Magic Granddad ~ Part 1 of 3

Magic Granddad ~ Part 1 of 3

By Len Morgan

On the 11^th June 1986, one month before their eighth birthday, their happy family was torn apart by angry words.   Mum and Dad argued and Dad left in the middle of the night.   The twins were upset, they lay awake listening to mum crying, unable to do anything about it.   Next morning she told them their father would be working away from home for a while, so they would be going to stay with her father, their grandfather.

“When?” they asked.

“At the weekend,” She said.  “Granddad Steve lives in Felton where I lived when I was your age.”

They soon discovered that this would mean changing school.   They were sad about leaving their friends, and their teacher, Mrs Brown. 

“Cheer up,” said Mrs Brown, “You’ll soon have lots of new friends, and a new teacher who you will like as much as you like me, maybe more.”

All their furniture and toys were loaded into a removal van.   The driver said it was called a Luton, but he didn’t know why.   Most of their things were to be stored, but they were each allowed to take a favourite toy with them.   Tina took a beautiful blonde vinyl doll she called ‘Linda blue eyes’ and a small case containing Linda’s changes of clothing.   Jack took a large paint box, pencils, and a drawing pad.

Clutching their treasures and their cases they boarded the 127b bus bound for the station.   Jack looked back feeling a little sad, but excitement soon overcame that.   They were, after all, at the start of an adventure.

.-…-.

They left the train at Felton Central Station.   The ticket collector asked for their tickets.   Mum and Jack handed theirs over.

 “I want to keep mine, as a souvenir,” said Tina.

“Don’t be a silly,” said mum “you have to give up your ticket if you want to leave the station.”

The ticket collector smiled, “I keep a large bag of sweets for passengers who won’t part with their tickets.  We used to keep them in the Station Masters cupboard but it’s full up, so do you object to being bribed?”

Tina soon brightened up and handed over her ticket.   Jack watched with envy but was soon smiling when the collector offered him one too.

Outside the station, taxis, and cars were parked in neat rows.   There were many different makes and models.  

An elderly grey-haired man standing beside an old black car smiled at them.

“E-S-C-O-R-T,” Jack spelt the name of his car out loud.

“Hi Dad,” Mum said, giving the man a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“This is Granddad Steve,” she told them “and, these are your Grandchildren Jack and Tina.”

He sat on his heels to be at their level, and put out his arms to welcome them.   The twins looked at him doubtfully.   They had seen his picture in mum and dad’s wedding album, but he didn’t look very much like that now, he was older and crinkled.

When he saw their uncertainty he stood up and opened the back door of his car for them.   They wrinkled their noses in disgust.

“You smoke!”   They said accusingly.

“I also eat, drink and breath,” he said defensively, “but there’s not much I can do about that is there?”

“Dad they’re only children,” said mum.

“And I’m only a Granddad!” he said, with his lower lip aquiver, Tina managed a tentative smile.

“Come along with you, into the car before you catch your death!” he said with a chuckle, as he placed their cases in the boot.   “If you want, you can open the windows to let out the smell of tobacco, and I’ll promise only to smoke my pipe outside in future, will that be acceptable with you little miss perfect?” he asked.  

Tina considered this gravely, she nodded and, got into the car.   Jack was already seated and unwrapping his sweet.

“Aargh!   They eat sweets!” Granddad gasped, in horror, they all laughed.

Mum got into the passenger seat beside him.  

“Buckle up everyone,” she called over her shoulder.

“Clink, Click, every trip!” they replied.

.-…-.

“Off we go to 47 Bern Street,” said, Granddad Steve.    “I have your mum’s favourites for tea; blackcurrant jam and crusty white rolls from Arthur’s bakery in the high street.   We also have ice cream sundaes – banana splits or knickerbocker glory’s for afters,” he announced with enthusiasm.   The twins pulled faces and looked at mum as if to say, what is he talking about?   Mum smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s a bit early for tea dad, shouldn’t we have lunch first?”

“Now I wondered if you would ask me that, or just let me surprise you.   I thought maybe we could drop into McDonnigals for cheeseburgers, chips and Frostie Cola?   But, that’s only if you two approve, I really wouldn’t want to upset your diets or anything…”

“No, I don’t think they would be very keen on that Dad,”  Mum answered, playing along with him.

“Yes, we would!   We would, don’t listen to her Granddad, we love burgers!”   They yelled in defence.

“Okay…”   said mum, “but only if you promise to try Granddad's tea tonight!”

“Were they really your favourites mum?” asked Tina curiously.

“Still are,” she replied a broad smile on her face.   “But, if I’m not mistaken we will all be expected to help prepare the meal.   At least, that’s how it used to be when I was your age.”

