Under the Spotlight

Under the Spotlight

Janet Baldey

When you dabble in the murky waters of the past sometimes monsters surface…

Miriam put down her pen and sat twisting her broad gold wedding band watching it gleam under the light of the lamp.  Restless, she rose and prowled her suite. Unlike the pale pastels of the tastefully decorated rooms of other residents, here anonymous walls were swathed by the rich colours of maroon, emerald and crimson velvet.  Always dark even at mid-day, it was the bane of the cleaning lady’s life and it took a good many ‘sweeteners’ to pacify her.  But, Miriam always had a taste for the dramatic and every evening escaped from the dining room, with its insipid décor and the gossipy rustling of the other guests, to her own domain where she would pace its shadows, reciting lines that rose naturally to her lips while imagining herself, once more, under the spotlight.

 Returning to her seat, she picked up her pen and looked at her last sentence.   She crossed it out, bearing down so hard the line scarred the paper.  Her shoulders slumped;  for the last few weeks, she’d been chronicling milestones in her life, praying for revelation, but as soon as she got to 1954, her mind blanked and her hand froze.  Closing her papery lids, she willed her way into the past but it was no good.  All she remembered was what she’d been told.  In the January of that year, one thousand nine hundred and fifty-four, she’d been found wandering in the swirling pre-dawn mistiness of Hampstead Heath, naked except for a full length sable.  She’d no identification and no memory. Why? It was hard to understand.  She recalled quite clearly, her childhood, her career, her wedding at the Abbey with six actress bridesmaids surrounding her as tall and proud as a phalanx of pale lilies.   That was in 1950 and she distinctly recalled thinking that life couldn’t get any better.  But the devil must have been listening, forever since there’d been a black gap in the white picket fence of years stretching towards the future. 

* * *

There is a very sweet young man living in the hotel where she waits. He befriended her when she first arrived and for some time they had long weekly conversations until the terrible day when she realised the truth.

‘So why are you here Miriam?’ He had asked.

‘That’s a strange question.  Why do people stay in hotels?  I imagine there are many reasons. In my case, I shall be gone as soon as my husband arrives to collect me.’

The man had looked at her, his eyes boring into hers.

‘Tell me Miriam, what year is it?’

She’d looked at him in astonishment, her mouth opening in a breathless gasp as her heart beat faster. Didn’t he know? Surely, everyone knew what year it was, unless…. he’d seemed so normal but all this time she’d been talking to a madman.

‘Why, 1955, of course.’    Hurriedly, she left the room.

Then, there’s the other gentleman; the one with deep lines skiing down his face.  Too old for her of course, but his eyes are kind.  At first, she’d thought he had the answer.   One day, in a fit of melancholy, she had cried over her missing year.  Taking her hand and holding it gently, he suggested a diet of 1954 films or newscasts to jog her memory.  So, every night for weeks she sat in front of the television set and with the aid of a recorder watched a parade of movies. She saw a muscular and muttering Marlon Brandon in ‘On the Waterfront’, a paranoid Humphrey Bogart twitching his way through the Caine Mutiny, The Glenn Miller Story and as many other musicals that she could stomach.   All, she found fairly enjoyable, with the exception of Bill Haley in ‘Rock Around the Clock’ – the music jangled her nerves and made it difficult for her to sleep.  But not one, not even contemporary news flashes of Roger Bannister, breaking the four-minute mile, or sickening footage of the Mau Mau atrocities, succeeded in tearing down the veil.

Occasionally, she heard snippets of conversation that piqued her curiosity.  Once, she was on her way to the lounge when she came across the two men chatting.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how the human brain can delude itself.’

‘True, nature can be merciful sometimes.’

‘We could bring her back, of course…regression therapy or hypnotism.   She’s desperate to know.’

‘What would be the point?   The truth would destroy her.  It’s kindest just to let her live in the past.  At least she remembers her former success and that makes her happy enough.’

‘But she’s our oldest resident.  Don’t you think she deserves the truth before she passes?’

Miriam couldn’t help noticing that, as soon as they saw her, they stopped and smiled; their faces bland as their lips expanded.  She wondered who they’d been talking about.

And then, there were the nightmares.   In the early hours, she’d wake up, her throat tight and sore, with the reedy cries of a baby ringing in her ears together with a feeling of desolation so intense it was like teetering on the edge of The Pit.

She very rarely looked in the mirror, the image reflected distressed, but on a sudden impulse, she walked towards her wardrobe and stared into the full-length glass.   Whoever would have thought that one year of neglect could wreak such havoc?   She plucked at her greying hair and pulled taut the wrinkles on her face.    Roger will barely recognise her.  She wished he wasn’t quite so busy, she missed him so much but, at least, she was well provided for.  She opened the door and looked at her sable, still lustrous, although the fur now wore a grey patina of dust.

