Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12a

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12a

By Phil Miller

The lower ranks of the Okhrana, the military wing of the New Russian Imperialists, were dragged from their beds, grabbed as they left local bars and restaurants, or torn from their families.  Some were shot where they stood, along with their kin, or knifed to death the old fashioned way, with a bayonet, then shot, just for good measure.  The higher echelons of the unlucky political revolutionaries, however, were taken to the old dungeons located below the new Government Building in the old town of Aksay, Rostov Oblast, where further interrogation would be needed to filter out any more disciples of democracy, well away from the Capital; away from the Kremlin.

The R.D.D.C was full. The president of Russia was in conference with the leader of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China. The wait had been long and often humiliating, for both countries, but now the Bear and the Dragon were fully prepared. This was going to be a different kind of war; a war without attrition; a war they must win.

Colonel Yassarevitch sat and waited for the order. He thought about his top secret-service agent’s that had fallen, and those yet to fall, in the line of duty. They would all be remembered and honoured. Their family names would go down in the history books of the Motherland for a millennium. It was time for a new world order.

The huge advancement of S.W.A.R.M through the Asia Pacific meant that, effectively, China was trapped. Any launch towards the West would be suicide. There was room for only one superpower on this beautiful blue planet. The United States of America was, and always will be, that superpower, thought Admiral John Stark, as he sat, along with his joint chiefs of staff, his fingers tapping gently to Whistling Dixy; he didn’t much like music but this old song popped into his head. He received a call via WEBCON; all systems go! All eyes were on him.

“Gentlemen! Okhrana has been lost. You know what to do. We are at strike phase. I want Trojans one and two activated immediately. Be ready to initiate Trojan three. We have lost Flamingo for the moment, but we are in pursuit. Let us hope we find him before our enemy does. The annexation of Estonia and Latvia are underway with reports of mercenary activity along the Polish and Lithuanian borders. The Chinese are primed to attack Taiwan. ICBM’s are imminent. The Iranian threat will diminish within the next thirty minutes. The President of the United States of America is to address congress and the world. We are at war gentlemen, so, to your stations. Major Singha! Come with me please”, said the Admiral as he swiftly moved towards Control Observation Room 1.

The bomb proof unit was almost insignificant at a mere ten square metres. A small photo of a regular-sized family unit sat on the desk with two large star-spangled banners hung from poles that were fixed to the wall, directly behind. The Admiral sat down and offered a seat to Major Singha, who promptly accepted.    

“Our networks and all communication systems are back online, up and running, along with S.S.A.D’s. All systems have now been switched and are good to go. We are back on track Navin,” he said as he placed his hand's palms down on his desk. A small spectrogram flipped up in front of him, with the heads of each allied country in conference. Countdown had begun; in thirty minutes, the world would be set on fire.

The Major looked bewildered. He knew that this day would come but he was hoping that Russia would implode first, with the help of Flamingo. At least then, they would have a chance. Fighting on two fronts had proved to be the downfall of many an empire. Alas, that was not to be. He looked sternly at John Stark. “Sir! If they find him before we do, then….” he swallowed hard, blinking at the thought.

“I know!” said the Admiral, “I think we both need a stiff drink. Do the honours, my friend.”    

Journalists around the globe waited with bated breath as the most powerful man in the world prepared himself. He stood, surrounded by American Secret Service agents, within The White House pre-briefing room. He never once dreamed that his ascension to office two years earlier would culminate with a call to arms, and declaration of war.

“Mr President, Sir! We are ready,” said a smartly dressed woman, iPad-Pro in hand, headset on.

As he took a deep breath, he read the twitter feed on the screen above the entry to the media room. Huge explosions had been reported at both Parchin and Beijing, with satellite pictures offering a glimpse of mushrooming white, grey-green clouds of gas in both arenas that were expanding exponentially. The President looked over at his vice president and nodded solemnly as he made his way to the teleprompter and the world’s press, who seemed to be salivating at the prospect of carnage and destruction.

“People of America, Our friends. To all those who cherish democracy and freedom. To those who love their country and their families and who believe in justice and the rule of law. To those who cherish our way of life. To those who want to protect our way of life. We face a tyranny from the East unlike any seen before. Prepare yourselves. Our forces have been attacked in the Pacific. We are at war.”