“Come on let’s get some burgers before they sell out,” said Granddad Steve, pulling into McDonnigals car park.   “Save some for me!” he yelled through the car window.

Mum smiled and shook her head.

‘It’s so nice to see mum smiling again’ Tina thought, warming to her new granddad.

.-...-.

“It's five o’clock Granddad,” said Tina tugging at his sleeve “its tea time,” she added smiling sweetly.

“Why so it is,” he replied, shaking his watch.   “Would you like to give me a hand?”

“Oh yes please,” she said.

“Nah, that’s girls stuff,” Jack scoffed.

“Do I look like a girl?” Steve asked stroking his whiskers noisily.   “Come on, and I’ll let you cut the rolls young man, Tina can butter, and mum can spoon on the jam.”

“Mum doesn’t let us play with knives,” said Jack. 

“Girls stuff is it?” Steve asked.

“No-ho!” Jack laughed.

“Your not playing with them you're using them as tools, there is a difference.   You stand the roll on end like this and saw through it carefully like this,” he demonstrated, then handed Jack the bread knife.

“This is the butter knife,” he said placing it in Tina’s hand.

Tina looked to mum for guidance before taking it.   Mum nodded.

“This is the jam spoon he announced; do you think we can trust your mum with it?”

“No!” they yelled with enthusiasm, but he handed the spoon to her anyway.

“Let’s start with two rolls each, now I bought a dozen, so that makes; well I hope you’re better at sums than I am…”

.-…-.

“Can I have another roll please?” asked Jack.

“That will make four, are you sure you’re saving enough room to fit in the ice cream?” Jack nodded, grinning ear to ear.

“Tina, while Jack is eating, maybe you would like to help me rustle us up some ice cream sodas to wash down the rolls?”

“That would be nice,” she said.

“Perhaps then Jack would like to help make the Sundae’s when he’s finished?”

“Don’t you mean Saturdays?” Jack chipped in, with a wink at mum.

“Ignore him Granddad, he thinks that’s funny,” said Tina.

Steve half filled four tall glasses with Frostie Cola, then carefully floated a scoop of, vanilla, ice cream on top of each.   It bubbled and frothed until it completely filled the glass with coffee coloured foam.   Taking a long spoon, he stirred and mashed the mixture, smoothing the ice cream onto the inside walls of the glasses.   Then slowly he drank some of his Cola through the cream, as mum passed a glass each to Jack and Tina, taking the fourth herself.

“Ahhh magnificent!” she exclaimed placing her empty, foam rimmed, glass on the table.

“Finished already - piggy?” asked Jack, rushing to catch up.  

For minutes nobody spoke.   They just sat and watched Steve carefully slit a banana lengthways placing the two halves side by side, on a long narrow dish, with their tips turned in and touching.    He then placed a cherry in the centre and then opened up an extra-large tin of mixed fruit.   He filled the space either side of the cherry with fruit, pouring some of the juice over the banana.   Next, two generous scoops of ice cream were placed on the ends of the banana’s, without pause, he proceeded to squirt squiggles of raspberry sauce over the top.   Finally, he shook sweet coloured sprinkles all over it with a flourish.    “Voila!”  He exclaimed placing it before mum; who was opening a packet of wafers.  “Now it’s your turn, Jack,” he said, producing another dish.   Soon a second creation stood beside the first.

Steve then took a tall wide-mouthed glass, and placed two inches of mixed fruit at the bottom, adding a large scoop of ice cream, another layer of fruit, crushed nuts, ice cream, raspberry sauce, sprinkles, and a cherry on the top.   He watched as Jack produced a second, and then asked everyone to choose.

When they had all eaten their fill they just sat in silence, for ages.

“I really do think that was the best ice cream I’ve ever had,” Jack pronounced rubbing his belly ever so gently.

“Would anyone like to help with the washing up?” asked Steve hopefully.

There was no reply.

 “You look tired my loves, the beds won’t arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, so tonight will be an adventure, like camping out?    You will have to use Granddad’s old sleeping bags, the same ones we used when I was a girl.”

“Camping, YES!” cried Jack, heading for the stairs.

“What about a kiss for Granddad and me?” Mum asked.

Tina ran to him and threw her arms about his neck “Goodnight my very best Granddad, thank you for a wonderful day.”

“Goodnight Jack,” he said with a wink.   “See you in the morning.”

Jack smiled thinly following mum and Tina up the stairs.

“I’ll give you a hand as soon as these two are tucked up,” said Karen.

Steve began to load the dirty dishes into soapy water.   He had a far off look on his face and a wry little smile on his lips.   He was deep in thought, it was good not to be alone, and he was thinking about what they could get up to tomorrow.   Suddenly his face lit up, he had an idea…

To be continued/...

