Summer Skies

Summer Skies 

By Sis Unsworth

We wait so long for summer skies, through winter’s darkest hours,

To watch the trees unfurling leaves, and celebrate new flowers.

To glorify the early dawn, with the suns unveiling light,

Stimulating life on earth, as it rises to full height.

Sometimes the skies may be darkened, by invading showers of rain.

Then Mother Nature takes a hand and skies are blue again.

The wonder of the evening sky, as the sun descends below,

Leaving then an artists dream, the sky in such a glow.

Then the summer night sky comes to complete the day's endeavour.

You can almost see the universe, as the stars go on forever.

The moon in all its glory concludes the perfect day

As summer skies give pleasure with winter far away.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

THE LETTER

THE LETTER (For those at home, alone, without modern technology)

By Peter Woodgate

It had landed on the mat,

in amongst the pleas from charities,

news that I had won a prize

and the bank informing me that they

had increased my credit max.

Another from the company

that supplied me with my energy,

was glowing red.

I’d scooped them up;

It had caught my eye,

the envelope with a proper stamp,

you know, the sort you lick with love,

although, I think this has been banned

in line with H & S.

My name and address, handwritten,

flowed through the ink, to illustrate,

that I was not,

just one more bit,

within this world of megabytes.

I’d held it close

and stroking it I’d thought,

“of all the people in this world,

I am unique,”

a letter that was just for me

and not a standard, dull copy

with adjustments to a word or two,

then, with emotion, scanned the stamp

that showed a kangaroo.

He had been sent across the world

with love from someone far from home,

I’d opened up that letter

and, no longer was alone.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 8

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 8

By Phillip Miller

Chapter 8

Mika sat on the first floor of The Sheeshal bar and restaurant, Brentwood, quietly sipping at her Vodka and Tonic. It had been a while since she had visited. A melodious Turkish love song played in the background. Her mood was melancholic as thoughts of her past flitted in and out of her mind. She was having difficulty sleeping, the stab wound aching and throbbing still, despite the tablets.

She thought of Tolyatti, the shit hole city where it all began and which still caused her to wake in a sweat now and then during the recurring nightmares: the stench of piss-stained, drunken men taking their turns with her from the age of thirteen, whilst those who were supposed to take care of her just pocketed the rewards.

She fingered the top of her glass in a circular motion causing it to sing. A large champagne bottle was uncorked some distance away, causing her to jump as another image flashed through her mind. She remembered her overweight uncle laying on her as a young girl, but it was after he brought back another younger, petrified girl, accompanied by five Russian military men, that her future was to change forever. She was shaking, but this did not matter. They just laughed and plied her with drinks. She started to cry and was immediately smacked around the head. They turned her around and around until she fell, then stripped her naked. Mika sat and watched as they played with her, like cats toying with a mouse, before forcing them together to perform the most degrading sexual acts on each other and themselves.

They were abused for almost three hours. By the end of the evening, when all was played out, all five men had collapsed into a drunken stupor, naked and exposed.

The younger of the two girls sat staring, zombie-like. It was a familiar scene to the soon to be enlisted secret service agent. Mika indicated to the young girl to get dressed and touched her lips with her index finger, whispering softly,“let’s go, come now.” They made for the front door of the run-down flat, tip-toeing over the soldiers as they went. When they opened the door, Mika stopped suddenly and broke away. “Go, don’t look back.” She closed the door and walked quietly towards the men that had brutalised them both.

The moment felt so surreal to her. She felt calm and light, light as a feather. She touched the small pendant that hung around her neck and remembered the softness of her mother’s hand, which just compounded her rage.

Military garb had been flung on to the floor in their eagerness for pleasure and so Mika rifled through the first army bottoms she came across. She took some bank cards and some cash. Inside one of the jackets, she found a Knife. The inscription read Vityaz. There was no emotion and no fuss as she went around quietly slitting the soldier's throats one by one. They were all so intoxicated that despatching them was easy. The last one was special. He seemed to have enjoyed the games more than the rest. She decided he should get special treatment. Her slender, bruised and abused frame squatted over him. She needed to take a leak and so raised her dress and urinated over his face. He stirred, moaning and spluttering, blinking, wiping away the warm liquid. Then he saw her, but it was too late. She sank the Spetsnaz preferred weapon of war into his left eye socket. He was dead instantly. She sat back, covered in blood. It was a further 10 minutes before she lost control completely, her inner rage unrelenting; the mutilation lasted almost an hour.

