The Darker Half ~ Chapter 7

The Darker Half ~ Chapter 7

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER SEVEN

ALEC 

It was too hot.  The sun was much too hot. It was burning the top of his head and his back felt as if his skin was bubbling, despite the olive oil his mother had rubbed into it. If only it would rain. He took a quick glance at the sky, pure blue with not a wisp of cloud. He blinked. He’d made the mistake of staring at the sun and now he couldn’t see properly because of millions of tiny black suns bobbing in front of his eyes. He squeezed them half shut and peered longingly towards his sun hat abandoned in the sand where he’d thrown it after being told he couldn’t have an ice cream.

         “If you think,” his mother had said, “that I’m going to slog all the way down the beach to buy you a lolly just when I’ve got meself comfy, then you’ve got another think coming. Ask yer Dad, or go and get it yourself. I’ll give you the money.”

         But his Dad was already asleep, sprawled in a deckchair, a hanky tied on top of his head and a newspaper over his face; Alec could hear him snoring. He scowled. She knew very well he couldn’t plough through the sand with this horrible metal thing on his leg.  It would take him forever and everyone would stare. His Mum finished smearing oil all over her arms and legs and turned her glistening face towards the sky, her skirt tugged high over knees. She’d burn, thought Alec scornfully, she always did and never learned.   He hated the beach but although he’d whined, grizzled and dragged behind, it hadn’t made any difference.  His mother could have had cotton wool stuffed into her ears for all the notice she took but then, she liked nothing better than lazing around, especially in the sun. 

         As usual, the minute they’d got to their chosen spot, Anna had run down to the sea leaving Alec behind. There was absolutely nothing for him to do except try to make silly castles out of dry sand that collapsed as soon as he turned his bucket over. It was so boring. So he’d just sat and buried both legs in a sandy grave so no-one could see his bad one and now he was stuck and couldn’t even reach his hat.  He’d probably get sunstroke and die and then everyone would be sorry. Except he had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t. His mum might be, a bit. At least she’d make a lot of noise about it but his Dad and Anna would probably be pleased.

         Where was Anna?  He squinted to where he could just see the water, a glittering line in the distance. Then he saw the black shapes of three figures digging in the firm sand at the edge of the water and recognised one of them. She’d found some friends already. As he watched, one of the smaller shapes, a boy he thought, detached itself from the group and ran towards the sea a bucket in his hands. With all his might, Alec willed him to trip and end up face downwards in the sand. He began to grin at the thought but the child skipped into the waves and out again without falling once and Alec’s scowl returned.  He looked at the ocean, it was flat and still with just a few small waves rippling in and out, pushed by the tide. He prayed for an enormous tidal wave to appear from out of nowhere, surge towards his sister and wash her out to sea   Or, better still, a shark; a sinister black triangle cutting through the water heading straight towards her. He imagined people screaming and scattering and the dead silence that would follow as the shark retreated with its prey. That would be so good.  

He flinched as a sudden gust of wind whirled along the beach, blowing sand into his face. Some got in his eyes and without thinking he rubbed them with a hand that was even sandier. The grit stung his eyes and made them water and he let out a piercing howl.

         “Oh, for heaven’s sake.  What have you done now?”

         He heard the rustle of newspaper and, with his eyes streaming, looked up to see his father standing in front of him. “Stop rubbing them, you’ll make it worse. Now, open up and keep still.”

         He felt his chin being lifted and the tip of his father’s hanky, moistened with spit, probing the corners of his eyes.

         “Now blink hard and keep on blinking. What are you doing sitting here anyway? You’ll burn in that sun. Get in the shade, or go and play with your sister.”  

         Alec shook his head, tears flowing freely now. He hated himself for being so weak and felt worse as slime began to run from his nose. His father wiped his face and pulled him out of his sandy tomb.  

         “Right, now keep out of the sun. Do you want an ice cream?”

         Alec watched his father’s broad back as he trudged across the beach towards the ice cream van. He’d asked for strawberry but he bet his father came back with vanilla.   His Dad got everything wrong. His mum said so. He heard them rowing about it at night.   His Mum didn’t like the house they were in now. She said it was too small and poky and that if his Dad hadn’t lost the contract they could have stayed in their old house. Alec agreed. He’d liked it where they were before, there were woods at the bottom of the garden and you could do what you liked in the woods because there was no-one to tell you off.

