roddy’s eyes filled with tears as he stared down at his mother. 

He had to really look into her face to find the woman who had brought him up, then cared for him when her soul mate and his dad had passed.

In a frail voice, Angie called out his name. “Roddy love, is that you.  What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come home to care for you Ma.  Help get you back on your feet, thanks to Mrs. Jones.” 

“Roddy love, I’ll let you get acquainted with your Ma.  If you want anything, I’m only next door.”  With that she quietly left.

True to military fashion he stood.  “Let’s get you a cup a tea, then we can talk.”

   It took him a few minutes to find a couple of clean tea-cups, then glanced around the kitchen and thought that the place needed a major renovation job.  Then his eyes fell on a bundle of unopened letters underneath her old green cardigan.

He scooped them up and put them on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, promising to read them once he had got his mum sorted.

Sitting down opposite her, Roddy gently asked what has been going on. Has she been poorly?

“Roddy Love, it’s the new land lord. He said that I had signed a new contract which gave him the right to take over the upkeep and maintenance of my home.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you sign the new lease?  Have you got a copy of this new contract?

He could see his mother struggling with question.”

“Don’t bother just yet Ma, Let’s get you sorted out.  Do you mind if I have a wander around the place and see what needs sorting first?”

She smiled with her eyes and nodded.  “Will you be staying long?”

“As long as it takes Ma. Don’t you worry.” 

It took him nearly two hours to have a good look at the damage that had been caused by neglect, then he came and sat down next to his Ma.

“Ma, it’s going to take me a little while to get this sorted, but I don’t want you to worry.  Who collects your pension?”

“Mavis, next door. Why”

Roddy had to think who Mavis was, but his thoughts were interrupted when she explained that Mavis was Mrs. Jones.

“And what standing orders do you have, like the gas and electricity?”

“Oh, its that nice man, Mr. Green down at the Natwest.  He sorts all that stuff for me.”

“What about the rent.  Do you pay for that through the bank?”

Her voice quietened and he could see fear in her eyes. “Ma, what’s the matter.  Don’t you like the man who comes and collects the rent?”

“No.  I don’t trust him.  Every few months he tells me that the rent has gone up.  I tell him that I won’t pay any more rent unless he comes and fixes the gutters and windows.”

Roddy was beginning to see where this was going and had to really control his anger.

“OK Ma, but don’t you worry.  I will take care of things.  But I want you and Mavis not to say they have seen me to anyone who knows you, including people you don’t know.  I can sort all this out if the people who are hurting you, don’t know I am here, is that OK?”

For the first time his mother smiled and he knew that she was on the mend.

“Right then, breakfast.”

Later that morning, Roddy climbed over the back fence onto the road.  He walked for about half an hour until he came to a car hire garage and hired a non-descript hatch back. Then he went through the local paper and jotted down various tradesmen who could repair and redecorate his mother’s cottage.  He explained that it was a cash in hand job.

That afternoon, having done a mega shop at Liddle’s in Colchester, he drove home and parked his hire car next to the cemetery, along-side several other cars.  Then spent a couple of hours helping his mother sort out the laundry, bedding and clearing out the kitchen. After dinner, he sat down and started to go through the pile of letters that his Ma had received.

By ten, it was time to crash.  He had assembled those letters demanding payment; those from the land-lord’s company and those who were responsible for the upkeep of the cottage. he settled down to go over the letters. 

Something nagged him.  It was a name; Duggan. Then it came to him, Harry Duggan was one of the gang leaders who had made his life at school unbearable. He grinned as he read that Duggan was part of the landlord organization who took the rent. Then, to his surprise, he read that Bert Duggan, the younger sibling of the Duggan empire, ran the maintenance company responsible for the up-keep of the eight small cottages on the edge of the village.

He asked Mrs. Jones if she would act on behalf of his mother when any tradesmen came to repair things around the cottage or the grounds. He gave her the names of the companies who would be doing the job. She understood why the need for secrecy.

He then recalled that Ann, a girl he had a crush on in the senior year of his school, had taken an apprenticeship with a legal firm in Colchester, so he chanced his luck and once he’d found the firm on the internet, called her.  After a brief chat, he made an appointment to see her.

 They met at the Wimpey Bar and to his surprise they hit it off.  Once he had explained what had brought him back from overseas, she was angry and promised if there was anything she could do, all he had to do was ask.

“Ann, Can I ask you a huge favour?”