Tanka Guiding light

Tanka

A restrained love poem working to a 57577 syllable count or less. 

Guiding light

By Robert Kingston

We walk in shadows, often not knowing what has gone before?

 

providing light
a young robin returns
again she mentions
her mother
passing by

I’d heard the term “pushing up daisies” as a kid, but never really understood the beliefs held in this flower until much later. The bridge between human and our mother earth providing some comfort.

Now, as I walk through spring, I often reflect on mum’s view had she been around to see how her influence continues to bloom in her grandchildren.

calling time
a cuckoo settles
on the tree
holding memories
of mother

Copyright Rob Kingston

LEE and JESS

LEE and JESS

By Jane Scoggins

Lee and Jess had been together for over three years when Lee died. They were true soul-mates, happy since the day they had met. They anticipated being partners for life.

  It was a terrible shock then when he stepped out in front of a train at a little railway station thirty miles or so up the mainline.

  There had been no mistaking that it had been suicide. The only two people on the platform that day at 11am had seen him put his bag down near the edge of the platform and step in front of the non-stopping train. It had been clearly announced over the tannoy less than a minute before that the next train was a through train to Norwich.

  The news of his death devastated not only Jess but Lee's Mother and sister Mandy.  At the funeral, they had hugged Jess and they had wept together. Friends and workmates were also very affected and could not believe that the friendly easygoing Lee had taken his own life. At the wake, Lee’s Mother recounted the many qualities of her son to Jess and said she had searched her memory, without success to try and understand why, and if there had been anything in the past that could have triggered mental health problems. She did say that she could remember his distress aged ten when the family cat died. Lee had seen Misty across the road and called her to come home. Misty had misjudged the traffic in her eagerness to respond to his call and had been knocked down by a car. Lee had never really forgiven himself.

  On the first anniversary of Lee's death, Jess took the train to Colchester and got off at Manningtree where Lee had died. She had with her a bunch of white roses which she laid on the platform bench. Lee had bought her six white roses the week after they had first met, and had continued to buy them for her regularly ever since. To Jess, they were a symbol of the love between them.

    It was 11am and apart from a middle aged woman, there was no one else on either of the two station platforms. It was pleasantly warm and peaceful. Jess sat quietly for some time.

 When at last she looked about her, something white fluttering ahead of her caught her eye. She got up and went to the edge of the platform. Growing out of a crack in the brickwork about a foot above the track was a small rambling rose struggling to survive. It had two small blooms of white roses. Jess felt this was a sign, and her eyes filled with tears as she stood gazing. She did not hear the non-stopping train approaching and was too late to stop herself toppling.

  A terrible tragic accident. Or as the press reported 'Lovers reunited in tragic double suicide'

Copyright Jane Scoggins

THE BIRD BATH

THE BIRD BATH

By Peter Woodgate

It stands there in the middle of the lawn,

an oasis to all that want to share,

it’s precious liquid that is so essential

and shows to all it’s users that we care.

Statuesque, a monolith to some,

and a lifeline to many types of bird,

when sitting in the garden, peacefully,

the soft approaching beat of wings is heard.

It’s an endless source of interest

as I sit there with a beer,

many a bird comes visiting,

it really does bring cheer.

But, in the early morning

as darkness crumbles away,

I behold a big fat pigeon

and he’s gonna have his way.

No other bird approaches

as he splashes everywhere,

he uses every inch there is,

alas, no room to spare.

First of all, it’s underwings,

some splashes, then he lays

full stretch, proceeds to roll around,

he must think, “Happy Days”.

The other birds, they just look on

whilst thinking, “Prima Donna”,

he thinks too, “I am the King”,

the rest, we’ll they just wanna,

have a bath, just like him,

but then, and right on cue,

he turns around, his back to me

and does a “Number Two”.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

THE NEW YEAR'S PARTY

THE NEW YEAR'S PARTY

By Richard Banks              

Zlatan's New Year parties aren't just good, they're stellar, the best. The last one cost five mil but what's that to a man who often makes more before brunch. When you have that much money you can afford to be generous and generous he is to the hundred or so lucky people who assemble at his bidding in central London. Not that anyone needs much bidding; his invitations are the equivalent of gold dust and no one goes back home without gifts totalling several grand.

         Some of us who have known Zlatan since the early days get their invites as a matter of course; the rest, chosen from the rich and famous, have to wait their turn. Even Mick Jagger’s still waiting. This is a night to remember, but to get to the party you first have to find it. To do this you look at the invite but if you're expecting to see an address you're going to be disappointed because where the address should be is a riddle. Solve the riddle and you find the venue. This is what everyone tries to do because the first guest to arrive before 9pm wins a gold plated Cadillac. After that everyone else is sent the address and the party kicks-off at ten.

