The Darker Half ~ Chapter 3

The Darker Half ~ Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

By Janet Baldey

In another house, in another part of town, Anna is also awake. Stiff with tension, she lies on her back while her tired brain struggles to shut down. The room is so quiet its silence presses down on her like the lid of a coffin and the muscles of her eyelids ache as she holds them tightly closed. Blanking the present, she thinks about Romeo in the early days when they were so happy she thought she’d die of it.

It hadn’t been love at first sight. She’d thought he was an odd little man when they first met and that hadn’t been planned either. She’d never have attended his evening class if it hadn’t been for Lucinda caught in the grip of another of her fantasies.  

“Anna, I’ve discovered my destiny!”  

She’d come home from work one evening and found Lucy posed at the foot of the stairs. For the first time in weeks, there was life in her eyes and she was smiling, a huge delighted grin that almost succeeded in turning her lovely face into a caricature.

Anna felt her heart sink. Not again, she prayed. She opened her mouth to ask if Lucy had been taking her tablets but thought better of it.

“Really?  That’s great.” She bit her lip, her soothing nursey voice even irritated herself.

“Yes. Isn’t it? Quick. Please read it. I’m dying to know what you think. I’ve been waiting all day.” Lucinda thrust a sheaf of foolscap paper towards her.

“Can I get in first? And I’d love a cup of tea.”

Afterwards, she’d sat beside the cooling tea, staring at what Lucinda had written.   She had no idea what to say. So this was what Lucinda had been up to for the past couple of months. She’d known it was something but had dreaded asking. Instead, when Lucinda had disappeared into her bedroom for hours on end, she’d stayed downstairs, her head in the sand, relishing the peace of the evenings. 

Ever since they’d first met at college, she’d loved Lucinda like a sister and after graduating they’d rented a house together.  But things changed and not for the better.   She’d always known that Lucy was prone to mood changes but gradually her behaviour became even more erratic. She’d blow her wages on extravagant presents for Anna; totally unsuitable clothes in lurid colours, expensive perfume and designer handbags.   When Anna gently reminded her that, although they were nice, perhaps she should help pay the rent first, Lucy had fired up and stormed out of the house.

“You ungrateful bitch”, she’d screamed and the sound of the slammed door had sent a flock of gossiping sparrows winging into the sky.

Complaints from neighbours followed when she ran the vacuum in the middle of the night or played her music so loud the walls throbbed. One evening Anna arrived home to find her standing stark naked on the sill of her open bedroom window declaring that she was an angel and could fly. Whenever she thought about it, Anna’s blood ran cold. Why had she been so slow in realising something was very wrong with her friend?

The medication helped. Lucinda took it willingly when depressed, “anything to take the mental pain away” but when she was on a high it was different. Her face glowing, she’d laugh at Anna’s fussing.  

“Oh, do stop worrying Anna. I don’t need to take these bloody pills – there’s nothing wrong with me!” 

Almost visibly throbbing with vitality, Dervish-like she’d whirl around the house, polishing, mopping, clearing cupboards from dusk till dawn until inevitably, her energy ran out. Then Anna was left to sort out the mess and it was time for another visit to the clinic.

Anna sat hunched over a manuscript she couldn’t make head or tail of. What could she say? Then she had an idea - one that might even work, one that might channel Lucy’s excess energy in a creative direction.  She looked up, Lucinda was crouched in front of her, hands clasped in a tight knot like a monkey’s paw.

“You like it don’t you?  It’s good. I knew it all the time I was writing it.”

She jumped up and twirled around the room. “Isn’t it wonderful Anna?  I’m going to be famous!”

“It’s a good story…” Anna remembers murmuring. “But, it seems a bit muddled in places.” Her voice faltered as she saw Lucinda’s expression change. “But that’s only my opinion and, let’s face it, who am I to say? Tell you what, why don’t you think about taking some professional advice?”

“Professional advice?”