She heard the click in the door and ran at it with full force just in time to catch her uncle off guard. She left the knife embedded in his groin, screaming in agony, then sat and waited for him to slowly die.

When Captain Kaspersky was called to the scene, he immediately recognised the potential of the young girl; the execution of five of his top agents without a shot being fired was testament to that; it took her five years to become no.1.

A light tap on her shoulder jolted her back to the present.

“Excuse me, there is a gentleman to see you. He is in the VIP suite,” said a young waitress.

“Thank you.” She held onto the chromed balustrade and made her way up the glass steps to the mezzanine floor. The sumo sized frame that was one-eyed Bob remained seated, his demure and petite Thai wife sat beside him, fanning herself.

“let’s get down to business,” he grunted, mopping his brow.

Mika sat and ordered drinks and food via the menu pad screen on the table.

“There is a hard drive and laptop locked away within a data facility on the Isle of Dogs, Harbour Exchange. Nobody has access to it apart from my husband. The data hall is impossible to get into without authorisation so that will be needed also. It operates under fingerprint recognition. My husband’s fingerprints, middle and index finger of both hands. I will get the authorisation sorted. I Need that hardware.” She pulled a nail file from her small pineapple yellow Prada handbag.

“How much?” he asked, as his wife sat casually observing the slim, raven haired agent.

“Ten thousand sterling,” still filing her nails as the drinks arrived.

The big man laughed loudly then stopped abruptly, his face deadpan. “After the fuck up you made at my farm you think a poxy ten grand is gonna do me? Think again.” He placed the banana sized fingers of his left hand on his wife’s knee, rubbing it back and forth, grinning with salacious thoughts as Mika bent forward to reveal her fine cleavage.

“Sorry about that, but it was out of my hands. Ok! Another ten thousand for the hardware and another twenty thousand for that dump you call a farm. Take it or leave it.” Bob started to sweat more and Mika knew she could probably get what she wanted for nothing. He looked like her uncle, even worse, she thought.

“Leave it to me. I’ll get Credi. He has the right connections for this.”

“If this goes wrong Bob,” she warned, as she picked up a knife from the table, “I will take your bollocks and feed them to that slitty eyed wife of yours then I will play with her. Understood?” Mika sat staring into Bob’s good eye. Bob looked away, took a deep breath, replying as he exhaled, “Understood.”

Mika held on to the table to aid her in standing just as the food was being delivered.

“Leaving so early? At least have some food. I can’t eat all that.”

“I didn’t order for anyone else. It’s all yours you fat bastard.”

She took the steps slowly; pain was worse going down.

One eyed Bob helped himself to a large plate of Halep and started shovelling it into the tunnel he called a mouth. He waited till she was out of ear shot before turning to his torpid wife with a mouthful of kebab meat, “I’m gonna kill that bitch one day.”  

The war room at Command Centre was buzzing. Major Singha and Moreau were preparing for the meeting and Donyevsky had been sent to the armoury to try out a few new gadgets.

The Major finished his discussion with Moreau, clapped him on the back and said, “This is it, let’s go. They are all waiting in the War Room.”

“What about Craig, I think the chiefs of staff should see their man in the flesh, don’t you?” said Moreau, gesturing with open arms. “It’s cost close to ten billion dollars to reach this stage.”

“Not yet! Everything is set. We just need to….” He paused and looked at his monitor, then shook his head. “Wait, did you see that?  A red line, Hang on, I need to get the tech’s in on this,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“Sir! We cannot delay,” said Moreau with a sense of urgency.

“Gene, get the tech’s in here. Tell them I have some kind of glitch on my screen, a red line.” He cut off and they both headed for the War Room via an electric buggy.