         If his father did come back with a vanilla cone, he’d throw it in the sand. He hated vanilla. In fact, if he hadn’t wanted an ice so much, he would have thrown it down whatever the flavour, just to see the look on his father’s face.  He liked making his father angry it gave Alec another reason to hate him. And, he did hate him. He hated him because his Dad liked Anna the best, and he knew why too.  It was because she was clever and had two straight legs and he didn’t. He ground his teeth, remembering how he’d overheard their skinny neighbour describe him as that “poor crippled boy who lives next door.” He hated her as well, the ugly old thing. Alec sat and brooded about what he’d like to do to them all if ever he got the chance.

         At last he spotted his father’s figure gradually getting bigger as he walked towards him. He was holding four cones, two in each hand. Then Alec watched in dismayed disbelief as his father totally ignored him and veered towards the group of children playing by the edge of the sea. He saw Anna running up to him, claiming her cone and his father handing one each to her playmates. Alec clenched his fists. The ices must be already melting, there’d be nothing left except a soggy cornet by the time he got his. Stupid, stupid, stupid man; he started to grind his teeth. Anna always came first and Dad always gave her that special look whenever she spoke to him. Then, there were all those evenings they spent together in Dad’s workshop. What did they do in there?  Alec had been in there once or twice and it was nothing special. A grimy, bare little room with no plaster or paper on the walls. Just a workbench and two shabby old armchairs by a stove that burned wood, yet they both spent hours in there every evening. He’d never been invited in after that last time and again that wasn’t fair, he'd only been trying help. His father’s worktop had been such a mess with nails and screws scattered all over the place and Alec had only been trying to tidy them up.  It wasn’t his fault that he’d tripped and spilled them all over the floor. His mouth turned down and his eyes began to water again as he remembered the hiss of his father’s breath.

         “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Alec. Now, look what you’ve done. Just sit down and keep quiet if you want to stay.”  

         Alec hadn’t dared look at his sister, he was sure she was smirking. Instead, he’d blundered out of the door, went back into the house, climbed the stairs to his bedroom and lay in the dark. Since then, he’d never set foot in the place. All the same, he ached to know what they did in there night after night. Maybe they talked about him. Maybe they were plotting to kill him. Recently he’d got into the habit of spying on them. In spite of his bad leg he’d got quite good at walking quietly. He liked to think of himself as ‘The Creeping Shadow’ as he slipped out of the kitchen door and into the alleyway leading to the workshop. Slowly, he’d inch up to the door and press his ear against the peeling wood.  So far, he hadn’t heard much, just the creaking of chairs, the sound of his father’s saw and the low mumble of the radio in the background. But they had some sort of secret, they must have and he’d give a week’s pocket money to find out what it was.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Garden Magic

Garden Magic #1                 

By Dawn Van Win                                    

Seeds resting in

A furrow deep

Awaken from

Resplendent sleep

Soft rain falls gently

From above

And beckons life

To grow

In love

Copyright Dawn Van Win

Lose the game within win the game without

The game within the game

By Len Morgan

 "My name is Erik Weisz. There are marks out there by the thousand, they swarm like flies around rotting meat, only too willing and eager to be divested of their funds!  Who am I to deny them?

 Any scam I devise will attract suckers who part with money willingly, eagerly.  Yes, there are gullible takers for every scam.  At times, I have to fight them off like flies, so I pick and choose who to fleece by the cut of their jib.  Give em a sniff of easy money, and a glib tale from a sharp-witted cove, like myself and they're hooked.

 I know it's been said before but, there's only one type of person you can't con, and that's an honest man.  Fortunately, the honest man is one in a thousand.  I've met a few in my time but, I could count them on the fingers of one hand, (they can play havoc with a well-devised scheme)."

"Interesting, and you're telling me this, why?"

"Because my friend, you appear to be that rare breed, an honest man.  I could no more scam you than beat you at a game of chess.  Why I notice you have a board and chessmen to hand."