         So that's what happens, it's a sort of tradition; only the venue and riddle change. This year I'm prepared like never before. I've got dictionaries, encyclopedias, gazetteers and every other reference book known to man, plus the web and a list of sites. At 5pm Tommo arrives with this posh bird from Chelsea called Cressida who works in his office. She's a member of MENSA which makes her a valuable addition to our team. Like me, Tommo is an old friend of Zlatan and a party vet. He sets up his laptop while his date sits down on the sofa, hiccups and keels over onto her side. She falls asleep. This is not what I'm expecting.

         Tommo shrugs his shoulders and looks embarrassed. “Sorry Pete, it was just six shots. I swear it. I mean, who falls over after just six shots?”

         “Someone not use to alcohol?”

         “Not use to alcohol,” repeats Tommo. The expression on his face tells me this is a concept he is struggling to grasp.

         Fortunately the conversation is cut short by Tracy who having pressed the doorbell seems unable to stop. I let her in. Tracy's my girl. We're kind of engaged except that I haven't got round to buying a ring. She's a real sweetie who wants nothing more than to help me solve the riddle. If only she could. Tracy's from Pitsea. She's blond, drop-dead gorgeous and the life and soul of every party.   All this she does well. Thinking she does not.  Nevertheless, she can be helpful in other ways so we send her off to the kitchen to make coffee and then pour it down the throat of the sleeping genius who's our main hope of winning the Cadillac.

         Meanwhile Tommo and me are poised over our laptops waiting for the emails that contain our invites. At 5.30 they arrive and we print them out. Tracy gets overexcited and inadvertently pours coffee down Cessida's blouse which causes her to leap up off the sofa before collapsing onto the floor. Tracy abandons her and snatches my invite from the printer.

         Ignoring my outstretched hand she insists on reading the riddle-like she's an actress addressing the back row of the stalls. “Why Might He End Era?”

         “Near her?” I say.

         “No, era!” she shrieks.

         I'm still not sure I'm hearing her right so I prise the invite from her grasp and read it out for myself.

         “That's what I said,” she says, hands on hips, her face an indignant pink.

         Tommo says we should both calm down because, “a mind filled with anger has no room for wise thoughts.”

         Tommo was once given a book of quotations. In the opinion of his friends he not so much read it as swallowed it whole. Within him is a quote for every situation and a capacity for selecting the most appropriate lines and reciting them like he's on the end of a message from up high. Not for the first time he's stunned us into silence which gives him time and space for another quote:

“Remember anger is one letter short of danger.”

         Tracy decides to join in and says, “Give peace a chance.”

         By now we should be having a 'love in' but that would be wasting time. Instead, it's time to focus. This I tell them in a non-angry voice.

         “Read it again,” says Tommo, so I do.

         “'Why Might He End Era?”

         While the anger's definitely gone there's no sign that it's been replaced by wise thoughts. The only person to speak is Cressida who, in a rare moment of consciousness, says she's going to be sick. This is wasting still more time so Tommy and me open up a window and lean her out over the windowsill. We return to Tracy who's looking up 'era' in the dictionary.

         “It's time,” she says.

         “For what?” we ask.

         Tracy bounces up and down like she's on a trampoline. “An era is time. Don't you get it? The era is a year, this year and he's ending it tonight.”

         While this hardly qualifies as a breakthrough it has a logic that is difficult to refute.

         “So, who is he?” I ask.

         Tracy gets even more excited and finds the answer in the question. “You’ve got it the wrong way around. It’s not the he we should be looking it’s the who. Don’t you see? It’s Doctor Who. It must be, he’s a Time Lord.”

         This is not going well.

         Tommo advances the alternative theory that 'might he' is close to almighty which means that the 'he' we are looking for is the big ‘He’ on the other side of the Pearly Gates.

         So what does all this tell us about where the party is. The answer is nothing at all unless we're looking for police boxes that don't exist any more or a church, which seems equally unlikely given what goes on at Zlatan's parties.

         “What do you think?” Says Tommo, “after all you're the swat.”

         Sometimes I think my four GCSE's are a pressure I can do without. My mind's whizzing around like a spin drier that someone’s forgot to load. In desperation, I latch on to Tommo's theory and suggest that we should be looking for somewhere that's named after someone religious.

         “Like who?” says Tommo.

         I should be saying Saint Pancras or Saint Giles instead I blurt out, “Saint Joan.” This I regret almost before I hear myself saying it.

