Mind Slip

By Len Morgan

  It was just an absent minded slip, that’s what it was!   Instead of turning right out of the car park, and heading into the centre of Lakeside, I drove straight on past the neon shop signs, into an area I had not visited before.

  I glanced at my watch, it was 17:15hrs.  I was almost an hour early for my appointment and didn't want to appear too eager, so I decided to look around.   Ahead of me, I saw a tall innocuous grey granite building faced with two high smoked glass windows taller and wider than two men standing on the shoulders of a third - at least twenty feet by twenty – how could curved glass be moulded and transported in such dimensions I wondered?   Between them a matching pair of sliding glass doors of similar dimensions waited, closed but inviting, and to the left hung a small sign.   Since I had come so far out of my way I thought I might as well take advantage of the slip, and investigate.

So, I parked my car and headed towards the building.   Closer in I saw the sign read ‘TERMINUS2010’ a few steps further, and I could see shadows moving beyond the smoked glass.   Closer still I could distinctly see groups of people all moving with purpose.

One group dressed in sombre serviceable garb rose, as one, when I entered through the doorway.   Other figures reposed in easy chairs, singly, in two’s and three’s.   Then I saw a larger group moving away from me wearing pale pastel linen clothing.   A third group adorned with studded leather and furs, shod in high laced leather sandals, appearing to be conversing but all I heard were clicks, pops, and whistles, accompanied by highly demonstrative wide arm movements. 

At my approach, all talk ceased, as if somebody had hit a mute button.   None glanced at me directly, but I had the distinct impression I was being observed; an object of silent contemplation. 

At the far end of the high ceilinged hallway, one of a row of ten oversized black gunmetal lift doors opened.   A group of very tall impossibly thin beings, in long black hooded robes, entered the hall through the portal.   Their faces were veiled against casual inspection.  Their guttural speech was alien to me, a language I had never heard before and doubt I shall ever hear again.   Their faces may have been covered but their eyes were florescent violet with flashes of lavender, blues and greens.   Wisps of red yellow and orange Medusan hair peeked out, from beneath their hoods with sensuous serpentine undulations.  I averted my gaze at the thought...  All talk ceased as if someone had called a telepathic command.

  Though I saw nothing untoward in their demeanour, it changed subtly.   I had the strangest precognition of hostility.  Of not being welcome.  As if I’d entered a Freemasons meeting uninvited.  I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck, I sensed fear and panic welling up inside me, coupled with an irresistible urge to be gone.  I was fighting to stay calm when the aroma assailed my olfactory senses, a foetid scent accompanied by a malevolent buzzing that seemed to emanate from inside my skull, its intensity increased by the moment.  I turned and fled without looking back.

My car was in gear and moving before I realised the buzzing had stopped.   Only then did I venture a furtive glance over my shoulder.   Everything seemed normal, nobody was following me, and I began to feel a little foolish about the whole incident.  All the neon signs were now switched off.  

I glanced at the clock in my car.  I really didn’t have time for exploration anyway, it was 18:40hrs, and I was late for my appointment!  All because of that stupid mind slip.

.-…-.

Saturday morning I sat down to watch the Arsenal v Chelsea match.

"Don't get too engrossed in that, you can watch the highlights at ten-thirty tonight," my wife said.  "I want to see the fashion show in aid of the ‘TERMINUS2010 charity’ being held at Lakeside this afternoon." She switched channels...

We watched eight minutes of adverts, then an announcer appeared:

"We regret to announce The Terminus2010 Fashion extravaganza scheduled for this afternoon has been postponed because of an electrical malfunction yesterday evening.   Sound equipment overloaded shorting out the lighting system and caused damage to a vital control console.  Replacement units are on their way from Paris and will arrive later today.   The show has been rescheduled for ten-thirty tonight, in place of the football highlights..."