"If you wish to play a game to wile away the time, I am your man. but I warn you that scheming will not avail you for I am no pushover."

"I like a man who is confident in his own ability, perhaps a small wager would make the game more interesting?"

"Perhaps it would...  What have you in mind?"

"A guinea say, you have the advantage of me, pray what is your name sir?"

"My name is Edwin Holloway and I am not prone to passing up easy money." 

So, the board was set up and play began, Edwin chose the white pieces:

Pawn to King4

Pawn to King4

And so it went on, neither of us offering or receiving quarter.  We reached the end game.

"I have you Erik!" said Edwin.  "Mate in three moves..."

I scanned the board, smiled and toppled my King to signify defeat.

"You play a mean game, sir." I put my hand in my pocket, and produced a golden guinea and pushed it across the table. "Another game Edwin?"

Edwin smiled, "I suppose I should give you an opportunity to recoup your loss.  Same stake?"

"Mmm, shall we say 10 guineas?"

"You're on!" So, twenty minutes later I handed him ten guineas more.

"Well," said I, That's me tapped out.  Fortunately, I deposited a hundred guineas in a box at the local rail station.  Sadly, I can't just go out and collect it..."

"Do you have the key to that box on your person?"

"I do, but I can hardly nip out and collect it," I said, holding up my manacled hands.  "Unless you would trust me to return posthaste,  Perchance you could open the cell door and allow me to go collect it?"

"Erik, Erik!  Don't take me for a fool, you would never return..."

"Well it was worth a try," I smiled, took the key from my pocket and held it up before his eyes.  "It seems box 215 will have to wait.  If I'm found guilty of theft in court tomorrow morning, which I surely will, It could be six months before I get to spend it's contents..."

"Well, If you are seriously contemplating another game, I could, if you wish, recover said funds for you.

"Would you do that for me Edwin?  You are too kind Sir," I said handing over the key.

My Jailer left his post with the key in hand.  I smiled, easily divested myself of the manacles. Opening the cell door was child's play..."

When Edwin located and opened box 215, a puzzled frown populated his face as he recovered the envelope it contained.  He opened it.  His expression turned to anger as he read the note:

Sure as my name is Erik Weisz, you have been duped!  You're not after all an honest man.

signed: Harry Houdini

Copyright Len Morgan

MIRROR IMAGE

MIRROR IMAGE

By Peter Woodgate

On reflection, I don’t see

My individuality,

In essence, all’s from nature’s past

That doesn’t end, is here to last.

For molecules that form my whole

Were once inert, without a soul,

From raging seas and crumbling stones

Grew sinew, tissue and my bones

And at some point beyond the flame

Revert, as trace, from whence they came.

But out of view and out of touch

Sentient, alive as such,

An individual spark, that’s me

Ignites this personality,

Unique, unmatched, completely free,

An incomparable entity.

Unlike the atoms cyclic term

Where tangible will be reborn,

This inimitable soul will be

Unchanged for all eternity.

So, mirror hanging on the wall

It is not “me” you show, at all.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

CHASERS

CHASERS

 

by Richard Banks                                

When water flows uphill you know that something more than crazy is breaking all the rules. It’s a something you got to see, so Cassie, me and Kendrick pile into a ’copter and go out to take a look. By the time we get there, it’s all over and the plume of water shooting up from the mountain top has collapsed into the valley below. Land that hasn’t seen a drop of water in seven years is now a lush, green meadow speckled red with black-eyed poppies. We hover overhead taking pictures as the specks became spots and the spots grow larger, joining one with another until the only specks are green. It isn’t what we come for but it’s a sight we won’t forget.

It was time to get the how and why of it all or at least as much as folk could tell us, so we touch down in the nearest town and, on being told that the only bar is in the only hotel, complete the rest of the journey on foot. If the locals know anything worth the knowing this will be where we hear it. Inside there are more out of towners than locals. Mattie Harris of the Clarion I know, also Jackson of the Tribune. Other familiar faces are tourists like ourselves. If the Feds are here they aren’t letting on.

It doesn’t take long to find out that Michael has been in town and that he is being held responsible for everything that has happened.