         Tommo gives me his 'can't believe it' look but Tracy's face lights up like a beacon. There is, she says, a club called 'All Saints' that's just opened in Piccadilly. We look it up on the Net and discover that they're closed for a private party. For a moment we think we're on to something only for our hopes to be dashed by the additional information that the hosts are an American film company.

         Tommo says this is getting us nowhere and that we should concentrate on the why. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” he asks. The 'he' man, he continues, “is ending the era because he's off somewhere else. Find the somewhere and that's the place we're looking for.”

         So what happens after an era, I'm thinking. Then it comes to me: another era, a new age, the New Age Tavern in Soho! What's more, it's in Eram Street which is era with the addition of an ‘m’. And if that ain't enough the New Age is at number 1b which looks like a 16 which is the number of letters in the riddle.

         I tell this to Tommo and Tracy and they can't get there quick enough. We leave in my car and drive like the clappers through the City and into High Holborn. From there it's first left past the Charing Cross Road and into Soho Square. A BMW behind us also turns left and we're thinking we got competition, but when we stop it keeps going. We all take a deep breath. I turn off the engine and we get out. We want to run but that wouldn't be cool so we walk as briskly as cool will allow until we turn the corner into Eram Street. The New Age is on the other side of the road. We cross over, Tommo pushes open the door and we're in. By now it should all be happening: Tommo and me waving our invitations at the bouncers and Zlatan advancing towards us hands outstretched in readiness for his customary bear hug. But he ain't here and neither is anyone else we know.

         Tracy says there's a big room out back where a jazz band plays; the party must be there. We go to the bar and, when the girl behind it gets round to serving us, Tommo shows her his invite.

         “Where do we go?” he asks.  

         The girl studies the invitation with an expression that suggests she heartily disapproves of it.

         “A party?” she says.

         “Yes,” we say.

         “What here?” she says.

         “Yes,” we chorus.

         “There ain't no party here?”

         Tracy tries to explain that there must be because the pub is the answer to the riddle but the girl ain't got time to listen on account of the half dozen punters agitating to be served.

         If we don't want a drink, she says, we “should get out of the way of those who do.”

         We're too shell-shocked to argue so we troop outside onto the pavement where Tommo kicks a lamppost and immediately regrets it. Once he's finished hopping up and down and cursing the lamppost we hold a counsel of war.

         “Plan B,” I say. “It's time for plan B”.

         “What's that?” Asks Tracy.

         Tommo says we should go back to my flat and use the journey time to figure out our next move. Even if we don't think of one we will be, at least, be by our laptops when the email arrives telling all the losers where the party is. We return to the car and head back to Hackney.

         Tommo swallows some pills and quickly forgets his animosity towards the lamppost. He's in the mood for a quotation and it's not long in coming. “Be disappointed if you fail, be doomed if you don't try.”     

         “Yeah,” we say, but we're not saying it like we believe it, so he comes back with something he hopes will have us headbanging the roof of the car: “Success is like wrestling a gorilla. Don't quit when you're tired, quit when the gorilla is tired.”

         We yeah more loudly in the hope that he will consider further pearls of wisdom unnecessary. To our relief, he settles back into his seat and mumbles incoherently to someone called Eva who's apparently sharing the back seat with him.

         We arrive back and go up to the flat where Cressida is still hanging out of the window. She's as stiff as a board so we haul her back in and lay her down on the floor next to a radiator. I check my emails but nothing’s arrived about the party. It's 7.30 and the riddle's not been solved by us or anyone else. We still have a chance but with two of our number, the worse for wear that chance is slimmer than a self respecting chance ought to be.

         Tommo, who's staggering about like Bambi on ice, wanders aimlessly into the bathroom where Tracy persuades him to put his head under the shower. She says we should do the same with Cressida but Cressida hears this and threatens violence to anyone who tries it. This is the most animated she has been since her arrival so we show her the riddle and ask her what she thinks of it. What she thinks is that we should all go to hell. She has never felt so unwell and she's putting the blame firmly on us. “Why the fuck should I help you?”

         “Don't you want to go to the party?” Says Tracy.

         Cressida replies by saying there is nothing she wants less. What she wants is to go home, and if we don't call her a taxi she will report us to the police for torture and false imprisonment.

         It's time to talk turkey, so I explain to her what we have previously been keeping quiet about which is that the first person to solve the riddle wins a car. It's not a very expensive car, I explain, but if she can help us win it we will make it worth her while.

         “How much?” She growls.

         “A grand,” I say.

         “Three,” she says.

         I pretend to laugh like this is too ridiculous to contemplate. For a moment our eyes meet and neither of us blink. We settle on two.

         “So, what's the answer then?”