“Yes. From someone who knows what they’re talking about. I know, why not try a writing course. I’m sure there must be some running at the local Tech. You can learn the tricks of the trade, meet other writers and so on. Find out what works and what doesn’t.”

“Oh no!  I couldn’t. Not on my own.”   Lucinda’s face drained of all colour and Anna had felt stricken. She always forgot how vulnerable Lucy was underneath the veneer of confidence that masked her illness. She looked away, dreading the onset of the tell-tale signs - the silence that stretched interminably, the sudden twitches of Lucinda’s head as if she was flinching away from barbs wielded by the demons invading her mind.  They were the signs that usually heralded a spell in the hospital. She couldn’t bear to be responsible for that. Desperately, she groped for a way to ward off another of Lucy’s plunges into depression. She forced a smile, “Tell you what, promise me you’ll start taking your pills again and I’ll come with you. It’ll be fun.”

And that was how she’d first met Romeo. Despite everything, she smiles into the darkness as she remembers how he’d bounded into her life. Despite arriving at the college in good time that first evening, they had got lost in the maze of classrooms and were very late. Scurrying down one long corridor after another, they had peered into every room but each one looked similar except none of the numbers on the doors matched the one they were looking for. 

“Perhaps it’s up here…” she’d said uncertainly and they’d started to haul themselves up a narrow, twisting flight of stairs only to meet a group of people coming down.  Anna had recognised their puzzled looks.

“Creative writing?” She’d asked.  They nodded, “Not up there….”   Shrugging their shoulders helplessly, the group trooped back down the stairs and stood huddled together like a group of strays.

Seconds later there was the slam of a door and a blast of frigid air blew in the dishevelled figure of a small, skinny man. A slight drizzle had plastered his lank gingery hair to his head but his face lit up when he saw them.

“Creative writing?” Thank God.  I thought no-one was coming. They’ve put us in the basement. Had difficulty finding it myself.”

Remembering, Anna feels some of the tension leave her. She’d always thought she’d fall in love with someone tall, dark and handsome. Whoever could have imagined that such a comical little scruff-pot could have burrowed quite so deeply into her heart?   She supposed it was because of Lucinda; difficult and demanding as she was, he was so patient with her. When it looked as though Lucy was trying to hi-jack the class by quibbling endlessly over some disputed point, gently but firmly he’d disengage himself.  

 “Lucinda. I think, at the moment, we’d better agree to disagree. Come and see me after class and I’ll try and explain.”

This, he never failed to do, using patience, charm and a large dose of flattery.   Sitting watching from the sideline, Anna began to see him with fresh eyes. Her admiration for him grew. He was a sweet man, she’d decided and, looking back, realised by that time she was already more than half in love with him.

Months later, she’d asked him why he’d taken so much trouble over Lucy. He’d tilted his chair back and grinned at her.

“Because of you, of course,” he’d righted his chair, reached over and cupped her face in his hands as if it was as precious as a Faberge egg. Gently, he kissed the tip of her nose. Then, he’d let go of her and his voice had changed. 

“Mind you, that’s not the whole story.  She’s got talent….people like her often have, but it’s undisciplined.”

“What do you mean?  People like her…”

There was a moment’s silence.

“You know, Anna. As well as I did from the moment I first met her.  Mind you, I’ve got previous.” His face crinkled and he brushed away a wisp of red hair dribbling down his forehead.  “Ever wondered why my name is Romeo?  Let’s face it no one could look less like a Romeo than me!  But, that was my mother in one of her “florid” moods.  She thought it sounded romantic.” His smile faded. “To be honest, after years of living with her, managing Lucy is a doddle.”

She’d stared at him, wondering about his childhood.

“It must have been difficult for you.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t think much about it at the time.  To me, it was normal but Dad pushed off when I was seven.  Luckily, I had an older sister. Poor old Liz, she bore the brunt of it. Mind you, it did her a good turn. She’s a mental health professional now and doing well. Loves it, apparently.”

She’d copied his smile and attempt at flippancy.