Tom and Cody escorted Craig along to the meeting room. The main door had an armed guard and even though his escorts had probably known security by name, they still had to present ID.

Once through, it was evident that this was no game. The chiefs of staff of the Army, Royal Navy and Royal Air Force, sat around a large oval table along with their immediate subordinates and American joint staff.

Craig was taken through to a small office connected to the rear of the War Rooms. Tom was tasked with guarding him and Cody attended the meeting alongside Moreau. The Major began his opening address.

“Good evening gentlemen. As you know, Admiral John Stark was appointed brief and I would like to ask him to address you all shortly. We are at level two. Our allies, Okhrana, have confirmed that Operation Flamingo is at phase Four in the Russian capital and upon delivery of the Tzar, will be de-facto authority of Russia.” Major Singha prompted Admiral John Stark, who rose slowly to address the men that would soon be in charge of the destruction of the ‘old enemy’, Russia.

“In less than 48hrs we will be on the cusp of a new world order. Once Flamingo is established we will have complete control from the Baltic Sea in the west to the Pacific Ocean in the east and from the Arctic Ocean in the north to the Black Sea and Caucasus in the south. We, the Strategic Western Armed Response Mechanism, or SWARM, have consolidated our forces to maximum effect. Trojans one, two and three are in place. Telehouse Russia has been ghosted by our technical experts and targets at Novisibirsk, Seversk and  Angarsk, as well as those at Khamovniki, Savyolovsky and Gatchina have been locked on. The religious order of the Russian Orthodoxy has concurred that the man to be crowned has been proven to be legitimate, they support his ascension completely. Operation Flamingo Podnyalsya is good to go at exactly 02:00 hrs on the 14^th of June, less than 36 hours.

Copyright Phillip Miller

Write me a Love Story Ch 9

Write me a Love Story Ch 9

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 9

         As the days shortened, the work on the farm intensified.  Autumn is always a busy season and this year was no different:  every day that passed carried us nearer to winter and it was essential that the farm should be battened down and weatherproofed before the first of the snow came. Time was passing and there was a burning sense of urgency about everything we did.  I hadn’t thought it possible to work any harder but with Georg by my side I did, and although I got tired it wasn’t with the mind-numbing exhaustion of earlier days. 

        

         By the end of October, we’d planted a crop of spring greens in the top field, checked the hedges and fencing around the farm and cleared the ditches of debris.  My woodshed was full and the barn was stacked to the roof with bales of hay for the cows.  As soon as the weather showed signs of closing in, I would have to bring them in from the field and pen them in the yard.
        

         But although winter was hovering just across the threshold, there were still days when it was warm enough to dry washing outside. One day I had just finished pegging out when it struck me that I hadn’t thought of the war for ages.  I looked around:  the farmhouse dozed in the sunshine, Georg was busy cutting wood and there was the occasional flash as sunlight caught the blade. All I could hear was the dull thwack of the axe and the contented chuckling of the hens pecking at the ground. It was all so peaceful; it seemed impossible that only a few hundred miles away people were fighting and dying. I felt a sudden stab of melancholy. Something was wrong and sometimes in the long reaches of the night I lay awake trying to work it out.  Surely, with a husband in the army I should be out of my mind with worry. Instead, for days at a time I never thought about Frank at all. I knew it wasn’t so with the other women.  Whenever I went to market I could see the lines etched upon their faces deepening week by week. Almost all had a husband, son, or brother in the forces and many had relatives in the cities and they were constantly on edge. I wondered what was wrong with me. Maybe all those sterile years growing up in the orphanage had killed something inside me; some essential spark had been snuffed out from lack of early love. Perhaps I was a freak. But if I couldn’t feel it followed that I couldn’t suffer and I couldn’t work out if that was a blessing or a curse.

        

         Enough:  I dumped my laundry basket on the ground. I would go for a ride.   That would lift me out of the doldrums. Maybe I would visit Sarah at Fernside; after all it might be my last chance before the bad weather set in.