“From what you have told me you don’t need a favour, you need to hire my firm to represent your mother in court.”

Roddy took his time explaining what he wanted her to do, which she quickly agreed to.

Her first call, after checking with the Inland Revenue to see if the Duggan’s had submitted their tax returns for this year.  Within an hour they had called her back and explained that the firm had avoided any returns for the past four years.  Before hanging up, she warned the officer that the Duggan’s would almost certainly try to destroy their accounts, and leave the UK for Spain. The legal wheels had started to grind. Then she wrote to Harry Duggan.

It was three o’clock on Friday afternoon when Harry read the letter from Ann.  It was a very formal and straight forward demand:

‘It is noticed that your company has failed to present your accounts for the past four financial years. You are there for required to have all your accounts and supporting receipts for the past four financial years ready for inspection by Wednesday next week.’

Harry’s face went white and quickly lunged for the telephone and dialed Frank, his accountant. The phone was answered by one of the clerks who explained that Frank was away for a week; funeral of his brother or something.’

Harry, knew that he had to destroy everything and then warn his brother to do the same before Monday morning, then head off to Spain.

It was reported in the local newspapers that the two Duggan brothers had been arrested on Friday evening trying to destroy evidence required by the Inland Revenue.  They were expected to receive a lengthy jail sentence each.  It was also reported that the three local tradesmen who had been shut out of the village had now formed a new company who would care for and look after the original eight cottages in the village.

Roddy pushed the door open to his mum’s front room and was greeted by a smiling face; the face he remembered before he left home all those years ago.

Copyright Bob French

 

 AND A BLOODY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL.

By Bob French

Robert Henderson clenched his fists in anger as Geoffry Smitherton, the CEO of Hamilton and Buckfast, the firm where he had worked for the past 9 years, cleared his throat.

          “You leave me no choice Henderson.  You oversaw the security and delivery of the gold bullion, its route, and timings.  You even chose the security men to ensure that it reached the bank on time and intact.”

Robert knew it was a stitch-up.  Jess, an old navy friend who worked in the security business had tipped him off that some one was going to steal the year’s gold deposits.  He also knew that, according to Heidi, his girlfriend, and the assistant accountant of the firm, that when she checked the findings of the November audit, the books didn’t balance and there was a deficit of several million pounds.   He had to say something, but he knew that if he did, innocent people would lose their jobs, so he stood there and took it.

“Please report to the head porter, who will accompany you to your office where you will clear out your desk and hand over any security access cards you have.  I want you out of this building by mid-day, now get out of my sight!”   As he made his way out of the building, he thought it strange that if they were sure he was responsible for the crime, why weren’t the police being involved?

It was two weeks later that he had a call from Jenny, a close friend to say that Heidi had been involved in a hit and run and was in hospital.  He was beside her bed within the hour, and as he held her hand, he whispered that he loved her and that she must get better so they could get married.  He felt her hand gently squeeze his as she whispered something that brought tears to his eyes. As he clung onto her hand, he could feel her slowly slipping away. When the monitor stopped recording her heart beat, he looked up at the nurse and questioned her with his eyes. The nurse slowly shook her head, then quietly left the room to seek assistance. Robert gently kissed her and spoke quietly that he would avenge her death.

Robert retired to his cottage where he found solace in the silence of the snow-covered countryside.    Each day he would slowly trudge through the winter landscape as snow fell softly around him, blanketing the world in a muted hush. Each step crunched beneath his boots, a sound that felt alien in the vast silence around him.  He used to love walks like these with Heidi, her laughter dancing on the crisp air, her breath visible in frosty puffs. Now, each footfall felt like a reminder of her absence and it tore at the muscles of his heart.

It had been eight months since the day everything changed. When the future he expected with his Heidi had flickered and then dimmed.  He recalled the way Heidi held his hand in those last dying minutes of her life, her fingers entwined with his, whispering that she would always be with him,

“Just look for me in the small things,” she had said, her voice barely above a whisper.  And yet he found himself lost in a world that felt impossibly large without her.

The trees loomed tall and bare, their branches heavy with snow, creating a fragile canopy above him.  He paused for a moment, allowing the chilly air to fill his lungs, letting it clear the fog in his mind.  He remembered how they used to walk this very path, hand in hand, sharing dreams and secrets beneath the shelter of the pines.