“Who else?” says Cassie in a knowing sort of way.

An old guy among a group of cowboys shoots us a look that’s a long way from friendly. “You know this guy?”

“You mean Michael?”

“Of course I mean Michael. God damn it, if we ever get our hands on him he won’t be going anywhere else in a hurry.”

The speaker is seventy years at least and clearly has no liking for strangers, particularly those who seem to know more about Michael than he does. Outnumbered as we are this is no time for a rumpus. If he and his pals hate Michael then so do we with a loathing that more than rivals their own. At least that’s what we let them think. Having established common ground and loosened their tongues with the local firewater they’re soon vying with each other to tell us everything that has happened.

He had come in the morning when folks were heading out to their work, he and the others he called his disciples. There were ten or eleven of them mainly guys, dressed in long white shirts and bleached jeans.

“Weirdos, every one of them.” The old man screws up his face in disapproval. “And do you know, none of them were wearing shoes.”

“Nor hats,” chimes in one of the younger guys. “One hundred and ten in the shade. How the hell didn’t they get sunstroke? Don’t tell me it’s their blond hair. That’s not the reason.”

“Were they all fair?” I ask.

“Yeah, all of them, long blond hair and faces white as milk. No hats, no shoes and not a dime piece between them, that’s what caused the argument that started the flood.”

“How so?”

“It began here in the hotel,” resumes the old man. “I was sitting in the corner over there. Saw it all, how they came in, ordered breakfast and water from the tap. Lofty, that’s the guy who runs this place, should have got them to pay upfront, instead, he leaves it to the end when he finds out they’ve got no money.

‘So what do you want instead?’ asks the one they call Michael. He looks at Lofty like he’s staring through his head into his brain. ‘What’s the thing you most want but don’t have?’ Lofty’s not too keen on riddles owing to the fact that he never knows the answers and doesn’t understand them when explained. He just wants the ninety bucks he’s owed. ‘Pay up or I’ll send for the cops,’ he shouts.

‘But what is it that you really want?’ repeats Michael.

What Lofty wants is what everybody else in town wants. It hasn’t rained for seven years, the wells are dry and the river that watered the fields is no more than a creek. If the town don’t get water soon everyone who hasn’t already given up on the place will pack their bags and leave.

‘Just tell me,’ says Michael, ‘and if I can’t provide it I’ll go down to the bank and get your money and ten dollars more.’

Lofty’s not too sure whether Michael has an account with the bank or if he’s intending on robbing it but either way he doesn’t care he just wants his ninety bucks. Ask for something impossible he thinks and then he remembers that the water company only turns on the taps for two hours a day. ‘Water,’ he hollers, ‘make it rain like it's never rained before.’

The words are no sooner out of his mouth than it starts, huge raindrops battering down on Lofty’s tin roof so you can hardly hear what’s being said. The main road is one big puddle and the creek is back to being a river again. So far so good but when the river becomes a raging torrent that knocks down a whole row of houses people decide that enough is enough.

‘Stop it now,’ they shout but Michael says if they didn’t want the rain they shouldn’t have asked for it in the first place. This is a miracle, he tells them, they should be grateful, but grateful they aren’t, so he vows to take back the rain, every last drop of it.

He marches out the back door ahead of his disciples who are falling over each other trying to keep up. The rain’s stopped and although the river’s still roaring along it’s not getting any wider. Job done, we’re thinking, but Michael doesn’t see it that way. He wades into the river and points at the mountains from where the water is coming. He wants the river to go back to where it started and though this is not the kind of thing that rivers normally do it wastes no time in doing what it’s told.

At this point, all the folk who had their houses washed away come running towards Michael like they’re in the mood for a good lynching. Michael, however, has other plans; he’s clearly had enough of the town and can’t wait to get out of it. What he fancies is a good swim and the last we see of him and the others is of them being swept along in the direction they were first seen coming.”

The old man finishes a whisky chaser and stares despondently into the empty glass. “It’s a calamity, the electricity’s down, the phones don’t work, and there’s a half-mile gap in the highway, and what’s worse we’ve still got no water!” He aims a punch at the wall and on connecting adds physical pain to his list of grievances.