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse. You could have been called Lancelot, or Heathcliffe, or Rhett…”

He grinned. “Or Apollo or Caesar or Orion…”

“Then, there’s Mario, Valentino or Florio…”

Reaching for her, his hand closed over hers. They looked at each other and she felt a delicious tingle.  

“Come on,” she’d said, “Let’s go to bed.”

Remembering, her muscles gradually relax and slowly she drifts into sleep but the moment her eyes close, she is transported from a living nightmare into one that is past and long-dead but still very much alive in her mind.

Copyright Janet Baldey

A Hand of Whist

A Hand of Whist

 

By Len Morgan

For an hour Forbes stood impassively behind his master at the Carlton Gentlemen's Club, as Sir Geoffrey played his cards, badly, and got punished for it.   One man was winning consistently.   He knew when to play a hand and when to fold.  He wasn't greedy and was happy to win small hands and cause no real embarrassment.  He made the game enjoyable for the other players, offering congratulations on good play and advice between hands, without seeming to preach.   In contrast to Sir Geoffrey, who was a bad player and a notoriously bad loser.   He lost hand after hand regardless of who partnered him.  He'd lost close to a 100 guineas when he left the table in a huff; Forbes followed, a step behind his master, as dictated by form.

"Unmitigated cheek Forbes.   Damned Galsworthy cheated me out of 200 guineas!"

" I saw no evidence of cheating Sir Geoffrey, the fellows an uncommonly good player, and I counted but 100 guineas leave your purse, sir,"

"Are you calling me a liar Forbes?"

"No sir, Au contraire, I'm simply suggesting that in the heat of the moment it's easy to miscount.  In a sense, you could say I've halved your losses at a stroke sir."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes Forbes.  Do you play whist?"

"I do sir," he said as he assisted his master into the coach, taking the seat opposite as propriety dictates.

"What kind of player are you?"

"Actually, I'm quite proficient sir."

"And, you think I play badly?"

"I wouldn't say that sir."

"Aha!  Now you're being diplomatic..."

"Well sir, I would say there is room for improvement."

"Room for improvement?  Impudent scally, you think you could beat me?"

"No sir!  I wouldn't be happy about taking your money.  But, I could play along and point out other possible stratagems."

"Heh, heh, you're going to teach me how to play eh?"

"It is within the remit of a manservant to maximise his masters potential."

"Well, we would need two other players."

"I would suggest Mr Jarvis your butler, and Smythe, your stable master, sir. 

Both are excellent players.  We could play for farthings to save embarrassment."

"Farthings?  Farthings?  I couldn't possibly play for such low stakes." 

"They are house stakes sir, but if we play with chips you could call them guineas.  Remember the object is to improve your play not to take your money, sir."

.-...-.

So, That evening, in the saddle room of Harley Manor, they played their first hand of whist.  After the first hand had been won, by Jarvis & Smythe, they laid out their cards and talked through the plays.  At the conclusion, the result was unchanged.  But, over the next three hands, to Sir Geoffrey's surprise, the analysis reversed the results.

At the evenings conclusion, Sir Geoffrey paid out 20 guineas to his surprised Butler & Groom and Forbes paid out 20 farthings (5 pennies).

"Same again tomorrow evening," said Sir Geoffrey."  By the end of the month, Sir Geoffrey was winning as many hands as he lost.

.-...-.

They returned to his club after five weeks absence, to the great relief of Galsworthy and other players anticipating a pecuniary improvement.  But, by the end of the evening, their disappointment was evident, when Sir Geoffrey left the table with 120 guineas of their money. 

"Extraordinary lucky," said major Griffin.

Galsworthy smiled. "He's taking lessons."

"I say, dashed unsporting what?" said colonel Fisher.

"No, no, we'll get it all back with interest tomorrow eh colonel?" said the major.

"Hehem..." the colonel replied

"Well, it certainly made the game more interesting.  If you like I'll pair with him when next we meet," said Galsworthy.