"Well," I said, switching the channel, "2 : 0?   We've scored two and I missed it because of a bloody postponed fashion show, and I won't even get to see the highlights.   I could have gone down to the pub and watched it on the big screen..."  I looked closer at the time clock on the TV, seventy-five minutes played, I looked at my watch, 3:15hrs.   "Did they start early?"

June looked at my watch, "You daft bugger, the clocks went forward an hour last Sunday (BST) daylight saving!   It's 4:15hrs now."

"Just a minute," I said.   "the clock in the car is showing the correct time, I listened to the 9 o'clock news on my way home last night."

"I updated the car clock on Sunday when I went shopping." Junes smile was a bit too wide for my liking.

 'So, I ran away from a fashion show rehearsal...' I thought.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

SEEING THE LIGHT 

By Peter Woodgate 

Brad opened the gate to the chicken enclosure and gasped in despair, there were feathers everywhere. He immediately had a headcount, “one missing, now that’s odd” Brad thought. “Can’t be a fox, they normally slaughter everything in sight even though they don’t take them.”

    Brad’s mind was working overtime as he let the remaining chickens out into the field and began to search for the entry point. He found it almost at once. A narrow funnel had been scooped out under the wire in the right-hand corner, reminiscent of a POW break-out in reverse.

    “I thought I’d buried the wire deeper than that,” he mumbled to himself, as he studied the size and shape of the funnel that had breached his defence's.

    After concluding that it must have been a fox, Brad began collecting the eggs from the boxes noting fewer than normal had been laid and, guessing that the night’s disturbance was the reason, made his way back to the cottage.

 

    He swung open the door and entered the kitchen, “bloody fox got one of the hens last night Kate.” Brad was about to expand on the situation but was stopped by the aroma and sound of breakfast sizzling in the pan.

    Brad and Kate had retired to their cottage two years previously and began living the life of their dreams. They had moved away from the hustle and bustle of town life buying the charming two-bedroom cottage which was sited in one and a half acres.

    A small area had been laid to garden the remainder consisting of, a large field, where the chickens roamed freely, a small, wooded area which, Brad knew, contained a badger sett and a pond with resident wild water birds. As well as the chicken's Brad and Kate kept two cats and a dog. The cats had moved with them from the townhouse but the dog, Butch, had only been acquired after they retired.

Brad had always insisted that a dog, like children, needed constant attention and Butch was now “one pampered pooch.”

    Brad sat down at the table and Kate brought over his breakfast. He knew that it wasn’t particularly healthy, but Brad loved his “full English.” They were few and far between when he was working but now he had plenty of time and as he looked at the plate containing, eggs, sausage, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and fried bread the morning’s disappointment faded away.

    “You will just have to make it stronger darling,” Kate suggested as she handed Brad a steaming cup of tea. “I’m sure you will find a way of keeping the foxes out,” she added supportively.

    Brad had almost finished his breakfast when he felt his knee being nudged. He looked down to see Butch staring up at him waiting patiently for a morsel of sausage or bacon. “You don’t deserve this,” Brad spoke begrudgingly as he slipped him his last piece of sausage, “you're supposed to be a guard dog letting me know of any disturbances.” Butch gave his master a quizzical look as Kate spoke in his defence.

    “If you hadn’t been snoring so loudly you may well have heard him, he did bark in the night, but I did not wake you up because you get so grumpy. I guessed it was some creature or another and didn’t think it that important, so blame me if you have to.”

    Brad gave Butch a pat on the head, “come on mate we have work to do, sorry I doubted you.”

After loading his wheelbarrow with some tools, wood and a roll of wire Brad, with Butch in tow, made his way to the chicken enclosure. Some two hours later he sat down and mopped his brow.

“ Well, Butch, me old mate let’s see if the buggers can get through that!” Brad felt rather pleased with himself as he made his way back to the cottage.