“Never mind,” says Cassie. “It might have been worse.”

“How so?” says the old man. So we tell him about all the other things Michael has been doing. How the folk in Mexico asked him to stop the flies that were bothering them and Michael conjured up the largest flock of birds ever seen that after eating the flies also ate the crops they were growing. We tell him about the ice sheet in Norway that the farmer wanted melting so he could till the land and how Michael turned the ice into the water that flooded Oslo. Then there were the bush fires in Australia and volcanos in Indonesia. Everywhere he tried to give the people what they wanted, but nothing turned out like it should.

“How come you know all this?” asks the old man.

We explain that we are Michael chasers. Some people chase twisters or mysterious creatures like Big Foot or the Yeti, others search for UFOs or ghosts, take your choice, whatever stirs your juice. We ask him if he wants to join us but he shakes his head and says he’s had enough of talking so we go back to the ’copter, but it’s gone, tired of waiting, a distant speck against the setting sun. We walk home beneath a blood red moon, giant steps across the Painted Desert and the Uinta Mountains. The world, this world, is a wondrous place.

                                                           *****

It’s six o’clock on a cold winter’s morning. It’s raining. In fifteen minutes the alarm will ring and I will set off for the job I hate and Cassie will wait for the text that tells her if she has a shift in the factory. Kendrick who started the night at the end of the bed is now in the warm space between Cassie and me. He likes being a part of our dreams. He purrs, uncoils and swishes his tail against my arm. Soon he will be put outside and, despite his protests, abandoned until we’re ready to let him back in.   

When life’s a bitch you’ll always have your dreams.                  

Copyright Richard Banks    

The Darker Half ~ Chapter 6

The Darker Half ~ Chapter 6

By Janet Baldey

BILL

         Too early even for the birds, he wakes tangled in a twist of sweaty sheets. His head feels like a pumpkin and there is a dull pain throbbing in both temples.  Despite this, he feels elated.  At some point during the hours of darkness, the ancient computer buried deep in his skull has churned out a name and he gives a satisfied chuckle, happy for once that he’s alone and there is no-one to hear. “Still got it, you old bugger”. He rasps, “ brain cells not turned to porridge just yet.”  Ignoring his aching head, he sits up and swings his legs round until he is facing the window, which is still only a slightly lighter rectangle in the shadowy room. Anna Tyler - Alec Tyler’s sister.  His third eye could see her clearly now, older, but there was no mistaking her.  Not a face that would be easy to forget under any circumstances even if she hadn’t been on the witness stand. But what’s brought her to the bridge last night. Obviously, the years hadn’t been kind to her.  He screws up his eyes, trying to remember details of the case. Not his patch, and Glasgow’s a long way away but the trial had been riveting - made headlines in the Nationals week after week.  Those cases always do, of course and this one had been something special.  He wonders what’s brought her to this neck of the woods and why she’d been standing on the bridge?  As if they’d been oiled, the cogs in his brain start to turn and more facts drift back to him. His previous lethargy dissipates and he starts to tingle as if awaking from a coma, this is what he misses, something to get his teeth into. Bit selfish really, slightly ashamed he remembers how the lass had looked last night. Desperate, was the word he finally comes up with.

         He stands up and starts to pace around his bedroom dimly aware of Jackson raising his head from his basket and staring at him with puzzled eyes. Another name flashes into his mind. Mack, he remembers. Andrew Mack -  he was involved. He was the one who finally cracked it. Only a Detective Constable at the time but it made him.   Got promoted soon after and then came down South.  God knows why. They’d hit it off from the start – both Detective Sergeants before Mack outstripped him. They were still friends, if only from a distance.  In fact Mack was one of the few who, true to his word, had kept in touch. Maybe Mack could fill him in. Of course, he’d have to be subtle.  No longer in the Force, he was now an outsider and needed to watch his P’s & Q’s. The all too familiar sense of desolation creeps back and resolutely he shoulders it away. Apart from anything else, it was time he saw Mack again, a bit of harmless reminiscing is just what he needs.  

         He looks at his watch, a bit early yet. He’d have some breakfast and phone afterwards.