As matters transpired it would be a week before they next saw Sir Geoffrey.  Forbes was confident that they were well prepared and so it proved.  Galsworthy and Sir Geoffrey took 300 guineas away from the table that evening.

"Well sir, you are now officially an excellent player.  So, I doubt you will be joining our games in the tack room in future," Forbes sounded genuinely regretful as he assisted Sir Geoffrey into his coach.

"Not a bit of it Forbes, the players at the Carlton Club come a poor second to the members of the Harley Manor club, like taking candy canes from babies!  Tell Jarvis & Smythe I intend winning all my money back; every brass farthing!" 

"Gloves off sir?"  Forbes broke into an uncharacteristic smile, rubbing his hands as he took his seat.  The wily servants had been sharing the guineas three ways; now they would step it up a gear. 

Copyright Len Morgan

FAITH

FAITH

By Peter Woodgate

One day God spoke to me

And I could clearly see

Not outwardly, but deep within my soul.

My transgressions were laid bare,

As if, for all to share,

And, confessing every sin, was now my goal.

Oh I had this strange belief,

Almighty God was real, my chief,

And all before my eyes, revealing Him.

So, I trod religious routes,

Wearing out so many boots,

On the path to rid myself of every sin.

But, each denomination entered

Had a schism, was self centered,

And I questioned why these factions should occur,

Surely He, who fashioned all,

Should have the final call

And faith, not for diversity, to stir.

Mankind, acutely flawed,

Cannot be guided or assured

By a god that seems imperfect, just like he,

It appears that God allows

So much pain on beaten brows

With death, destruction, grief, for all to see.

My blind faith has faded fast

And I fear it will not last

Yet conversely I see things that make me wonder,

The detailed structure and design

Of each creature down the line,

A rainbow, lightning, and almighty thunder.

I can’t believe it’s all by chance

That this Earth has learnt to dance

Our existence then is open to suggestions,

If it’s true, God is our maker,

And I should meet him at the crater,

I will beg the answers to so many questions. 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

My Brother Killed A Bird

My Brother Killed A Bird

By Shelley Miller

You had to stop
And look to see,
Before he flew on by,
So free,
Towards that dense
And bushy tree,
Away from view,
From you and me.
You had to be
So very still,
Without a care,
Prepare to kill,
With just one shot
You plot to fill
The bird with lead
Until it bled.
One less bird
Is heard on high,
An empty place
In space, just sky.
And now I watch
You watch me cry.
My brother killed a bird,
It sounds absurd
But now I want to bury him.

Copyright Shelley Miller

Something For Nothing

Something For Nothing

By Jane Scoggins

    I am definitely not religious and have had no interest in God, but I find myself sitting in a church and feeling content. I haven't been in a church except for an occasional wedding or a funeral, and I have never sung a hymn or said prayers. So what am I doing here?

     About a week ago I was going to the corner shop when I saw a man about to topple into the road in front of a car. I was just in time to reach out and grab his coat and haul him out the way. He fell back onto the pavement whilst cars slammed on their breaks and had a near crash themselves. An angry driver got out of his car to check if the man was OK and give him a mouthful of bad language. The man on the pavement, although clearly in shock from a potentially horrible accident, mumbled his apologies to the driver, for not looking where he was going. The angry driver, feeling exonerated, got back in his car and drove away; as did the other cars who had squealed to a sudden halt. The pedestrian was an older man, and appeared shaken, so I took his arm and directed him to the wooden bench nearby, where the dog walkers usually tie up their hounds whilst they go into the  shop. When he had got his breath back he spoke with a soft Irish accent.

     'Thank you, thank you, thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking of. That could have been really nasty. I am a stupid old fool. I don’t know if I was away with the leprechauns or just not looking where I was going.'

    We both sat quietly for a few moments absorbing the enormity of what could have been before he continued.

     'It must be the luck of the Irish, is all I can say. I cant afford to have any mishaps. I am going to my son's, and he is expecting his Dad to arrive in one piece' he said smiling weakly.