“Must be time for lunch soon,” he patted Butch on the head as he spoke, “don’t know about you but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

    The following morning Brad made his way to the chicken enclosure expecting to find everything in order. He swore in disbelief as he again found scattered feathers and, on a quick count, found that another chicken was missing. On this occasion, however, the point of entry was not difficult to find. He had made sure that the base of the perimeter fence was buried deep but forgot about the wooden entrance gate. The thief had literally walked through, well tunnelled under, the front door.

    Brad was furious, the fox, assuming it was a fox, was making him look silly and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

That evening Brad went down to the pub, it wasn’t so much the beer he needed as the advice he knew he could get from the locals. It was not a place he visited often but he had made some good friends there even though they referred to Brad as “The Townie.”

    It was still early as Brad entered the “Dog and Partridge” but he knew that Tom would be there. Tom was always there, early or late, Monday to Sunday, “I have nothing to go home for,” he would say.

Since the death of his wife, Tom had made the Dog and Partridge, his extended home and spent most of the pub’s opening hours sitting at the bar. The landlord was quite happy that Tom spent a lot of time there as he never drank to excess and merely socialised, drinking little but talking a lot.

    Brad got on well with Tom and knew he would help in a crisis, and this was getting into crisis proportions.            

“Evening Brad,” Tom looked up as he entered. “Haven’t seen you for days, would you like a pint?”

“No let me buy you one,” Brad replied, “need a bit of advice, got a small problem.”

“Well I’m all for helping out when I can,” Tom got up from his seat at the bar, “fire away Brad.”

Brad felt a bit awkward as he started to explain the problem he had with something killing his chickens. 

“I think it’s a fox but can’t be sure, I’ve been told that foxes always kill more than they eat. What’s more,” Brad continued, “how do I stop the buggers getting in?”

Tom laughed as he replied. “Stopping them is easy Brad, you just bloody shoot them, locating em, well that requires a bit of patience.” 

Tom then began explaining to Brad how he would need to lay in wait for whatever was pilfering his poultry.

“You will need to make sure you are down-wind, do you know from which direction the bleeder comes?”

“Not sure,” Brad replied, “but it’s probably from the wooded area.”

“OK,” Tom was getting excited, “Why don’t I come over tomorrow night and give you a hand, don’t worry about the gun I’ll bring that, just make sure you have a decent torch, wouldn’t want to shoot a poacher now would we.”

Brad laughed, “Thanks Tom see you tomorrow night.” He turned to leave but had a sudden thought, “Tell you what, why don’t you come over earlier and have a bite to eat before we tackle the situation.”

“Now that sounds like a good idea,” Tom had a broad grin on his face, “make sure you tell your misses though.”

    It was about 6pm when Tom walked up the neat path leading to Brad’s cottage. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and Brad stood there smiling.

“Saw you coming mate,” Brad ushered Tom inside where the smell of roast chicken greeted his arrival

 “Not one of yours is it?” Tom had a concerned look on his face.

“No Tom, we couldn’t do that, all our birds are extended family, you can tuck in assured that it is one we bought from the supermarket.”

Tom laughed as he walked into the kitchen where the table had been laid ready.

“Evening Tom,” Kate greeted him as he came in, “would you like a drink with your dinner?” 

    Tom asked for a small glass of wine as he sat down opposite Brad. Kate served the meal and they chatted merrily as the food was consumed with relish. When they had finished Tom thanked Kate making her blush as he complimented her on an excellent dinner,

    “Oh get away,” Kate felt embarrassed as she started to clear the table, “you know you are always welcome, besides you have work to do don’t you.”

    Brad and Tom made their way to the chicken enclosure where, after assessing the wind’s direction, made themselves comfortable behind a clump of bushes some fifty yards from the edge of the wood. It was September and the light was beginning to fade, it was getting a mite chilly too but they had made provision for this by way of overcoats. Brad had also slipped a hip flask, full of whisky, into his pocket. Tom had brought his shotgun, as promised, and Brad had sought out the most powerful torch he could lay his hands on. He had also brought some night vision binoculars and they were ready, it would seem, to tackle the unknown night visitor. 