         She takes my invitation from Tracy and studies it with an intensity which suggests that on the other side of her forehead a complex mechanism is up and running. “It's an anagram,” she says.

         “Anna who,” says Tracy.

         “It's an anagram,” repeats Cressida. “You move the letters around so they form different words.”

         “So, what does it say?” I press.

         At this point she refuses to tell me unless I send her the money by Pay Pal and phone for a taxi. This is more time wasted but I do what she wants and her attention again focusses on the riddle. She's nearly there, I can sense it, then she says “highway”, a second later “the” and after a short silence that seems like a lifetime, “men”. For a moment she looks puzzled, then she smiles in triumph, “The Highway Mender”.

         The what? I'm about to say, but Tracy knows the 'what' only too well. “It's that new club on The Highway, just past the Tower of London.”

         Cressida says she needs to freshen up and walks stiffly, but steadily, to the bathroom. She re-emerges several minutes later as a car horn announces the arrival of the taxi. She lets herself out without so much as a goodbye. Not that we're caring, our only concern is to get down to the club before anyone else does. There's no taking Tommo, who having removed his head from the shower, is sound asleep on the bathroom floor. So, Tracy and me set off by ourselves. Ten minutes later we're parked up outside the club on a red line. It may not be cool but we're running towards the front door like it's the finishing line in a hundred meter foot race. In we go and the first thing I see is the ugly mug of one of Zlatan's bodyguards. If ugly is the new beautiful this is the moment. He recognises me and points across the lobby towards a double door which swings open as we approach. It's Zlatan. He looks surprised but kind of pleased at the same time.

         “Peter, so wonderful to see you, and once again you bring me the adorable Tracy.” He engulfs her in a playful bear hug that somehow pops several buttons on her dress. He hugs me too, but with less enthusiasm. His jovial expression changes to one of regret. “What a shame about Tommo. Those pills, I warned him, they are not to be trusted. But at least his little Cressida has come to claim their reward.”

         “Cressida!”

         “Yes, Cressida. Have you not met her? They work together and now they play also. To tell you the truth I think she is the reason they won. And you, my friends, are second. What a pity there is no prize for coming second. But as they say in the song, 'the winner takes all'.”

         I feel like a gambler who's onto his last throw of the dice. “Did she bring their invitation? I mean, she can't win without one.”

         Zlatan puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. “What do you take me for, Peter, of course she had an invitation. It was rather wet from the rain that's been pouring down in Hackney but it is the invitation we sent. We have special ways of checking you know. Come now, enough of this. Let me show you our party room; we have caviare, champaign, fine wines and all the usual side room attractions. Enjoy, and when Cressida returns from inspecting her car you can congratulate her, as I'm sure you will.”

         Coming from Zlatan this is a warning not to be ignored. To do so is to risk becoming an ex friend and ex friends sometimes become ex people. We follow him into the inappropriately named 'Euphoria Suite' and take consolation in getting hideously drunk. We never did see Cressida. After inspecting the Cadillac she departed in it for a test drive that somehow went on longer than the party.

                                                        

************

So, that's the story of how Tracy and me came within two minutes of winning a gold plated Cadillac. Our big mistake, of course, was in letting Cressida into the bathroom. Up until then, she had been content to extract a few grand from me and make herself scarce. Then she saw Tommo lying there and remembered he had Zlatan's invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Suddenly, all her lucky stars were shining at once, the invitation there for the taking and a taxi about to arrive that could be used to take her to Zlatan’s party. By the time Tracy and me were halfway there, she had arrived.

         What happened at the party you already know. What happened after, you don't. Having parked her prize in her father's garage Cressida soon realises that any attempt to keep it for herself is never going to work. She might have been first past the finishing post but it’s Tommo’s name on the invite. Arguably this gives him at least a 50% share in the car which he, almost certainly, is going to claim. What's more, Tommo's a friend of Zlatan who's bound to side with him and make sure he gets everything that's due. To cut a not so long story even shorter she arrives on Tommo's doorstep two days later with a lawyer and a legal agreement splitting the value of the car between them. Zlatan calls off the heavy who's been told to find her and ends up offering Cressida a job in his business empire – she's one smart cookie he can make good use of.

         So, it's all ended well for those who win and for those who don't there's always next year. At least I'm not out of pocket. Tommo’s sent me a cheque from Cressida returning the two grand I gave her, along with a quotation: 'Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys'.

         In return Tracy and me sent him the following message: 'Your Team's Up'. It's an anagram. Work it out for yourself.   

Copyright Richard Banks      

Bill for the use of a body.

Bill for the use of a body.