      When he'd composed himself, we went into the shop. While he was at the newspaper stand, I went to buy a stamp for the job application I was posting. I waited for him to pay for his newspaper so I could say goodbye.

     ' Thank you again for your kindness' he reiterated. At the same time thrusting a large bar of Galaxy chocolate into my hand. I did not decline. I thought it was nice of him to want to give me a little thank you, and I find chocolate difficult to resist. He followed this up with

    'Can you spare a few minutes to sit with me on the bench before I go on my way?'

    ' Of course I can'  I replied.

  What else could I say when he had given me the chocolate; and anyway, I was in no rush.

    ' If you are still feeling a bit shaken, would you like me to phone someone, your son perhaps?’

 I volunteered

   'Oh no, he will be at work, and besides, he lives in Australia!' he laughed

     ‘When I said I was going to my son's I didn’t tell you the whole story. I am going to Australia to live with my son, and his wife. So all the more reason why I shouldn’t be knocked down in the road before I go, and not be fit for travel, or even worse!

  'When are you going?'

     'In a few days. My house is sold, and my bags are packed. My wife died two years ago and they have been asking me to go out to Australia since then. Truth is though, I am afraid of the flying, and the whole business of travelling so far across the world makes me nervous. As you have seen for yourself, I can’t even cross the road without mishap! The only comfort is that my wife will be coming with me.'

   'But I thought she had died' I said, confused.

     'I am taking her ashes with me' he said slowly, as if to a halfwit.

    When he got up from the bench, two lottery tickets fell from the fold in the newspaper he was holding. Picking them up, I held them out to him. He put his hand up in a gesture of refusal, saying   ‘No, you keep them, they are no good to me. I don’t know why I got them. I shall be across the world by Saturday, and if you win a tenner, good luck to you. I have always bought lucky dip lottery tickets for me and my wife, and we would check the numbers on a Sunday after Mass. We always said we would visit our boy in Australia if we won enough for the air fares. I have kept up the habit, I don’t know why, because there's no pleasure in it without her. And I don't need the air fare money.

      'That's kind of you. And thank you for the chocolate too'

        He gave a little dismissive wave of his hand.

        'It's nothing compared to what you did for me. But I would be grateful if you would do me one more kindness. Would go into a church and say a little prayer to Our Blessed Lord, and St Christopher, and maybe light a votive candle, to keep us safe on our journey and for good luck when I get to Australia?'

  ' Of course I will' I said.

   I knew that I wouldn't, but I wanted to be kind. What's a little lie now and then to keep someone nice happy. I know all about lies and this one rated less than 5 on a scale of 100 in my book.

      My mother lied to me all the time when I was young, with promises of this and that. Promises that rarely materialised, like dinner money, outings, new trainers, clothes, or a trip to the pictures. When confronted she would say I would have to get a paper round or a Saturday job at the hardware shop nearby that was always advertising.

       'You don't get something for nothing in this life.' she would say.

         In my early teens I did not have the confidence or the words to tell my harsh, unobservant mother about the sort of price I was expected to pay with one of the bullyboys on the paper round, or the sly touchy feely man at the hardware shop. All I knew was was that it was just not worth a new pair of trainers.

      In the church, I have discovered what a votive candle is and have put a £2 in the money tin beneath the black iron frame holding the eight rows of little metal shelves on which are placed the lighted candles. I lit a candle from one already burning, and placed it in a vacant space on one of the shelves. It looks pretty with the dozen or more candles flickering their warm gold light. I go back to the pew and prepare my words to deliver to God, and St Christopher, as requested by the old gent. I knew nothing of St Christopher, until I googled him to discover that he is the patron saint of travellers. So now that makes sense.

   I say the words under my breath.

   'Dear God and St Christopher. Please take care of the old gentleman and his wife in the urn, who have gone to Australia. I am sorry that I haven't believed in you, but I never thought I had reason to.’