    The wood was now barely visible as Brad, thinking he saw some movement, grabbed the binoculars and peered through the lenses. He was not mistaken; a shadowy form moved cautiously from the trees its eyes being lit, briefly, by a shaft of moonlight that had escaped via a chink in the clouds.

Brad nudged Tom and handed him the binoculars pointing towards the woods as he did so. Tom looked briefly then gave Brad the thumbs up handing him the gun.

It had been agreed that Brad would be the one to pull the trigger; after all, they were his chickens. He took the gun from Tom handing him the torch in return, both, then waited with bated breath.  

    Tom was holding the binoculars to his eyes in one hand whilst holding the torch in the other knowing that the intruder would have to pass within about thirty feet of where they lay hidden, both were ready to spring into action. 

    At first, the intruder stood there nervously, turning its head from side to side.

Suddenly it was on the move treading carefully en route to the chicken coup. Brad stiffened as the creature reached the point closest to where they lay hidden. A beam of light enveloped the chicken thief, sure enough, there it was, a beautiful fox.

    It looked back in the direction where Brad was hiding, showing its large gleaming eyes. It just stood there staring at Brad who had the gun ready to fire. Brad froze, the eyes of the fox seeming to pull him into a vortex of doubt. 

Did he really want to kill this beautiful creature? It was only trying to live. 

Did he have the right to decide who would live or die? What if there were cubs in the Den.

Was there someone out there ready to kill him?  He had eaten chicken that evening too. 

His head was spinning as the eyes of the fox became galaxies in the universe of despair that now enveloped his conscience. “Stop it,” he shouted, as he threw down the gun clasping his hands to his head, “stop it.” 

   Suddenly, Brad was aware of someone shaking him by the shoulders. “Are you OK mate?” He looked round to see Tom staring at him. “It wasn’t my fault,” Tom sounded frustrated, “the bloody torch didn’t come on, must be a dodgy connection, never mind we will get the bugger next time.” 

    Brad stared out to where the fox had stood. Darkness now enveloped the area. Further out beyond the darkness a shadow loped back to the woods, stood on two legs, then disappeared in a flash of light. 

    Tom pulled Brad to his feet, “let’s go for a pint,” he said wearily, “I’m cold and thirsty.” 

    As they made their way to the Dog And Partridge, Brad knew, somehow, that his life had changed forever.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

THE END OF HOPE

The End of Hope 

by Richard Banks

Carla stared intently at the two young housemen preparing to give Geoff another injection. She could see in their faces that something was wrong.

         “I can’t raise a vein,” the younger one whispered. The other man took over, rubbing and prodding Geoff’s arm, tensely aware that his patient was shaking with pain. Geoff regarded the housemen with suspicion bordering on hostility. His comprehension was clouded by drugs and lack of sleep. He knew not what they were doing, he only wanted them to stop. “Leave me!” he shouted. “I don’t want to go on like this. Let me die.”      

      She tried to find the words that would calm him, convince him that despite the months of pain there was still hope. Hang on there, she thought, but the expression sounded trite, like something out of a TV drama. This was real life and nothing she could say seemed adequate or useful. The younger houseman and a nurse held Geoff steady on the bed while the older man continued to search for a usable vein. There had been many injections, too many. He was quiet now, acquiescent, grimly aware that they weren’t going to stop, and that he couldn’t make them.

      “Got it.” The older houseman inserted the syringe and attempted to say something reassuring, something that suggested that this was mere routine, that he was calm, in control. A trickle of perspiration fell from his forehead onto the pillow below.

      Geoff groaned but began to breath more easily. For an hour, maybe two, he would be free of pain; a chance to sleep, to dream that he was somewhere else: at home, the office, anywhere but here. His eyes closed and he began to sleep. 