Robert shook his head, trying to dispel the sorrow that clung to him like the falling snow. He continued, his breath coming in steady puffs as he moved deeper into the woods.  The world was a tapestry of white and gray, and he felt as if he were wandering through a dream, disconnected from reality.

As he rounded a bend, he spotted the small clearing where sunlight used to break-through the clouds of falling snow, illuminating a lone bench dusted with snow. It had been their favorite spot – a place to pause, to breathe, and to watch the world go by.  He approached the bench, his heart heavy with memories, as he sat down, allowing the cold to seep through his coat, feeling the weight of solitude settle in beside him.

A gust of wind stirred the snowflakes, swirling them like tiny dancers in the air.  In that moment, he thought he heard her voice, soft and melodic, beckoning him to remember the beauty around him. 

“Look for me in the small things,” it echoed.  He closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him; a gentle warmth seeping through his body. Robert sat silently for a while, then opened his eyes at the sight of a small bird flitting from branch to branch, its vibrant plumage standing out against the winter backdrop.  He smiled as the little bird seem to look at him before vanishing into the depth of the forest.  May be Heidi was right.  In the stillness of the snow-clad forest, in the life that persisted, even in the cold, she was there-embedded in the beauty of the moment.

With a deep breath, Robert stood up, brushed the snow from his coat, and took one last look around the clearing, a quiet farewell mingling with the gentle falling of snow.  As he walked back along the path, he felt a little lighter, as if the memories, though bittersweet, could also be a balm.  The snow continued to fall, but now, it felt like a blanket of hope, wrapping around him, inviting him to carry on.

          After a week of contemplation, he called Jenny and asked if she would meet him for coffee, but not in town.  She agreed, understanding his reluctance to be seen together particularly as the theft of the gold was still fresh in some people’s minds. Robert played rugby for Brightlingsea and often used The Queen’s Head pub, secluded on the outskirts of Tolleshunt D'arcy, where he used to entertain Heidi.

 

          He also invited Jess and as they sat down with a drink, Robert spoke.

“Listen I know the robbery was a stitch-up, but what was the scam and who was involved?”

 

          Jess spoke first. “I’ve been doing a little bit of digging in prep for this meeting and I can tell you that the mob who did the job came from Nottingham; four of them.”

 

          Jenny quickly looked over her shoulder, checking that no one was listening, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Heidi told me that she worked it out, which is why they killed her, I think. The gold, which was insured, would be stolen and the firm would receive a huge payout, which would cover the loss and sort out the debt.”

 

“What debt?

 

“Heidi had discovered that Smitherton had racked up a huge gambling debt in two of the big casinos in London and each month he discreetly filtering off thousands to keep one step ahead of the mobs.  Then he personally authorised the investment for a project in South Africa which went sour.  He was well in over his head.”

 

Robert whistled to himself. “And no one spotted it?”

         

Jenny leant forward. “Yes, old man Hamilton picked it up during the autumn audit and spoke to Smitherton.  According to Nancy, his PA, he was given six months to sort it all out or he would report the matter to the police.”

 

“Who else knew about this?”

“Pritty well all the executive team, including that slimy git Frampton the Accountant and before you ask, he was the one who suggested the way to recoup the loss to the board.”

 

They all sat there in silence for a while, then Jess spoke. “I can take care of the four from Nottingham, but what have you in mind for the rest?”

 

Jenny said. “If we are now thinking of revenge and that you want to take down the whole Board of Directors, including Frampton and his hangers on, then I suggest you do it on the 23^rd of December.”

 

“What’s the significance of the 23^rd?”

 

“It’s the afternoon Hamilton and Buckfast hold their directors Christmas Party.  They normally hold it around 4:30 on the fourth floor. It's invitation only.”

 

Jess put down his pint. “We don’t want to take out those who are innocent, not before Christmas.”

 

“Good point.  I can get hold of the invite list and discretely warn off those not involved in the scam.”

 

“Thank you Jenny.  Now the question is how do we do it?”

Jess grinned. “Just so happens I still have some contacts with my old mates in the bomb disposal team, but I would need to recce the room first.”

 

          Robert sat by the burning fireplace drinking a nice 25-year-old whiskey when he heard on the six o’clock news that there had been an explosion at the firm of Hamilton and Buckfast.  According to the Fire Chief at the scene, there were no survivors.

 

          He grinned, raised his glass and toasted them, and a bloody merry Christmas to you all.”

 

Copyright Bob French Nov24