Camelot have confirmed that one of the lottery tickets has come up trumps. It is a substantial amount and will make a huge difference to my so far rather pathetic life. I can move from my rented bedsit to a nicer flat. I can buy new clothes for job interviews, and if I get the job I applied for, or another one, I will take driving lessons and buy a little second hand car. I don’t intend on being extravagant. I just thank my lucky stars that after all, I seem to have got something for nothing, via the luck of the Irish, and intend to make the most of it.

    

Copyright Jane Scoggins

  

   

Persian majesty

Persian majesty 

By Rob Kingston

Spiritual rotations
Floating in the wind
Orbital citations 
Bequeathed to minions.
 
His words are majestic
Wisdom for all to see
Cost is insignificant 
His intentions were, they are all free.
 
Banished from his hometown
Poor vision in a Sultans might.
Driven out of Persia
By delinquent raiding fights.
 
Today across this Earth
His wisdom en masse resonates
Just simple words of meaning
Love and Peace, endorse before it’s too late.
 
From within the reed bed
resounds the flute
Sweet sounds of birth
transforming this earth
 

© Copyright Robert Kingston 3.5.15

The Darker Half Chapter 1 & 2

 

The Darker Half Chapter 1 & 2

By Janet Baldey`

CHAPTER 1

ANNA

                         
Anna wonders what it’s like to drown.  She’s heard that after the first few frantic struggles, it’s a peaceful way to go.  Oxygen leaches from your brain, your worries fade away and you drift away on a cloud of euphoria.  She’d like to think that was true but isn’t convinced.  How does anyone know?  Most people think they are so clever. Unlike her. She is always one step behind, always the last to know.  She hadn’t even recognised the signs when her world started to collapse.

 A frozen stream of air scythes down from the Arctic and she draws her coat closer.  For the first time, she becomes aware of the cold stone of the parapet cutting into her stomach and she draws back a fraction, only to lean forward again, mesmerised by the river pounding underneath the bridge. Its colour is constantly changing from metallic blue to pewter, reflecting the turbulent clouds scudding across the sky. There’s a twig caught in the grip of the current and she follows its progress as it spins towards the weir.  Without thinking, she toes off first one shoe and then the other, standing on the balls of her feet, watching the water writhing and foaming as if in the grip of a seizure.

 “Is everything all right, Miss?”

Anna’s body jerks and her hands tighten on the parapet as she smothers a scream.   She’d thought she was quite alone.

The man’s bulky figure is silhouetted against the bitter orange of the dying sun and all she sees is the luminous oval of his face. He sounds concerned and she feels a surge of irritation. When she replies her voice is curt.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Her cheeks burn as she feels around for her shoes and slips them back on. With a brief, dismissive, nod she turns and hurries towards the town.

Frost sparkles the pavement as Anna walks through the empty streets. It’s full dark now and most of the houses have drawn their curtains against the night. Lit by electricity, the lemon coloured windows look cosy and Anna slows, gazing at them in the same way that a sugar starved child gazes into a sweetshop. Inside those houses, families will be brewing tea, asking each other about their day and settling down for the evening. Her own will be in darkness except, maybe, for the blue flutter of a television in the front room.

       As she rounds a corner “The Queen’s Head” materialises in a blaze of light. It’s a cheerful place and in happier days had been her local. As she draws nearer, a drone of sound spills out into the darkness and early Christmas decorations shiver in the windows as they catch the draught of the ever-opening door. Suddenly she craves the warmth of uncomplicated human companionship and without thinking, her body swerves towards the entrance. Just in time, she stops herself, imagining what would happen if she did go in, walk up to the bar and order herself a drink.  At first, no-one would notice but, sooner or later, someone’s look would harden into a stare. One by one, other heads would turn, and the buzz of conversation would dwindle.  Anna’s blood runs cold at the thought.  She turns away and, picking up speed, almost runs down the road.