     The houseman signed for the morphine used and added a few more lines to the patient record. He glanced towards Carla, anxiously anticipating the questions she would ask, sharp, perceptive questions that cut through his equivocation, questions impatient of uncertainty and ambiguity. What would he say if she asked, as she did, about the odds, “50/50 doctor, more, or less?” 

     He was not a betting man, but he knew that the odds on Geoff surviving were considerably less than even. Despite the chemotherapy, the tumour was growing, out of control. Carla was silent, staring grim-faced at Geoff sleeping. Poor woman, he thought, she looks exhausted.

     “Have you any questions?” he heard himself asking. She seemed lost in thought. He asked the question again, half hoping that if she said nothing he would be able to leave the bad news to another day. He was about to go when Carla redirected her gaze towards him.

     “It’s not good, doctor, is it?”

     “No, Mrs Cole, I’m afraid it’s not.” He showed her the x-ray that had been taken that day. “There were,” he said, “certain negative developments.”

     She asked to see the x-ray taken the previous week and compared the two. “So, it’s less than 50/50 doctor?”

    The houseman hesitated. It was late in the evening. Everyone was tired. It wasn’t a good time, but there was never going to be a good time. He had to say something. “I’m afraid it’s less than 50/50.”

     “40/60?” she asked.

     He tried to explain, as gently as he could, that he was a doctor, not a bookmaker and that medicine was not an exact science.

      “Just tell me, doctor. I need to know.”  

      He took a deep breath and considered what he should say. He would need the right words, but he didn’t have them. Cut to the chase, he thought, she’s seen the x-rays. Cut to the chase. Tell her the cancer has spread, that there’s no hope of recovery.

      She took the news calmly, without obvious emotion. With every reverse, she had dared to keep hoping, finding positives in every negative development, but she wasn’t silly or blind; she knew the look of a dying man, she had seen it before. “How long?” she asked.

      “Difficult to say, It could be days, maybe weeks. We will keep him as pain free as we can. Otherwise, there is nothing more we can do. I’m sorry.”

      She said, “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure why she said thank you. Thank you for what? For trying? She couldn’t fault them for that.

     The houseman asked if she had any further questions. She said no, she just wanted some time alone with Geoff, the questions could wait until tomorrow.

     The housemen and the nurse withdrew. There was a whispered conversation outside the door of the small room. The nurse reappeared briefly to ask Carla if she wanted to see the hospital counsellor. She replied that she had seen him once and that once was enough. She preferred a cup of tea and would make it herself. The nurse rejoined the housemen in the corridor. A few moments later they could be heard departing for the staff room. A door opened and shut, and there was silence.         

      Carla closed her eyes and tried to clear her head of all the redundant arguments she had previously considered and dismissed. This was not a time for thinking. She had done that, so had Geoff. All that remained was for her to do what they had agreed; this was no time for tears and strong emotions, she must be strong. For the next few minutes, she must think only of the plan. First, she must secure the door with the chair she was sitting on. She carried it across the floor and carefully wedged it between floor and door handle. That done, she drew the curtain over the adjacent window, re-crossed the room towards her handbag and took out Geoff’s revolver. She remembered his instructions, take off the safety catch, use both hands, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it, fire at point-blank range. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and then with a groan lowered the gun to her side. She must be mad, she thought. Either that or stupid. What was the use of a gun without bullets?

      She reached for her bag and extracted the box within. She inserted the first bullet, dropped the next and watched it roll off the bed onto the floor. Her hands were trembling now. Outside, in the corridor, she could hear a trolley being wheeled along. As it passed, she pushed a second bullet into the gun and then another. Three more and it was done. She told herself to be calm, that it would soon be over. She pushed the muzzle gently against his head, whispered she loved him and squeezed the trigger. Two doors down the corridor the nurse screamed and a male voice shouted an obscenity. In a few seconds, they would be at the door. Her only regret was for them, for what they would find. For her, the worst was over. She levelled the gun against her own head, knowing that she must not miss, that she could not miss.