Her skin began to prickle, and she gasped for breath.  How hot it was.  Once more she ran her fingers through her hair hearing the crackle of static electricity.  The Gods grumbled overhead and her spirits leapt. Despite their accompanying humidity, she loved storms.   When it came to drama nothing could put on a better show than the elements.  Glancing towards the window she saw deep purple clouds racing across the heavens as the thunder roared.

   A few short paces and she was staring out of the glass watching lightening writhe across the sky, spitting out streaks of electricity that that lit the dusky hills. Suddenly, with a roar as shrill as a train whistle. a sudden gust of wind blew open the casement and a squall of rain plastered her hair to her head.  Startled, she stepped backwards and almost tripped over a bulky package lying on the floor. 

  A new wrinkle joined the others as she frowned.  The package appeared to be newspapers, yellow and creased with age, tied into a bundle that crackled as she picked it up.  She noticed that the papers were all dated 1954.  Scrawled across the top of one was a note in her cleaning lady’s handwriting.

‘Found these recently and thought you might be interested.’

Storm forgotten, Miriam sank down onto the bed and with stiff fingers worked at the frayed string.  As she riffled through the sheets of fragile paper, her excitement waned.  There was nothing of interest.  Impatiently, she tossed the package aside and got up to close the window.  As she did, a sheet of paper detached and fluttered to the floor.  Annoyed, she scooped it up.   She was just about to crush the page when something made her take a closer look.  Black spots danced in front of her eyes as the newsprint wavered and merged slowly blooming into the shape of a face.   One she recognised.  One she saw every morning in the bathroom mirror. Her legs turned to water and she collapsed back onto the bed as she read the black banner headlines underneath.

FAMOUS ACTRESS ACCUSED OF ARSON.

Family feared lost in the flames

Her heart stilled as the roaring sound of blood in her ears merged with that of the storm. Suddenly, she remembered everything. She smelled drifting smoke and heard the sound of crackling flames as the body of a tiny baby appeared, just out of reach.   Beyond, her husband, mother and father stared with accusing eyes before crumbling into ash.  Horror overwhelmed her and she covered her face with her hands.  Lost in misery, she neither saw, nor heard, the thunderbolt that flashed into the room attracted by the precious band circling the third finger of her left hand.

* * *

All who knew her agreed it was a blessing she’d died in ignorance, and all agreed it was a marvel she’d lived so long.  The general public no longer remembered the once famous name of Miriam Marr, let alone the tragedy of her crime.  Consequently, the funeral was a small affair;  a token attendance from the ward plus the lady who always makes an appearance on these occasions and  regardless of the circumstances, always says the same thing.

‘How sad to die alone, un-mourned by her family.  I’m sure the poor soul did nothing to deserve that.’

Copyright Janet Baldey

.

                

   