Her steps are slow as she reaches her street. A car comes around the corner and its headlights wash over her house, briefly illuminating its windows one by one. The house looks as if it’s winking at her. It looks sly. She used to love it once but not now.      

She crunches up the gravel drive and deliberately fumbles her key in the lock, making sure they know she is back. As she slams the door a light goes on. A moment later, Romeo appears in the doorway. His face is flushed, his hair tousled.  He stretches, and his mouth opens in an elaborate yawn.

“Nice walk, love?”

Apprehension dulls his eyes as she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns left, into the kitchen, giving a sick shudder as a scene she’s repeatedly tried to obliterate flashes into her mind.  She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing the image away, desperately trying to think of something else. At some time, she knows she will have to deal with it but she’s not strong enough yet. Weak with misery, her body leans against the sink. At last, she opens her eyes.  Reaching forward, she wipes condensation from the window and looks out at the garden, seeing but not registering. Long moments pass before she realises that it’s started to rain. Picking up a white plastic kettle she thrusts it under the tap, listening as the hiss of the water drowns out the steady drumming of the weather.  Wavy lines of raindrops march down the panes and on reaching the kettle’s pale reflection, merge slowly coalescing to form the shape of a face. Her knees start to shake as a sudden certainty makes her gasp,

“No.” she whispers and shakes her head.  “It can’t be.”

  The lips twist in a familiar smile of triumph and she knows she’s wrong. Almost instantly the face vanishes and is replaced by the stygian black of a winter’s night.    Feeling weak and ill she puts the kettle down and stumbles to a chair, wondering if she is going mad.

“Oh, Alec,” she whispers, “how you must be loving this.”

CHAPTER TWO

 BILL

The sound of the front door closing echoes as he stands in the hall unbuttoning his coat.   Unable to break the habit, he glances up the stairs expecting to see the faint line of yellow light below their bedroom door but it’s as black as pitch up there.  He frowns, impatient with himself.  It’s been a year now since Martha went and he still can’t get used to the emptiness of the house. The dog’s the same. He looks at Jackson who’s also got his eyes fixed on the dark at the top of the stairs, ready to bound forward the minute he hears her voice.

         “Come on, yer daft bugger…there’s no one there.”

Turning away, he opens the door of the sitting room. A faint warmth lingers but the fire is almost out, he can just see a dull crimson glow underneath the layer of grey ash.  Carefully, not wanting to smother what’s left of the fire, he places a few lumps of coal over the embers and crouches, covering the hearth with a sheet of newspaper until he hears the dull roar telling him the flame has caught.  He remembers his Dad doing the same thing, all those years ago in Derbyshire and wonders if anyone else, besides himself, brings a fire to life like this these days?  Probably not many, he thinks, just us oldies.  After he’s banked up the fire, he stands up and listens to it crackle, staring into the mirror over the mantelpiece. Not, that old, he thinks.  Fifty’s no age these days.  He peers closer, a bit of grey around the temples.  Distinguished, that’s all.   Bags under the eyes though, he hasn’t slept well since Martha went.  Can’t get used to being the only one in a double bed.

Briefly, his body sags and he slumps into his armchair. The blank screen of the televisions stares at him but he makes no move to switch it on, he’s not in the mood and anyway he’d bet there’d be nothing worth looking at. He reaches for the whisky bottle placed close to hand on a side table.  For some reason, he can’t stop thinking about the lass on the bridge. The moment he’d caught sight of her, shoeless and slumped against the bridge, he’d known she was a jumper.  He hadn’t spent all those years in the Force for nothing and when she’d turned round his instinct had turned to certainty. He’d recognised the look on her face, vacant and spaced out, she’d been psyching herself up.  The furrows crossing his brow deepen.  He knows her from somewhere; it isn’t a recent memory but her face was definitely familiar. It wasn’t one that was easy to forget, the broad forehead and large eyes, placed a little too far apart. Not pretty exactly, but striking, her cloud of dark hair redeeming her. He closes his eyes for an instant, willing a name to fit the image. 