        

         Rising and settling in the saddle, I felt my face glow as the wind combed my hair straight back from my scalp. Barley seemed just as exhilarated and her hooves skimmed the tussocks, propelling her plump body over the ground in a steady canter.    

        

         All around us the world was changing colour. The tips of the reeds surrounding the marshy pools were yellow, and a squally wind sent showers of flame coloured leaves raining down from the trees. Even the sky was different, its blue containing a hint of steel.

        

         As we clattered into the yard we were met by Tom.

        

         “Here. I’ll take her.” He grasped the pony’s bridle. “Nice to see you, Flora.   Sarah’s in the kitchen. Go on through.”

        

         Sarah’s face, red and shiny from baking, shone even more as I walked into the room.

         “

         How lovely. Come and give us a hug.” She held out her arms. “You’ve timed it just right. We can have a good natter before the mob get back from school. You must try some of my Christmas cake and see what you think.”

        

         I sank into a soft chair listening to the chink of china and water gushing into the kettle.  Sarah’s kitchen was larger than mine, chaotic but cheerful with sunshine yellow paintwork.  Scrawled crayoned drawings were tacked to the walls and cupboard door and I felt a sudden pang.  Children had never been part of Frank’s plan and sometimes I envied Sarah and Tom.       

At last Sarah put a loaded tray onto a low table and collapsed into a chair opposite. She filled our cups and we exchanged a few nuggets of gossip but then I found myself telling her what I suddenly realised had been in the back of my mind all along; my scene with Becca.

        

         “I really don’t know what I’ve done to upset her, Sarah. But she seems to hate me.”

        

         Sarah was quiet for a long time. When she looked up, her eyes were wary.

         “Of course, you know what it’s really all about don’t you?”

        

         “Haven’t a clue. What do you mean?”

        

         “Do you remember when you first arrived in the village?  When you started work at the Manor?”

        

           “Yes, of course.” As if I could ever forget; it was my first glimpse of life outside the orphanage and I’d been scared to death.

        

         “Becca, used to work there as well. I don’t know whether you realised that.   She left just before you arrived. I say left, she was sacked actually. There was some sort of scandal.  I don’t know the details, but I do know that Becca has always suffered from sticky fingers.”

        

         “No, I didn’t know.  But what’s that got to do with me?”

        

         Sarah pursed her lips, tilting her head to one side.“Perhaps you remember a certain gardener’s boy?  A very good looking lad as I recall.”

        

         “Frank?”

        

         She nodded.  “Before you arrived, he and Becca had been going steady for a long time. Then, she went and you came along and nabbed her man.”

         I gaped at her.

         “

         Close your mouth, Flora.”

        

         “I never knew that. Honest I didn’t. But in any case, that was years ago. She’s married to Joe now.”

         “Not much of a catch though, is he? I’ve always thought she married him on the rebound. I have a feeling she’s never got over Frank. In fact…..” Her mouth snapped shut.

        

         “What?”

 “Nothing.”

        

         “Come on, Sarah. You started to say something. You must tell me now.”

        

         She gave a sigh. “Look, I shouldn’t be saying this. I don’t really know if it’s true or not, it’s just that something tells me….” Her voice trailed into silence.

        

         “Sarah!”

        

         “Okay. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if it ever finished.”

        

         All the breath left my body, and I sat feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach.  Then, I shook my head until the tips of my hair stung my cheeks.

        

         “No. You’re quite wrong. You must be.”

        

         “It’s possible.”

        

         Time paused as the suggestion settled into my mind.  “Well, I’ll find out when he gets back.”

         It was then that Sarah dropped her second bombshell.

“If he comes back.”

        

         “What do you mean?”

        

         “Flora, how certain are you that Frank has actually joined the Army?” 

“What are you talking about?  Of course he has.”

“But it was very strange that he didn’t discuss it with you first wasn’t it?   And he left very suddenly.  Do you know where he’s stationed?  And what’s his regiment?”

Dumbly, I stared at her. I had no idea and these were basic questions. Feeling a little sick, I realised that, in a normal relationship, any wife would have known the answers.