Copyright Richard Banks

 

THE PASSING

By Peter Woodgate 

Whilst tidying some garden pots

on the morning of my birthday

I disturbed a male blackbird

but he didn’t fly away.

 

He hopped a mere two feet from me

and stood upon a boulder,

studying me he didn’t flinch

he couldn’t have been much bolder.

 

I thought, at first, he must be hurt

my hand reached out to test,

he shifted, slightly, showing me

no damage tail to chest

 

he was fully grown, no doubts,

no frail chick was he,

and yet he showed the symptoms

of young’s naivety.

 

I then moved on to other pots

and thought I’d let him be,

an hour later, as I passed,

I could clearly see.

 

He was still standing on the rock

Sunbathing, so I thought,

yet deep inside my mind, it seemed  

things were not as ought.

 

I then forgot him for a while

and supped my birthday drink,

then curiosity returned

and I began to think.

 

I wondered if he was still there,

I looked and then dismay,

he lay prone upon the ground

for he had passed away.

 

Of course, I’ve seen dead birds before

killed by cars and cats,

piles of feathers on the lawn

the work of “dirty rats.”

 

But this was somewhat different

never again would this bird sing

I’d spent some final hours with him

yet failed to hold his wing.

 

It set me wondering 

and made me sigh,

do birds, like elephants,

choose where to die?    

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Black Room

The Black Room ~ (silent in solitary)

By Len Morgan

    During the Korean War the Chinese developed a method of interrogation that made prisoners susceptible to suggestion, and more willing to communicate generally. They called it ‘HSI NAO’ (wash brain). They discovered that just 5% of prisoners had leadership qualities.   If they could be identified and segregated, from the other 95%, the latter could be left unguarded, and would be unlikely to attempt escape. If the selected 5% were then placed in a room that was permanently lit, and soundproofed day and night. In just a few days they could be softened up sufficiently to become co-operative, and susceptible to indoctrination.

   During the 1960’s, the Canadian defence board set up a ‘Black Room' at McGill University in Montreal.   It was soundproofed, and kept in permanent darkness, with the object of investigating the phenomenon of sensory deprivation.  Princeton University, USA, also built a ‘Black Room’, it containing a bed, toilet, and food store.   It was found that most volunteers who entered the room quickly fell asleep; forty to fifty hours of sleep was not uncommon.

  When they were released, minor illnesses, coughs, colds, and rashes were found to have cleared up.   Smokers, alcoholics, and drug users found that they experienced no cravings during their stay.   This was attributed to the alien environment, and sensory deprivation; conditions that do not exist anywhere else, except perhaps in space, conditions so strange that old habits simply failed to register. 

Although the room was soundproofed, many subjects found they could hear a high pitched whine and a low rumbling sound.  On further investigation, the whine was found to emanate from their nervous system, and the rumble was the sound of blood pulsing around their body.

  Apparently, less intelligent people could stay in the room far longer than those with higher IQ’s.  Intelligent people were far more likely to hit the panic button, sometimes in as little as ten minutes, after waking up.   Student volunteers described their experiences as follows:  For the first few hours you could think clearer, without distractions, the mind goes into overdrive running wild with ideas.   But, then you find it grinds on and on and cannot be switched off.   You’re not physically tired, you’ve just slept for forty-plus hours, at which stage panic sets in, you have acute insomnia, you start to itch, you scratch and it moves to another location, the room seems to be getting warmer…   You can understand that after a few hours without cessation anybody would become susceptible to a few carefully scripted words, from a friendly voice.   A kindly interrogator, soothing and assuring, would make you eager to talk, and share your secrets; you might want to share just to maintain contact with, somebody, anybody.   Conversely, you would become a sponge, ready and eager to soak up any information or new ideas fed to you.  Students reported that a spell in that room prior to exams concentrated the mind wonderfully.