A STONE IN THE SAND

A STONE IN THE SAND

by Rosemary Clarke

     Debbie Cutler brushed back her peroxide hair, clipping it with a silver slide before staring into the mirror; too much eye shadow? No.  Smudging another layer of crimson lip-enhancing lipstick she smiled yes, knock 'em dead girl!
     Maureen Cutler looked up from nursing blonde four year old Becky, she smiled approvingly.
     "You look, gorgeous Debs!"
Debbie grinned, twitching in her silver mini skirt, the schoolgirl showing through.
     "Sure you'll be okay with Becks?"
Maureen smiled.
     "Aren't I always?  She's a dream, so quiet, don't know where she gets it from."
As Becky's mum strode happily out of the door, blowing a kiss to her David Beckham poster Becky looked up, her bottomless brown eyes brimming with tears.  Shifting a little she squirmed from Maureen's lap.
     "What's the matter love, you tired?  Nanny give you a nap?"
Picking the child up she made her way to her daughter's bedroom, laying her on Debbie's bed; she always slept there.  Leaning she pulled the curtains, shutting out the light from the streetlamps.  Becky buried her little golden head in the pillow breathing in her mother's scent.
     "Bless her, she's asleep."
Maureen stood for a moment gently stroking her hair watching her granddaughter, remembering the way Debbie had seemed like a big doll to her eighteen-year-old self.  She smiled as thoughts enveloped her; peroxiding Debbie's hair, her experiments with lipstick and the way she'd grown into a double of Maureen's idol.  She could see her fronting a group like Blondie's even now, posing and pouting in those floaty dresses; well she at least looked the part but Debbie couldn't hold a note to save herself.
     Becky was the result of an unfortunate fling at work; you got these things happening if you didn't watch yourself.  Debbie had always been one for wanting cuddles and hugs, too demonstrative.  A working mum, like Maureen had been, couldn't cope with all that.  Her sister Jean had been a godsend taking Debs out for walks, showing her things.  She frowned as she remembered her Mum laying down the law.  Maureen could still see her, hands-on overfed hips, shaking those dark curls of hers still in their curling papers.
     "Why don't you take Debbie out!  You never do!  She didn't ask to come into this world!  Mum’s and daughters ought to do things together."
Vince, her husband had soon sorted her out.
     "Mau's a good mum.  The trouble with you Mrs L is that you don't see it.  Girls today don't cook an' that lark, don't have time."
     "If you were more of a husband she would have!"
Words like that had finally smashed up the marriage.  She sighed shaking her head, why couldn't her mum see she needed her help?  That's what mums were for; you look after the kids while your kids get a life; live a bit before they settle down.  Becky hadn't moved.  Maureen quietly walked out shutting the door.
     Wendy and Steve were already on their second lager in the mock olde- worlde cosy atmosphere of the Horse and Groom as Debbie burst through the door.  Steve stood collecting the glasses.
     "What can I get you, Debs?"
     "G & T not too much T." She grinned swerving into a seat.
     "So what's new?"
Wendy leaned over the wooden table pushing aside two more glasses already staining rings into the dark varnish.
     "Hil's going steady."
     "No!  She said she'd never!"
Wendy laughed.
     "Kev and her are an item; prob'ly broody after seeing Louise's"
     "You think?"
     "Yeah, I get broody when I see Becks; she's cute."
     "Yeah, she's a great kid," Debs said proudly.
     "Why don't you bring her some time, we could always go in the family bit, they serve 'til seven."
Debbie smiled.  "Wait 'til she's older then I'll show her the sights."
Steve manoeuvred the drinks onto the table.
     "Who's older?"
Wendy brushed an auburn strand from her heart-shaped face.   "Becky, talking about getting her an intro to this place."
Steve grinned, the lights catching his hairless head.
     "Bit young yet, mind you if she grows up like her mum....". He gave Debbie a nudge, souring Wendy's face.
     "Where's Don?"
Steve stretched back in his seat. "Baby bruv watching."
Wendy sighed picking up her lager.  "Not again!  He's there every evening after work takes him to football at weekends; you'd think he'd be sick of it!"
Steve's long fingers caressed the cold glass.
"Yeah well, some guys never learn.  Says he'll be over later when his mum's back."
     Debbie's brown eyes searched the bar for anyone worth spotting.  Suddenly she saw Don striding toward them looking younger than his twenty-three years, the long golden waves flowing over his shoulders.  Placing his beer on the table he sat down a satisfied smile on his face; Wendy smirked.
     "You look like the cat that's got the cream.  Gonna tell us who she is?"
Closing his eyes he smiled.
"Life's good."
Debbie frowned.  "What babysitting?"
     "What's wrong with that, Andy likes it and I get to see a lot of Andy."
Wendy flicked her hair back.  "Shame you don't bring him here."
      "Twelve's a bit young; could take him in the family bit."
      "Yeah that's what I was saying to Debs."
Don turned to her.  "Yeah, why not bring Becks here.  She's a good kid and we'd love to see her.  I could bring Andy if we stayed in the family bit."
Debbie shook her head.  "She's okay but pub time's my time."
Don looked at her, his blue eyes serious.  "When's Becks time?"
A lump was forming in Debbie's throat, a lump like she had had when she'd gone to visit Grandma.
     "Her time comes later." She mumbled.
     "But you're missing out on a load of things, seeing her grow, telling her stories sharing things with her.  It all makes life that bit better.  You care and they care, and caring's what we all need."
Debbie slammed the pub door as she told him what to do with his ideas.
     Maureen looked up as she stormed into the room.
     "Where's Becks!"
     "In the bedroom asleep; I left her on your bed.  Good night?"
     "What do you think!"
Maureen went back to watching her television programme on, mums to be carrying dolls instead of real children, there was a market in it.  Amazing!  Debbie strode angrily into her bedroom strewn with all her things then stopped; Becky was still cuddling the pillow her little face wet with tears.  Debbie sat down on the bed stroking her daughter's wispy hair.
     "Oh, Becks!  What am I doing to you, what am I doing to us both?"
Becky snuggled closer her tiny hand reaching out for the one person she'd wanted all of her life.  Debbie kicked off her sparkly shoes, her other arm enveloping the soft blonde head, knowing at last what parenthood was really about.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Magic Granddad ~ Part 2 of 3

Magic Granddad ~ Part 2

By Len Morgan

Jack was the first awake, he yawned and stretched.   He felt a bit stiff.   The carpet wasn't hard but the floor beneath it was.   The sleeping bag was snug and warm, and he didn't really want to get out, but he could hear somebody or something rummaging around in the next room and his curiosity was piqued.