        

         “I’m really sorry love, but I’m not the only one who wonders.  Rumours are flying around the village and it’s best you should learn what’s being said from a friend.”

        

         She hesitated. “There is one more thing. You know that Becca”s expecting again. She must have found out round about the time Frank left.”

        

         “So what, Becca’s always pregnant.”

        

         “But perhaps this time it’s different. Maybe this time it’s not Joe’s baby.  And if it isn’t Flora, what do men do when they’re in a fix? “

* * *

It was a good thing that Barley knew the way back.  As the pony’s hooves left a swathe of flattened grass behind us, I slumped in the saddle. I’d been watching Sarah’s face as she talked. The look in her eyes had told me a lot; she hadn’t been repeating idle gossip simply for the sake of it. She believed all she’d told me; otherwise I was sure she wouldn’t have said a word.  Sarah was no fool and neither was she a mischief maker. I thought of the letters Frank had sent. At the time I’d noticed there was no address. I’d put it down to carelessness but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed.  And it was odd the way he’d changed in the weeks before he left. The way he kept shutting himself away: he said it was to listen to the news but maybe that wasn’t the whole truth.  And what was it people said?  ‘The wife is always the last to know.’ 
        

I thought I was in for another sleepless night but to my surprise, I slept soundly and awoke refreshed. As I dressed, there was lightness in my movements as if a great weight had been lifted from me. At some point during the night something had changed and at first I couldn’t think what. I ran downstairs to fill the kettle and switched on the wireless, and it was while I was humming in tune with the music that I suddenly realised that I no longer felt guilty about not loving Frank.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Kitchen Godless.

Kitchen Godless.

by Shelley Miller

🥘I'm regarded as retarded
`Cause my IQ is below
A number all the clever ones
Consider to be low.

🥘But I can bake a flaky flan
And spoil a spud or two,
And I can spin a smoothy
Full of berries, red and blue.

🥘I'm a ninny in a pinny
`Cause I cannot count to 3
As the clever ones move up
A notch, and grimace down at me.

🥘But they'll never cook a curry
Quite the same as what I do,
The kind that makes you scurry
In a hurry to the loo.

🥘Or make a gloopy soup of pea
And ham to wash it down,
To traumatise your taste buds
In shades of green and brown.

🥘I'm regarded as retarded
That's a cheeky pack of lies,
But at least I have a kitchen
Long deserted by the flies.

🥘Cuisine that makes you queasy,
Makes your tummy somersault,
Is a skill that I've been done for,
Never mind...just pass the salt.

© Copyright S.C.Miller.

FIFTY SHADES OF RED

FIFTY SHADES OF RED

By Richard Banks                                                                               

If Jenny is not the most jealous woman in the world I do not wish to meet the one that is; she would doubtless be green and glow in the dark. That’s not to say that I don’t love Jenny. Of course, I do; after ten years of blissful wedlock, I am the most fortunate of men. Fortunate in all things except the blight she has cast over my dealings with that half of the human race manifesting itself to be female. With them, I must maintain an aloof indifference bordering on disdain. At the beginning and end of social engagements, there must be no pecking of cheeks, the only physical contact to be entered into is a limp handshake, a fleeting engagement of fingers, that avoids the interlocking of fleshy palms. However, low the neckline of a woman I must never allow my gaze to stray below her chin. Eye contact of any kind, especially that too lingering and capable of misinterpretation is, also to be avoided.

         Usually, I observe their noses and for that reason am more likely to recognise a woman of my acquaintance by her nostrils than any other aspect of her being. Indeed, it is my contention that no one, at least no woman, has a nose of the same shape and dimensions. When I retire from the Civil Service I will write a book about it. As a means of identifying those of a criminal disposition it can, I am sure, be every bit as effective as fingerprinting and DNA.