  ‘Come on Bill Dexter, Detective Inspector retired.  Think.  You know who she is.  You know you do.’

  But it won’t come and with a shake of his head, he gives up for now. But, he’ll get it in the end, he knows he will. Once a copper, always a copper.  The trick is not to think about it too deeply.

He lifts his glass towards the light and watches the amber liquid swirl. He’s drinking too much and knows it. Half a bottle a night; if he doesn’t watch it, soon it’ll be a bottle. It’s the long, empty, boring days that does for him. Two years ago he wasn’t like this.  Two years ago he had a career, a wife and a home, all of which he’d loved, possibly in that order. Now, he’d got bugger all. Even his house isn’t a home any more, just a place where he lives; if you could call it living.  He barks a laugh, a short unhappy sound that makes Jackson twitch his ears.  He takes a gulp of whisky knowing that, in spite of the consequences, he doesn’t regret what he’d done and given the same circumstances would do it again. It was the look in Martha’s eyes that had finally decided him.  She hadn’t asked, she was past it by then, but they’d been together for nigh on thirty years and he’d known what she wanted.  

Anyway, what’s done is done and can’t be undone. He bangs his glass back on the table so hard that some of the whisky slops from the glass. His eyes flick towards the clock.  He hasn’t had his tea but he’s not hungry. He forces his mind back to the problem at hand, perhaps there’s something in his archives that might jog his memory, it’d be something to do anyway, might stop him feeling so sorry for himself.

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he starts leafing through the dusty folders peering at the scribbled notes in the margins, all in his own spidery handwriting, some so illegible and obviously done in haste that he can hardly make them out.  He’d always kept details of all his old cases from the very first, even his failures - those that he’d known damn well who done it but just couldn’t prove it. Why, he’d never been quite sure, perhaps at one time he’d had a vague idea of writing a book when he finally retired.   Every turn of the page brings back glimpses of the past, tiny shreds of detail he’d thought he’d forgotten, the sound of an abandoned child sobbing in the silence of a bedroom at the top of a house so squalid they’d held their noses as they entered. The drained corpse of a suicide in a bath brim-full of gore.  The dead eyes of a mother who’d just smothered her baby. He gasped feeling pain as sharp as a bayonet thrust. His own eyes must have looked like that as he sat feeding Martha her sleeping tablets, one after the other, praying he wouldn’t botch it.  It would be the end of his career, he knew that at the time, but he hadn’t cared. He owed Martha and gratitude in her eyes, as she lay obediently choking down her pills, was worth any sacrifice.

But now the yellowing papers do nothing but remind him of past evenings spent in this very room, in this very chair, scribbling the notes he is reading this very moment. He breathes in half expecting the savoury smell of the evening meal to waft through the door and to hear the low mutter of the radio, “The Archers” maybe or the husky voice of Neil Diamond and the faint clatter of china as Martha bustles around in the kitchen. For an instant the memory is so warm and alive that his stomach rumbles in response, then his appetite disappears as he remembers.  His hands tremble as he stacks the pages together and replaces them in the folder.  They’d been no help and his useless trip down memory lane has only served to torment him. If only he could turn back the clock.   They’d all been so kind, his colleagues.  Some he’d worked with for so long that they’d become close friends.  They’d all promised to visit and they had at first.  He glances towards the silent phone.  It’s a long time since it had rung. But he couldn’t blame them, they were busy and had their own lives to lead. It wasn’t their fault that he’d ended up a sad and lonely sod and he’d rather rot than be a burden to anybody.  Thank God he had Jackson. He leans forward and strokes the collie, plunging his fingers deep into the dog’s thick fur and feeling the warmth of its body.  He looks at the clock again.

“Come on lad, time for bed.”   He isn’t tired and knew he wouldn’t sleep but eventually he’d drift off and at least he’d be lying down. Perhaps a mug of cocoa would help.   He might even take one of Martha’s sleeping tablets if there were any left.

Copyright Janet Baldey