“Who do you think it is?” asked Tina echoing his thoughts.

Jack turned towards her, and saw her face peeking out from the hood of her sleeping bag, she looked just like an animated Russian doll; the type that has one small doll inside another, inside another…  He smiled with amusement.

“It’s probably Scruffy, Granddad's border terrier,” he answered after a moments thought.

“Let’s go and have a look,” she said on impulse, shedding her sleeping bag like a cocoon.

Jack stood up, unzipping his bag from the inside.   As the two halves separated Tina chuckled loudly.  

“It looks just like a banana skin with you inside it as the banana,” she yelled.

“You got to the green one first, I didn’t get a choice, it was yellow or nothing,” he said defensively.   “Maybe we could swap tonight?” he said hopefully.

“Let’s go find out who it is,” said Tina dodging the question.

They padded barefoot into the hall.   They could see the end room door was ajar, and they clearly heard the noises coming from within.

“What are you doing Granddad?” Jack asked politely.

“I’m looking for some film to put in my camera.”

“Why don’t you look in the magic cabinet that Mum told us about?” Tina asked helpfully.

“That was just a story,” Jack sneered scornfully.

“That’s where you’re wrong clever clogs,” said Steve.   “As it happens, that’s a very good idea Tina, and that’s exactly what we will do!   Back to your rooms and get dressed, and I’ll race you – OUCH!” he hopped on one leg holding his big toe…   “Kicked the f#*@lipping door jamb!” he cursed.

The twins spasmed with laughter.  

“Tut-tut!   language Granddad,” Jack admonished him, with a waggling finger just like Dad.

“Not in front of the children,” Tina snickered, mimicking Mum.

“Excuse my French!” said Steve, seeing the funny side of it.

“What’s all that noise?” Karen asked in a sleepy voice.

“We’re off to the magic cabinet, to get some film for Granddad's camera,” Tina replied, pulling on her shoes. 

“Are you coming Mum?”

“No thanks' Jack, I think I’ll settle for putting the kettle on and starting the breakfast; our things will be arriving today.   Hot buttered toast and marmalade with hot sweet coffee, MMM!” she disappeared into the bathroom.

“I win!” Steve yelled taking the stairs two at a time…

“That’s not fair!” the twins complained bounding down after him, “We were ready, but Mum was talking to us!”

“Tough!   You lose,” he laughed and tousled their hair.

“Where’s the magic cabinet?” asked Jack.

“It’s in my shed, at the bottom of the garden, follow me.”  He led the way, with Scruffy yapping at his heels; he wasn’t going to miss out. 

They charged across the lawn like a herd of wild buffalo.

.-…-.

“Tch, tch, tch,” clucked Mrs Williams at No. 49, shaking her head.   “Barking mad that man,” she said to herself in mock disapproval, “nothing but trouble.   Always was, even when we were at school, he was always instigating trouble.”   She’d always secretly envied his free spirit and refusal to grow old gracefully; he always did as he pleased.    Even when her best friend Esther – Steve's wife - was alive he would still be off gallivanting here and there.   She recalled with a rare smile, Esther used to say; ‘He’ll grow up one of these days’, but of course, he never did.   She wiped away tears, from beneath her eyes, where had the years gone?   She missed Esther and their endless chats.

“Morning Joan, these are my grand children, Jack and Tina, do you feel like coming out to play?” he asked grinning from ear to ear.

He’s seen me she thought, and cocked her snook at him, turning away from the window, too quickly.   “Why do I always do that!” she said angrily, “why do I let him get to me?”   Truth was she’d love to say yes!   But it’s not the done thing for the secretary of the Women’s Institute.   She shook her head sadly, “not the thing at all.”

She’d been lonely, since George passed over, despite her many activities.

“My biscuits!” She cried aloud, sensing disaster with the quivering tip of her nose.

.-...-.

“Now then, let me see.   Where did I put that shed key?”   Steve searched through his pockets in vain. 

 “Ah I remember, Tina has it!”

“I do not?” she said indignantly.  Reaching behind her ear he produced a brass key.  

“Would you mind opening it for me Jack?   I’m all fingers and thumbs today.”

Jack too k the key and fumbled with the lock ‘CLICK’.   “There you are Granddad,” he said.

Steve turned the light on, and they viewed his cluttered workshop.  There were cabinets, cupboards, tables and workbenches, but his tools hung neatly in racks all around three walls.   There were lengths of wood, sheets of metal, metal tubes and plastic pipes in bins.   There was even an assortment of wheels in various sizes.   The floor was covered in sawdust and shavings.   The grimy windows were covered with whitewash.   Not the sort of place Karen would want her children to play in.