By Len Morgan

   The case was cut and dried; he was caught with the loot in his possession.   He was tracked all the way by surveillance camera’s as he entered and left the Hartington estate.   He was a professional thief.   Jason had just completed a two-year sentence, for a similar offence.  Unfortunately for him, a lot had changed in two years.  He’d spent three months following his release casing and planning this job but, none on checking technical advances.

 “Jason Ruffus Gadding you have been convicted of burglary, an archaic crime.  This is your third conviction and you show no inclination of mending your ways.   We are actively seeking to keep habitual criminals, like yourself, off the streets indefinitely; you are therefore sentenced to ten years without remission,” Said the judge.

“Ten years?   No remission?” said Jason aghast.  “Why that’s inhuman… I’ll be 35 by the time I get out!”

“Be silent!”  The judge commanded.   “There is an alternative; you could take part in a trial rehabilitation program.  We can offer you 6 months on the CRAAM re-education program; the choice is yours, six months or ten years!   Take him down…”

“I wanna see my brief!   Ten years is crazy.” 

“Calm down Mr Gadding, you know what they say; If you can’t do the time don’t do the crime.”

“But, ten years?   Nobody got hurt, nobody is destitute, the insurance company would pay—“

“Mr Gadding it has long been known that crime is a compulsion, like gambling, it’s an illness.   It can be curbed, modified, eradicated even.   But, you have to be willing to cooperate.   You must get on the CRAAM program!” 

“I don’t even know what that stands for...”

“A CRAAM is a memory cube it stands for “Cryo-Random-Auto-Active-Memory” it will be a temporary home for your mind during re-education…”

“Stuff that!  I’ll pass…”

.-…-.

  “Prisoner JG10967438 you have been here for two months.   Had you joined the CRAAM program upon sentencing you would now have served a third of your sentence,” said the warden.   “But, you currently still have nine years ten months to serve.

“My name is Jason Gadding, I do not answer to a number it is a violation of my human rights to steal my identity, you can’t change my mind against my will.   I refuse to be a guinea pig if the CRAAM program would cause me to act against my nature!"

“Is it your nature to live outside these walls free and unencumbered by your prior history?  To leave with a clean sheet?  If so, you should embrace the program.   Your refusal tells me that you have no intention of reforming.   You have all the literature, the statistics, and you have met people who have completed the program successfully.   Did they behave normally or are they now automatons?”

“I’m sorry but I cannot allow my mind to be polluted with indoctrination.   I’m afraid of what might happen to my body at that time.  Will it be taken care of?   I am a fit active man; I will not allow it to be misused!” 

“Take him back to the cells—“

.-…-.

“Mr Gadding you have now been incarcerated for four months.  You complain about the lack of exercise, because of the overcrowding.   You complain of inadequate stimulation for your mind.   We are duty-bound to point out to you that all of this could be remedied any time you choose.   Just agree to joint the CRAAM program.  Had you subscribed from the start you would now be two-thirds of the way through your sentence.   You would have just two months to go.   Your deteriorating body would still be in tip-top condition and your mind would be actively engaged in some collaborative manner to help improve this overcrowded world of ours.”

“I-I'm sorry, I cannot bring myself to trust people I don’t know, to act in my best interests, I just can’t!”   The answer is No!”

“Mr Gadding…”

“I’m Jason, my name is Jason!” he yelled.

“I’m sorry.  Jason, calm down now.  My client, Mr James Hartington, was your last potential victim.   He is concerned that you are wasting your life needlessly with this ridiculous fear of intrusion.   The young man sat apart from the committee.   “Jason, my name is Arthur Stanley; I am a lawyer representing the interests of the Hartington Estate.   I have been instructed to make you a most generous humanitarian offer.   If you will agree to take part in this program James Hartington will personally find safe active employment for your body.”   He turned to the committee, “might I have ten minutes alone with Mr Gadding please?”

The chairman nodded and a guard opened a side door into a small interview room.

.-…-.

“Now we are alone I am instructed to offer you the sum of fifty thousand euro's and assured employment with the Hartington Organisation upon your release..."
   "A hundred thousand!"
   "OK!"
   "Two hundred."
   "I will have to take advice on that figure; it's more than I have been authorized to pay."
  “Mmm, what would James expect of me for such a sum?”

“He is concerned, no; he is obsessed with security and the workings of the criminal mind.   He wants somebody on his team who can think like a criminal, who will be capable of unearthing scams in his organisation.   In his view the criminal has a totally alien mindset to normal law abiding citizens; it is akin to that of the entrepreneur,” said Arthur.

“But, if I enter this program all those tendencies will be eradicated completely so wouldn’t his theory become academic?   I don’t think I would be the man I am today, that’s for sure!” said Jason.