***

         He arrives ten minutes early, deliberately so.  He needs to prepare himself. Get his story off pat and it’s always easier to do that in situ.  To be honest, he’d been a bit surprised at Mack’s reaction when he’d finally reached him. They hadn’t spoken for at least a year but Mack had seemed delighted.

         “How are you, you old bugger? And to what do I owe the honour of this call?”

         “I’m fine.  Just realised it’s a long time since I’d seen you.”

         “Certainly is. Got to put that right, son. What about lunch today?  I’m free at one.   The Skewie all right?”

         “Bloody hell, is that place still standing?”

         Mack’s rich laugh exploded in his ear.

         “Don’t worry. That place will see you and me out. It doesn’t change and Jez is still in charge. What’s more, lunch is on me unless you decide to go all poncy and order a salad and sparkling water.”

         It had been as easy as that and as he drives up to “The Skewbald Horse” not far from his ex-station house, he sees that Mack was right. As ugly as a brick shit house, it hadn’t changed.  Still the beer was good and the landlord didn’t mind cops stinking out his saloon, which was more than you could say for many of them. He walks up to the bar, gets two pints in and chooses a table almost directly in front of the door but slightly offset so he’s not directly in view when Mack enters.  He sits, sipping his beer, his pulse quickening every time the door swings open, but when Mack finally appears, it settles down.

         “Mack.” He gets up and holds out his hand. “Long time, no see.” 

         “Too long.” Mack’s grip is firm if slightly sweaty.

         “I got you a Guinness. Hope it’s still your tipple.”

         “Just the job mate. Cheers.”

         The chair groans as he sits down and after taking a long swallow, Mack looks at him.

         “So, what’s up then?”

         “Sorry?”

         “Come off it Bill. You didn’t call me purely for the pleasure of listening to my voice or invite me here to gaze at my bootiful face, although I couldn’t blame you if you did.  So, let’s cut to the chase, eh?”

         “Not till we’ve gone through the formalities, Mack. You know me, always a stickler for doing things by the book”. 

The moment the words are out, he realises their irony and his stomach does a backflip.  He swallows and carries on, hoping that Mack hasn’t noticed.

“Now, how’ve you been and how’s Jenny?”

         “Me?” Mack makes a seesaw gesture with his hand. “Up and down, you know.  Up and down. Had a bit of a problem with me guts recently but it’s getting sorted.  And, Jenny’s blooming.”

         Jack looks at him closely and sees the pasty skin and eyes almost disappearing into flabby pouches. Mack needs to take more care of himself, he thinks, otherwise he won’t make retirement. He has a vision of Mack in the old days, brushing sausage roll crumbs off some witness statement and swigging Cola. After years of that treatment it isn’t surprising he needs a re-build.

         “So, your gorgeous wife’s still putting up with you, is she?  That’s amazing but then I never understood what she saw in an ugly sod like you.”

         Mack laughed and patted his paunch. “Says I keep her warm on cold winter nights.”

         He finishes his pint and gets up.

         “Right, steak, chips and all the trimmings. Okay with you?”  Without waiting for a reply, he turns his back and lumbers towards the bar.

         Jack watches him, his mind busy getting his thoughts in order.  A brilliant cop, his brain as sharp as a tack and always quick to make connections, Mack has seen through his ploy and suddenly, he feels nervous. He’s no longer part of the force and well remembers feeling impatient when ex-cops tried to pump him, back in the day when he was top dog. Maybe Mack feels the same and will clam up.

         While eating they chat about this and that, the state of the steak, the state of the world, the state of their erstwhile colleagues and it’s not until Mack sighs and puts down his knife and fork, that his former question is repeated.

         “So, come on then. Anything I can help with?”

         “Maybe not and you’ll probably think I’m daft but I saw something the other night and it’s been niggling me.”

         Mack’s eyebrows lifted.

         “Yeah.  Do you remember the Tyler case?”

         Mack stared at him. “Go on.” He said eventually.