“These tools are not toys,” Steve warned them.   “They can be dangerous if you don’t use them properly.   Don’t touch anything before asking.   If you have any questions you want to ask, about anything, I will give you an answer if I can.

Tina looked uncertain, “which one is the magic cabinet,” she asked?

“This one!” said Jack at once, his hand resting on its metal handle.

“No, this is it,” said Tina with equal certainty placing her hand on a small white wood cabinet with a strangely carved handle in the shape of a blackbird.   It was 3ft x 2ft x 1ft and stood on a bench all on its own.   Carefully, she took hold of the handle and turned it, then pulled, then pushed it.   Nothing happened.   Tina turned and tugged, a little harder, then very hard, but still, nothing happened.

“Did you use the magic knock, and ask politely for what you want, using the magic word?” Steve asked.

“You didn’t tell us we had to do that,” said Tina shaking her head.

“That’s why they are secret!” he whispered.

“So are we going to do it or talk about it?” Jack asked impatiently.

“Well…”

“Oh please Granddad, do show us,” she pleaded.   “CAN WE HAVE SOME FILM FOR GRANDDAD's CAMERA – PLEASE!” she asked.

“That, was the magic word, now for the knock,”:

 Tap ta-ta tap tap,

Then from nowhere came the response:  

Tap tap,

 Slowly, and silently the cabinet slid open.   Their eyes went wide with surprise, for inside were three rolls of 35mm film.   Tina removed them reverently from the cabinet and Steve loaded one into his camera.

“Can we wish for something else now?” asked Jack.

“Such as?” Steve asked.

“I would like a ‘Gold Cross’ pram for ‘Linda blue eyes,” said Tina hopefully.

“I’d like a pair of skates,” said Jack.

“That is a shame because you’ll both have to wait, the cabinet is getting old, and only grants one wish a day now, and it only provides things that will fit inside it!”

“So tomorrow, we can ask for a pair of skates each?” asked Jack with a cheeky grin.

“Oh yes please,” Tina added, “but what will Mum say?”

“Leave your mother to me,” said Steve firmly.

.-…-.

They returned the following day and made their wish…

“What are they?”  Tina asked wrinkling her nose at the smell.  Steve smiled in amusement “what you have there are two pairs of skate…”

“Skate?” said Jack in disgust.   “Who asked for fish?  Definitely not me!” 

“What use are fish to us anyway?” Tina added turning away.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but that’s how magic works sometimes…” he tried to explain “You have to be specific.   Ask for exactly what you want!   Two pairs of TYCHO roller skates one size 9 the other size 11, with adjuster keys…”

“Thank you for explaining Granddad, but what will we do with these.  Can we send them back?”

“Shhh!    You may confuse it, or worse still hurt its feelings, it is only a cabinet after all.   I think it would be better if we simply accepted gratefully,” he said removing the fish and closing the cabinet door.   “Why don’t you ask your mother?”

.-…-.

“Well,” said Mum rubbing her nose, “we could always fry them in batter, and have them for dinner with salt, vinegar, and chips?”   She turned, giving her father a withering stare.

“It wasn’t my fault Karen!” he pleaded defensively.   “They weren’t specific…”

He shrugged, holding his arms out in supplication, “you know magic, Karen…”

“I know you!” she answered sharply, and then she broke into a smile.   “So it’s fish and chips for lunch – compliments of Jack and Tina?”

“Yea!” They yelled, their disappointment forgotten.

.-...-.

“So!  Tomorrow you start school at Felton Primary; are you excited?” He asked, drying the last of the breakfast things.   Their faces confirmed what he already knew.   “We have three rolls of film and a lovely day.   Why don’t we take some photographs?   I have an idea; if I can get the right shots we could make use of them at the weekend.”

“That’s a nice thought,” said Karen, “I’ve always fancied myself as a model.”

The twins laughed as she paraded up and down in her apron.

“We could take some in the house and some in the garden…” said Tina.

“Some in the car and I’d like everyone to pose for a close-up portrait.”

Steve shot a roll of film, then the twins shot a roll – several involving sleeping bags, and scruffy.

“Just one roll left,” said Mum.

“Let’s go to the park,” Jack suggested.

“Yes, we could take some on the swings, and the slide.”

.-…-.

At twelve o’clock, they handed their films in at a shop in the High street.

“That will be £4.50, and your photos will be ready for collection in one hour, thank you for using WONDER SNAPPS,” said the cheerful young woman behind the counter.

.-…-.

  They went into a Café Steve called ‘the greasy spoon’.   Mum had egg-chips-beans-bread & butter, and a mug of tea.   The twins had burgers and chips, with frostie cola. 