         However, I digress, the subject under discussion is jealousy, not noses. To be deflected from the former would be to defeat my objective which is to explain the unfortunate circumstances of the Ionian Club dance. By using the word unfortunate in connection with the dance I have no wish to cast aspersions on an occasion which, I am sure, was much enjoyed by everyone but myself. I too would have enjoyed it had it not coincided, and borne witness to the most embarrassing predicament of my life. The account of that evening I am about to give is intended not just to explain but to warn. Let no man do as I did or the firm foundation of his being will surely crumble.

         That such a thing should happen in the august surroundings of the Belvedere Assembly Rooms and in the presence of the Lord Mayor and other distinguished guests shows that no person or place is immune from the ravages of fate. But one must always be vigilant and sadly I was not, but then it should not have been an occasion requiring vigilance, none had been needed at previous dances.

         In truth, the club dance was a predictable affair. One turned up, chit-chatted to anyone Jenny considered to be useful or important, ate from the buffet and did the dances one could do. Occasionally I would be dispatched to the bar to buy one of the useful men a drink, leaving Jenny free to toady up to his wife who was usually on the committee of a club she wanted to join. On such occasions I would buy him a G&T and a mineral water for myself. This last detail is important. My actions that evening were in no way influenced by alcohol. I was not drunk, I am not allowed to be drunk. To incur the odium of drunkenness would be to violate a sacred trust, the unspoken wedding vows of which Jenny is both custodian and umpire. I must play a straight bat, no chances taken, no catching out. Ten years the batsman I, at last, fell to the googly that was the Ionian Club raffle.

         I have never won a raffle and this one was no exception – 24 numbers adrift and the wrong colour ticket. As usual, I affected an expression of amused indifference and tried not to think unkindly of the winner who for the third year running was the wife, or significant other, of a local counsellor. Mrs Hamilton- Forbes stepped forward to receive the large Samsung television that was her prize and as the band reassembled for the remaining dances the television was wheeled away on a tea trolley borrowed from the kitchen. As to where it was being taken I knew not and cared even less. Jenny had also been taken away by Freddie Dewhurst for the purpose of dancing the foxtrot, and as Freddie had brought no significant other of his own to the dance I was relegated to the status of looker on. I consoled myself with a sausage roll from the depleted largess of the buffet and retreated to our table at the back of the hall.

         I had no sooner sat down when I became aware of a woman walking purposely towards me. I stood up to receive her and, with my usual discretion, looked her fully on the nose. Her voice, when she spoke, suggested that she was of the labouring class and this she herself confirmed by saying that she was Mrs Hamilton-Forbes’ maid. Her mistress, she said, had given instructions that the television was to be placed in a vehicle belonging to her husband. As she was unable to do this by herself she required the assistance of, “a strong man,” and thought I would do. Of course, I should have been suspicious. Why pick me when the captain of the rugby team was only two tables away? Sadly flattery and vanity are a seductive combination and in their company, the sweet voice of reason is seldom heard. Having used my peripheral vision to ensure that Jenny was still occupied by the intricacies of the foxtrot and unlikely to notice my departure with said maid I quickly followed her to the cloakroom where the television had been left.

         I readily confess that it was somewhat heavier than I anticipated and after only a dozen steps I was already regretting my unstated, but implicit, assertion of bodily strength. Only the realisation that the dropping of the television would be deeply damaging not only to its functioning but also to Jenny’s social aspirations sustained my increasingly painful progress to the exit. The automatic doors opened before me and the maid ushered me towards a van and on her opening its back doors I set down my burden in its surprisingly shabby interior. Having shut said doors she bid me a cheery goodbye and before I could splutter a reply clambered into the van beside the unseen person of the driver.

         Resisting the urge to sink like a stone in water I maintained an upright posture while observing their departure from the car park. As the pain in my arms subsided I about turned and on legs, both trembling and unresponsive to my navigational promptings passed slowly back into the foyer. Returning to the dance I found Jenny in deep conversation with Mrs Fitzroy on the periphery of the dance floor. By the time she rejoined me, I was back to my normal self and after the formality of the last waltz, we departed for home.