         “I was walking the dog by the river the other evening when I saw a woman standing alone on the bridge. It was dark and bloody cold – no place for anyone to be hanging about. Then, I saw she had no shoes on.  Well, that was it. I called out to her and when she turned round, I knew damn well I’d seen her before. I also knew that if I hadn’t turned up when I did, there’d be another corpse in the morgue. Anyway, immediately after I arrived she pushed off. And that was it really, except I couldn’t get her face out of my mind and eventually, I remembered who it was. Anna Tyler. The sister. Gave me a hell of a shock. I didn’t realise she lived around here. Did you?”

         Mack nodded. 

         “Did, as a matter of fact.  But saw no reason to broadcast it – reckoned the poor lass deserved some peace. That was a case and a half that one. I never would have imagined that puny sod could have done what he did. Wouldn’t have guessed he’d have the strength, always thought he had help. In fact, I suspected the sister for a while until I realised they hated each other’s guts. Plus, she had a cast-iron alibi. So, you’re sure it was her?”

         Jack notices that Mack’s eyes have lost their look of lazy tolerance and thinks that maybe his intuition is not so far off the mark after all. “Certain and I just wondered if anything was going on. Pure nosiness really.”

         There is a long silence as Mack studies the table, tracing the outline of a puddle of beer with his forefinger. The waitress comes to clear away their plates and it isn’t until she’s left, that he looks up.

         “You know I shouldn’t really be talking to you. We both know that. But you were, and probably still are, a damn good cop and no blabbermouth. Besides, it was bloody unfair what happened to you and there but for the Grace of God and all that….. So, we’ll forget the past and you’re just another colleague, right?”

         Jack swallows. That was a long speech coming from Mack. To his horror, he feels his eyes prickle. Quickly, he blinks and nods.

         “Besides,” Mack continues. “It’s probably all pie in the sky and my Aunt Fanny’s arse but….You weren’t directly involved in the case so I don’t know how much you know, but there was a child involved.  Apparently the murdering bastard had a daughter.  Pretty little thing. About twelve years old at the time. After the dust settled, Anna took the kid back to live with her and as far as we were concerned, that was that. Until now it seems.”

         He falls quiet and Bill waits patiently.

         “A few weeks ago, the local truant officer got in touch with us. A girl had gone missing and he couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Standard stuff really but what caught my eye was the name, Tyler. Not an uncommon name but for me, it rang strong alarm bells.   I dug a bit and sure enough, the girl turns out to be Anna Tyler’s niece, Joanne.  She’d been attending a local school, St Anne’s. Bit of a handful, according to the Head. Bunks off, cheeky, disruptive - that sort of thing. Anyway, this Joanne doesn’t turn up at school for a few days, so the Head ‘phones Aunt Anna and gets the brush off.  Nothing to worry about, gone away for a few days, back soon …blah, blah blah. Except that something didn’t sit well with the Head, tone of voice and so on. Anyway, after about a couple of weeks and still no show she gets in touch with the local Truant Officer.  He goes round to the house and gets the same treatment. But, he said, the woman gave him the willies.  Looked like she was haunted, thin as a rail, sheet white, shaking hands…He comes down hard, says she’ll be taken to Court but gets no reaction.  The aunt says she doesn’t know where the girl is but is certain she is all right. He tries to tell her that’s not good enough but she doesn’t seem to care.

         So, he comes to see us. Not a lot we can do about it really. The girl’s not been reported missing and as far as we know, no crime’s been committed.  But all the same, it is odd.  Her being a Tyler and all. Bit of a coincidence and I never did believe in them.  Plus, what you’ve just told me just adds to the mystery.”  He shrugs and looks at his watch.  “Anyway, that’s the story so far. Guess, we’ll just have to watch this space.”

Copyright Janet Baldey

AN ACROSTIC

AN ACROSTIC

By Peter Woodgate

Grateful those who felt secure

Reserved, perhaps, even demure,

Ensconced within those bricks and mortar,

Never thinking they would be

Fleeing from eternity.

Everyone within that site

Lurching, gasping, sick with fright,

Luckless, some, gave up the fight.

Then, what happened with the question?

Only those in power will know,

Why the use of deadly cladding?

Enveloping those, not worth the fee,

Reeks of a cover-up to me.

Copyright Peter Woodgate