 “I’ll have the all-day breakfast with black pudding, button mushrooms, and a nice cool glass of cow juice,” Steve said.

“He means milk,” Karen whispered as Tina opened her mouth to ask.

Later, they sat outside the library, laughing at their pictures.   Tina particularly liked one of scruffy begging for titbits.

Steve selected the five best portraits, and while Mum and the twins registered, for library membership, he took them to the photocopier and made A4 enlargements.   Later, he visited the art shop and made several purchases, but would not reveal what he was up too.   “It’ll be a surprise,” he said mysteriously.

That night, while the twins were tucked up tight in their beds, Steve’s shed light was on into the early hours.   

.-…-.

 “Mum says, breakfast is ready and, your eggs will go hard.”

“Coming!” he said pulling on his clothes.   He could hear scruffy and the twins dashing down the stairs. 

“You lose…” he heard Tina call.  

He smiled; the old house had certainly come alive again since their arrival.   He hadn’t felt this happy in over five years.   Not since… ‘If only she could see them’ he thought, smiling again, yet his eyes had filled with tears.

.-…-.

 Steve sat at the table, sipping his second cup of tea, reading the paper.

“Haven’t you finished reading that old newspaper yet Granddad?”  Tina asked impatiently.

“Just let me finish this paragraph,” He smiled, he couldn’t contain his amusement.   “Alright, alright,” he said putting it down “come on then, down to the shed, and I’ll reveal my surprise.”  

“Yes!” They yelled in triumph.   Scruffy followed yapping excitedly, with the twins close behind.

“Can I come too?”   Karen called from the kitchen door.

“No!”  the twins said in unison.

“Yes, of course, join the party,” said Steve over his shoulder.   “Ok!   Who’s got the key?” he asked accusingly.

“Me!”  Jack said.

“Me!”  Tina giggled.

“Yap, rar, rar, yap,” added Scruffy as Karen arrived breathless.

“Give me the key woman.”   He demanded, plucking it from behind her ear.

“Here Tina, it’s your turn to open it,” he said glancing towards the kitchen window of number 49, Joan smiled and waved at them, Steve and Jack waved back.

“We must ask Joan over for Sunday lunch,” said Karen, reading his mind.

“That would be nice,” said Steve with a twinkle in his eye.

Tina pushed open the door and switched on the light.

“Wow!”  Jack gasped.

“That’s me!” Tina exclaimed.

“They’re brilliant dad. You’ve obviously been working very hard.”

On the facing wall, were two life-size portraits one of Jack and one of Tina.

“You didn’t tell us you’re an Artist,” Jack said in awe.

“You didn’t ask,” said Steve flattered.   “But really, I simply know some effective methods of getting a likeness onto paper, that doesn’t make me an Artist.   I’ll show you how it’s done then you can judge for yourself.”

“Do you think we could?” asked Tina.

“I’ll tell you what!   You can do portraits of your Mum and me.   If I can do it, I’m sure that you and Jack can do at least as well.” He answered with confidence.

“I thought you threw away all your art stuff when Mum died,” said Karen.

“No, I just put it away for better times.   Times I thought would never come again,” he added quietly.   “There are two easels; I’ve taped a sheet of watercolour paper to each, with a piece of carbon copy paper, over it, and one of the photocopies I made at the library on top of that.   All you need to do is draw the outline of the main features – head, shoulders, ears, eyes, nose, lips hairline and any clothing.”   He watched as they followed his instructions.   “Now remove the copy and carbon paper…”

“That’s great!” Jack enthused.  

“I’ve mixed flesh tints, and all the other colours are on your pallet,” he explained.   For shadows, you mix a tiny dab of blue with the flesh colours, and a little white for the highlights.  Don’t forget to wash your brushes before changing colours, or the paint will get muddy,” he demonstrated.  “Use the colour photos, I’ve taped to the side of your board, for comparison when you’re mixing colours,” as they started work he took Karen’s arm, I think we can go back to the house now and let these two Artists get on with their work.   Call us when you’re finished or if you need any help.   Don’t rush, take your time and do a good job.   It took me two hours to paint each of your portraits.”

.-…-.

Both Steve and Karen liked their portraits.   All four pictures were hung in the dining room so they could be seen and admired by friends and family alike.   The twin's work, of course, had pride of place on the mantel shelf.

during the following week, the twins became secretive.   They requested, and were given access to the shed but, when asked what they were doing they simply said: “It’s a secret!”

Steve was aware that they had been searching the house for something, but they wouldn’t say what.   He spied them talking to Joan Williams at No.49, but when he approached them they just clammed up.   Later, when he made polite enquiries of Joan she smiled and told him to mind his own business.