Kayse Matrix was sweating profusely. She was still extremely vexed after her fortress was breached by G-force and still found it hard to believe that Donyevsky could kill his own men in such a cold, calculated manner. She never knew when or how she would be able to repay him but she would think of something. The night was drawing in at The Old Bunker in Goats lane woods; her final refuge. KC was still unsure whether or not she could trust him, but they needed him, especially now the viral attack on the command centre had finally been thwarted, which meant two things; she had lost control of Craig Burnett, and the countdown had begun. The world needed to see the real threat; she could show them. Come on Craig! Where the hell are you?

She set up her mobile satcom and waited for a signal but needed a sugar fix, so made her way back up the wooden stairs of the concealed entrance. There was not much else in her backpack but half a dozen bars of fruit and nut, a litre of Tango and a large bag of Jelly Babies; should keep me going for about an hour, “Ok! Back to work”, she said to herself, the sweat from the exertion of five minutes physical activity obvious through her bright green XXXXL Nirvana T-shirt. 

There was no way she could hack into the United States DoD again. She could, however, still cause a few problems. She reached for her laptop and plugged in an external hard drive. Something had been niggling away at the back of her mind for days: the calculations for the Pico cells; her virus.

 She almost threw up on the spot, when her re-analysis of the data proved her theory.

Craig and Cody had made their way by foot to an industrial concrete mixing depot. The site was fully lit with warnings of guard dogs and 24-hour security; nothing they couldn’t handle.  He took out the Huawei phone they had retrieved from the dead body of Peter Donyevsky and dialled KC’s number, but no answer. He sat, staring at the phone, before trying again. Still no answer. He threw the phone to Cody.

“Keep trying. We have to get through to her. She is our only hope. I don’t know what else to do.” He sat down next to Cody who was protecting her broken thumb.

“Let me see that again.”

“I think it’s broke. I need to get a splint.”

“Let me see”, he grunted forcefully, “I think it’s just dislocated,” he held her hand gently.

“No, it’s broken. I can feel it,” she winced as Craig moved it very carefully.

“I’m going to re-set.”

“You try and I will bloody kill…..aaargh!” she screamed in agony as he pulled it back into place. Craig picked up the phone and dialled again. This time it connected.

“KC, I’m with Cody. I can’t believe you’re alive. Donyevsky told me you ……..”

KC spat out a mouthful of chocolate and bluey-0range goo onto a small metal plate. “Craig! Thank God! Where are you? Is he there with you? It’s Ok! I told him everything. He’s cool, he’s going to...”

Craig cut in abruptly, “he’s dead.”

There was a long pause before KC replied in a measured tone “Craig, listen to me, HADES is using you like a parasite.”

“What do you mean?” replied Craig, sharply.

“Are you still, itching? I mean has it gotten much worse?"

“Yeah! driving me nuts. I’ve started to come out in some kind of rash as well. Not sure I’m going mad or not, but I swear it’s almost like it is alive, moving around.”

“Listen Craig, you and Cody need to find a place. We don’t have long, put Cody on, quickly,” he turned to look at her, concern etched on his face and handed over the phone.

“I found an anomaly within the Synthgen data.  I think the picocells have the ability to mutate, learn and develop independently.  You have to find a deep hole somewhere.  Do you understand?”

KC raised her voice, which was unusual for her, “Listen. You need to bury him, Cody. You have to end it. I’m sorry,” the line went dead.

“Come on Cody, we need to get out of here,” he tugged at her arm.

“Wait, I need to…. think a minute,” her head was spinning.

“What did she say?” 

She put her arms around Craig and held him tight for a few minutes. It felt good, it felt real.

Copyright Phillip Miller

Adult Literacy ~ 2013

Adult Literacy  ~  2013

Comments by Len Morgan

   I had an idea to create a series of stories that could be read by both an adult and a young person.  These stories are all set in earlier times so that the adult could relate his/her experiences of that period and explain things that no longer exist - such as phone cards, film camera's, I Love Lucy, and Jodrell Bank Observatory etc.   The adult gets valuable reading experience, and interaction through various activities, whilst the young person gets a lesson in recent history, (within living memory) and a valuable opportunity to share in new activities with a parent or grandparent.

 The stories I've written so far are:

The Waxwell Rd Mob, Charlie’s Boys, Hikkaba, Spark'l, and Magic Granddad. 

The 1st part of Magic Granddad follows below.

Note:

I failed to sell the idea as a viable money-spinner.   But, if anybody would like to try the experience for themselves, feel free...

Len 2020

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