“Don’t you be so sure about that said Arthur with just the faintest closing of his left eye?   James has fingers in many pies.   Re-education can take many forms.   You could leave here with advance IT skills and a business degree, six months is a lifetime as a ‘CM’, it’s a unique opportunity, what do you say?”

“Two fifty,” said Jason.

Arthur smiled, “I think I can persuade James to pay that.”

.-…-.

  Even as cube JG10967438 was being connected to the correction system, the mindless body was in transit to a private facility; about to become the ward of James Hartington.

.-…-.

Three years pass and cube JG10967438 is released into an ageing body, with a different name and ID.   Once outside the facility, he looks into the mirror at the gates, their closing still ringing in his ears.   His eyes slowly focus.   A stranger is gazing back at him through sad watery eyes.

“My God!   What have they done to me?”   He hammered and rang at the gates but nobody answered.   A horn sounded nearby and he turned to see a limo pulled into the kerb.   The horn sounded, more insistent this time and somebody waved at him from the open rear window.   He headed towards it and the door opened.

“Get in Jason,” said the familiar voice of Arthur Stanley.

“Mr Stanley.  What have you done with my body?”

“Relax, all will be explained,” Arthur said smoothly.   And they drove on in silence for half an hour into the country. 

“Well?” said Jason, as the car pulled off the main road into a wilder overgrown lane.

“There is a perfectly simple explanation, but James would prefer to tell you himself.”   They pulled up at a set of wrought iron gates set in ten-foot high granite walls.   After a few moments, the gates opened.  

“Is it a prison?”  He asked a half-hearted attempt at humour, he got no reply.

As the car pulled into the drive of an impressive converted seventeenth-century house, Jason saw a familiar figure standing at the top of the steps leading to the heavy timber front doors.

“Well don’t just sit there, come on up he called,” waiting patiently as they climbed a dozen stone steps

“This is James Hartington,” said the lawyer introducing them.

“I know who you are, but why are you still in my body?” Jason challenged.

“There were some technical problems that caused your stay in prison to be longer than expected.   You were found to be resistant to the programming.   Come inside and we will explain,” said Arthur, taking his arm.

They sat in sumptuous brown leather club chairs in an artificially lit room soaking up the heat from an illegal fossil-fuelled coal fire.   They chatted over coffee, cheese, and biscuits.

“You were held for three years Jason, four times your legal sentence.   Arthur has already sued for false imprisonment.”

“You will receive compensation for the period of illegal detention, have no fear of that,” said the lawyer.

“Unfortunately, when you came up for release, by a three to two majority, I was out of the country.  So, Arthur decided to seize the opportunity and get you released before they could rescind the decision.   You are currently in the body of my valued head gardener.   I need him back as soon as possible, the gardens are already missing his magic,” said Hartington.

“Well, if you are both ready we can go to the lab now and effect the final transfer,” said Arthur.

They travelled through a series of corridors deeper into the building, down below ground level, walking with only the sound of echoing footsteps.

Then they stopped and entered a white antiseptic room.   Jason was led to a chair, by two orderlies in white coats.

“Ah!   I nearly forgot,” said James Hartington handing Jason an old fashioned paper cheque for Eur250,000.  He held out his hand and they shook.   Nice to meet our newest recruit he said as they strapped Jason into the chair.   “I must leave you now I have other matters to attend too.”

.-…-.

 By mid-day his mind was once more inside a CM cube, on his way to becoming the controller of a Fish Farm Submersible referred to affectionately as ‘fishdogs’ by the land staff at Hartington North Sea Fisheries.

 James Hartington gazed into the mirror and smiled, “250,000 Euro, worth every penny,” he said as he shredded the cheque.

Copyright Len Morgan

Daydream

Daydream 

By June Druce

I sat there mid the suns warm rays,

absorbed in natures finest gifts.

Autumn leaves adorn the earth,

and floated into rainbow drifts.

 

Silhouetted through the trees,

sunbeams dancing in her hair.

She stood upon the rustic bridge,

swaying in the morning air.

Aphrodite swathed in white,

cherubic arms clasped her soft body.

And barefoot, she came towards me floatingly.

She smiled; her warm red lips moving.

She spoke; her voice was soft as snow

I’ve waited so long for you to come.

Evading me wither I must go,

She held my hand as we walked.

Through rustling paths,

she looked deep into my eyes.

So sweet and yet so hauntingly sad,

So young and innocent, so very wise.

I felt her lips so warm on mine,

Her tears just like the dew.

Remember me, my heart is yours,

I have to stay beside you.

I oft sit there in that lonely glade,

I know she’ll come, my own cellmate

My hair is white, my days ill spent

she is the mistress of my fate.

Copyright June Druce