Karen knew they had raided their money boxes, and assumed it was to buy each other a birthday present.   They asked her permission to go out with Joan after school on Friday, explaining that it was personal and she wasn’t welcome.

“Would you like Ice Cream Sundae’s tonight?” Steve asked.

“Better not,” Jack replied, “we’ve got a lot of work to do…”

“A school project,” he enquired.

“Yes a project,” Tina answered.

“Will it take long,” Steve asked, “only I need to use the shed for a project of my own at the weekend.”

“Tomorrow,” said Jack.   Then, they wolfed down their tea and dashed out to the shed.

“What are they up to?” Karen asked.

Steve shrugged “they said it was important and a surprise.”

“Don’t you think we should take a peek?”

“Do you want to tell them we don’t trust them?” Steve replied.

“Just a little peek…   They are only seven…”

“Best not,” he said “trust is a double-edged sword, they have earned our trust, and we have to respect their wishes.   Besides, Joan wouldn’t get involved in anything underhand; she’s secretary of the Women’s Institute don't you know?”

To be continued/...

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

By Phil Miller

Admiral Stark and Major Singha had re-joined the rest of the war cabinet. “Update please. Any reaction from Moscow, Iran or Beijing?” he asked, focusing in on a region of the Pacific Ocean, just off Japan, “None, Sir! Local Chinese media are reporting the blast as some kind of chemical factory explosion,” replied a senior officer.

Major Singha tapped his headpiece to receive an incoming call. “Sir! We have scoped a call from agent Donyevsky’s phone. Different SIM but  IMEI verified and VR confirmed the caller ID as special ops agent Cody Wright”. Major Singha stood up abruptly, knocking his coffee to the floor in the process, “get that number up on the board and get it traced. I want a drone and G-force on them, double quick. No way they could have gotten Donyevsky’s phone; they would have to kill him first. If we are quick, there may still be time.”

Moby had been hunting the Russian Archangel-M2 for three months and had stealthily tracked it into the murky depths of the Pacific Ring Of Fire, just above the lines of the Kamchatka and Kuril Trench. The crew were at battle stations and although it was the pride of the Russian naval fleet, it was still no match for the ultra hi-tech, hi-spec allied master of destruction that was, MOBY.  She had  been fitted with the most advanced weapons and sonar system known to man, the only negative being that it was noisier than the Russian diesel electric 040AX which made it easier to locate in a theatre of war.  

Both nuclear vessels were manned by highly focused professionals, but Captain Terence Morgan was confident they had the edge.

He had carried out many tours around the oceans and seas of the world and, to the Captain, the crew were his family, the sea his home and MOBY, his pride and joy.

He was lost in thoughts of nostalgia and retirement; this was his last tour. He thought of all the people he had served and who had served under him, all the families he had known and all the weddings and funerals he had attended and the medals he had received and awarded. He had achieved much, considering his humble beginnings; orphaned and rescued from a Romanian orphanage, aged just 11 months; adopted by a wealthy and childless American Industrialist.

He began to get dressed. An immaculate uniform lay neatly on his bed. It was time to address the men. He was a tad displeased at the crease in his shirt but pulled it on anyway. As the call came through from the bridge he checked himself one last time in the mirror. He smiled to himself but couldn’t help noticing a small red vein pulsating under his left eye. It felt itchy, so he scratched it slightly, which caused it to pulsate more frequently, the irritation working its way into his right eye. He began to twitch and his vision blurred. He blinked to clear them, but the movement of his eyelids felt like molten metal. His eyes started to weep blood as he staggered back, falling to the floor, the strength leaving his body as he lay, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt like it was being eaten alive by an army of fire ants, his hands tearing and clawing at his eyes, face and neck. The shock sent him into cardiac arrest. It was just the beginning of the end for the Captain as his body burst into hundreds of rashes which expanded and burst, releasing jets of black blood around the room. Five minutes later he was dead.

The Allied Command Centre was a hive of activity as operations swung into action. The order was given for Carrier Strike Group Sword 1, headed by the multi-billion pound 120,000 tonne aircraft carrier, HMS Regina Ignis, to attack

Trojan 3 had been loaded onto an Israeli F-35I, in full escort with 116^th squadron, as satellites confirmed the mobilisation of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army (Artesh).

Admiral Stark was being briefed minute by minute.

“Sir.”

“Yes!”

“Sir, Moby is dead in the water, sir!”

“What?”

“Sir, Russian forces are reporting that they have destroyed an allied submarine along the Kamchatka line. We are awaiting visual, sir.”

John Stark was incredulous. “That’s impossible. What the hell happened?  I want eyes on screen 1,” he loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. Time seemed to stand still for all personnel as they visually confirmed a mass of floating debris.