         And that was that, or so I thought, but the next day the shrill and urgent ringing of our telephone heralded the news that the television won by Mrs Hamilton-Forbes had been stolen. At first, I assumed that it had been taken from the van where I had placed it, but when it became apparent that this was not the case I gradually concluded that I had been an unwitting accomplice in its abduction. Hoping that everything could be smoothed over without Jenny knowing I removed myself, after lunch, to the police station and gave them a full account of what had happened. It was, I said, a mistake that anyone could have made, but the young constable taking my statement seemed not to agree.

         “Did I know the woman claiming to be the maid?”

         “No, of course not,” I replied.

         “Then how did you know that she was what she said she was? Was she wearing a uniform?”

         I confessed that I did not know. The Constable raised his eyebrows in questioning fashion and I responded, as best I could, by saying that the woman in question had assured me that she was a maid and that in the hallowed company of fellow Ioanians that was good enough for me. The Constable asked for a description of said maid and when I described her as fleshy, bulbous and of a large protruding shape he volunteered his opinion that this was the oddest description of a suspect he had ever heard. He was even less impressed when I told him I was describing her nose. Having completed my statement the Constable left me to consult with his Sergeant who judging by his raucous laughter was a very jolly fellow who I felt sure would be favourably disposed to myself and other noble Ioanians. The Constable returned to say that I was free to leave adding the proviso that I should remain in the neighbourhood in case my further assistance was needed.

         I was, therefore, not surprised when two days later the Constable phoned to request the pleasure of my company at a further interview. On this occasion, he was accompanied by his Sergeant whose severe expression suggested that his previous jollity was, at best, a distant memory. They came quickly to the point. CCTV coverage of the car park had identified both van and maid resulting in the arrest of a George and Tracy Hudson who having confessed their guilt were unable to account for the present whereabouts of the television.

         The camera footage of myself showed me to be unsteady on my feet. Had I been drinking? asked the Constable. Did I know that alcohol was a factor in 61% of recorded crime? At this point the Sergeant leaned forward across the table that separated us, and with unfriendly expression, stared into my eyes as though searching for a deep, unpleasant truth. This I sensed was not going well and as my eyes sparred with those of the Sergeant my ears listened incredulously to the words of the Constable. The Hudsons, he said, had made a statement significantly different from my own. 

      

         According to them the plan to abduct the television had been conceived by myself and that they, down on their luck and desperate for the £20 I paid them, were reluctant recruits to my criminal enterprise. Unaware of the recent installation of CCTV they had driven from the Assembly Rooms to a lay-by on a country road where they handed the television to a criminal associate of myself. They were, so they said, deeply ashamed of their actions which were completely out of character with their previously blameless lives. They now realised that they were the hapless dupes in a conspiracy conceived by myself to steal the television and put the blame on themselves. Had they not encountered my malign and corrupting influence they would never have even considered the criminal act which would forevermore be a stain on their character.

         Three months later I heard the same story movingly related by the female Hudson at my trial in the Crown Court. I have to admit she was extremely convincing and had she been speaking of any other man but myself I would have believed her every word.

         I await the verdict of the jury in a police cell. Faced with the prospect of a custodial sentence my only consolation is that I may now have time to write my treatise on noses. Jenny’s thin and pointed protuberance will, of course, be featured. I will colour it green. My own is red with shame and embarrassment. It may never be pink again.

Copyright Richard Banks   

THERE WAS NO CHOICE I HAD TO GO ALONE

THERE WAS NO CHOICE I HAD TO GO ALONE

(A VILLANELLE)

By Peter Woodgate

There was no choice I had to go alone

When divisions in belief showed lack of care

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

Planted them in this head of skin and bone

Used them as a base for daily prayer

There was no choice I had to go alone.

To bouts of deep regression I was prone

When viewing scenes that looked to be unfair

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

A message fabricated like the tone

Caused the bedrock fabric to tear

There was no choice I had to go alone.

And whilst they laughed I heard somebody groan

Would I believe it when they said “we care”?

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone

I would not listen to their idle drone

The credence in my heart did not compare

There was no choice I had to go alone

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

Copyright Peter Woodgate