“Sir,” the President is on line, sir!”

The Admiral had been joined by other high-ranking members of the joint chiefs of staff. All were speechless, staring at each other, or at their laptops. Most watching the events unfolding on the large screens around the Command Centre, when comms dropped completely. The entire system seemed to have collapsed, again.

“Forget the President!” screamed John Stark. “Jesus! What’s going on? Wait! Matrix must still be alive. It must be her,” he grabbed at a desk phone- completely dead; mobile phone- power but no signal.

“Someone get me a bloody working phone, now,” he yelled at the top of his voice.

All personnel checked their communications devices; all dead. Panic started to set in. They were blind to the world. Voices rose in frustration, confusion and anger. After 10 minutes a unanimous sigh of relief emanated almost instantaneously from all present, along with cheering, laughter and clapping when their giant TV screens and monitors flickered back to life. Stunned silence followed.

The Russian president and Chinese Prime Minister stood, side by side, on all visual displays. They spoke in their own languages with subtitles, in English, provided along the bottom of the screens.

“We, the Joint Eastern Communist Party have taken control of all Western Intelligence Networks Data centres (WIND’s). All national infrastructure networks within The United Kingdom and America are under our control. Electrical grids, metro and underground, hospitals and clinics are out of action. Your trading floors cannot trade and your planes cannot fly. Thank you for ghosting our prestigious Russian Super Data Centre. We could not have achieved this without your help. Please observe the following link.” A small box appeared in the corner of the transmission which showed the small patch quilted island that could only be England. An unmanned aircraft zoomed in to a small section of land in Essex and two people holding each other tight.

Admiral Stark and Major Singha, along with the entire staff at Command Centre were frozen to the spot, waiting, watching, gripped with fear and trepidation.

The narrative continued, “We have control of HADES. Please observe that he is almost at complete contagion phase. We have the ability to stop it. We have the ability to activate it. We shall demonstrate”.

The drone moved in closer. “I think they have us, Cody. No more running,” he said, resignedly.

He pulled away from Cody, holding her at arm’s length. What felt like a bolt of lightning shot through his body, his muscles tensed in reflex. Cody jumped back as he began to scratch at his head, vigorously, then tore off his clothing and fell to the floor. Red and black patches appeared all over his body. They began to expand and join up, giving the impression they were about to burst, when suddenly, they reduced in size and formed into small rashes, before turning a light pinkish colour, blending in with the pigment of his skin. Cody felt compelled to help, but moved further away.

WIND’s transmission continued. If you don’t want to be responsible for the death of approximately 70 million people, then we request your immediate surrender.”

There was a pause in the transmission, before what seemed like a screensaver, filled every viewing platform. There was a sharp intake of breath as several small identical silver objects appeared within a mass of black.  The Russian president gave the order. Yassarevitch obeyed. It was over in the blink of an eye; all Western SSAD’s exploded instantly. Many at the Allied Command Centre gasped in horror, some collapsed to their knees. Major Navin Singha clutched at his chest, a deathly pale grey washed down his face. Admiral John Stark, visibly shaken, retired to his office, locking his door behind him. He opened a desk drawer and loaded his Beretta 92SB.

Cody ran. She ran for her life, as Craig lay motionless in the dirt. A huge bio-lab relocation vehicle pulled up alongside him and four men jumped out, kitted with full biological protective suits and breathing apparatus. A robotic stretcher, guided by one of the soldiers, moved swiftly over the ground as a hydraulic boom winch positioned itself for the lift. Cody watched from the safety of the woods as Craig’s body was dropped onto the stretcher and into an isolation chamber at the rear of the lorry. She held her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, the tears flowing uncontrollably.

In a moment, he was gone. She fell to her knees and sobbed. She was alone. After a few minutes, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and blinked back the tears.  She had no one to turn to and almost jumped out of her skin when the phone vibrated in her pocket. KC had left a message:

“MAKE YOUR WAY TO GOATSMOOR LANE, BRENTWOOD.

STOP BY THE OLD WHITE TREE STUMP. I WILL COME AND GET YOU.

IT’S NOT OVER, KC.”

Cody relaxed slightly. Although the future looked very bleak, KC’s presence gave her hope. She moved further into the woods. The sun was almost directly above her, so she knew which direction to take through the mass of dense woodland and scrub; just a few miles more.

Her stomach began to rumble. The cramps were getting worse. She felt a twinge in her gut and unzipped her HV suit. She felt a slight burning sensation and looked down at her stomach. A small gastropod like lens extruded from her umbilicus, surrounded by a black rash which appeared, bubbled up and then vanished.

Copyright Phillip Miller