  Curiously animals don’t seem to mind the ‘Black Room’ they will stay in there indefinitely, without ill effect; they just eat, sleep, and defecate.

Further investigation of the ‘Black Room’ revealed the following conclusions:

It had the ability to accelerate the cure of minor ailments; illnesses that normally take days to clear up were cured in a matter of hours in that room.   It has been suggested that it could prove an effective means of treating and curing neuroses.  In responsible hands, it could prove to be a wonderful tool for good.

   I heard of the ‘Black Room’ in the 1980’s but I’ve heard nothing since, suggesting it was either a blind alley or proved very effective; I’ll let you ponder on that. 

  In the meantime, if anybody can shed any further light on its demise I would be very interested.

 

Len Morgan 22/11/2005

 

Cold pasty

By Phillip Miller

Stuart was a rather large fellow. He had lost most of his teeth and his hair looked like it was in a permanent state of shock. He resembled that crazy one from “The Hair Bear Bunch”; it looked like some demon was continuously messing his hair up, throughout the day, just for a laugh.

He lived in a five bedroomed council house in one of the smelliest and most notorious roads in East London. It was a perfect breeding ground for an apprenticeship in gang warfare or how to become an expert rodentologist; rats everywhere; not surprising, considering the garden backed onto the biggest waste disposal depot in Newham.

His wife was very large; larger than him. They had nine children. I asked him one day if he was going to have any more children.

“No.”

“Have you had the chop?”

“No.”

“Is she too old now?”

“No.”

“That’s what happens I suppose.”

“What?”

“You know. You both get on in years and that sort of thing falls by the wayside, ay? The passion goes.”

His eyes started to roll. They were red raw like he hadn’t slept in a week.

He said, “to be honest, I got home last night from work and three of my kids opened the door, giggling. The missus shouted down the stairs ‘who is it?’ I looked up and got the shock of my life.

“Was she with another man?”

“No, she was in her birthday suit which, I can assure you, is not a pretty sight.”

He grinned from ear to ear, exposing the one front tooth he had left in his head, before pulling from his pocket, and munching on, a cold pasty that he had started the night before.

We arrived at the building site to start our contract and made our way to the canteen to wait for instructions. When the fried breakfasts turned up the food was literally swimming in oil. Bacon still had hairs on it, sausages burnt, eggs broke and toast and beans cold. Tea was nice and hot though; every cloud, ay. All four of us started to talk about the day ahead and after about 10 minutes Stuart’s eyes rolled again, but this time his head dropped and the side of his face slammed into his breakfast. I shouted for help and went to get up but felt a tug on my arm.

“Sit down, he’s ok,” said my boss, who happened to be Stuart’s oldest friend.

“He’s gonna die. That won’t look good on his death certificate- death by drowning in a plate of fat.”

“It's all right. He’ll wake up in a minute. Another cuppa anyone?”

Stuart came too 10 minutes later, and began wiping the leftover egg, bean sauce and fat from his face.

He added another four sugars to his cold coffee ( so eight sugars in total ) and lit a cigarette.

He could see I was slightly alarmed.

My boss said, “you been selling your pills again, up the West End?”

“Yeah! Fiver each,” said Stuart, grinning, eyes almost shut.

I said, “what pills?”

“I’m narcoleptic. I need the pills to keep me awake. They are amphetamine, better than blues. You want some. Do you a deal, matey boy.”

I told him I don’t do drugs.

“Your loss. Never mind. Back up the West End tonight.”

“Why don’t you just take the pills?”

“Nine kids and a wife to feed, that’s why. They all need shoes, clothes and stuff for school.”

“Have the chop mate.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“We are Catholic.”

“Try doing it standing up then.”

“I can’t do it standing up or laying down and I certainly don’t want her dunking up and down on my totem pole. She’ll do me an injury.”

“How did you manage nine kids then?”

“Normally happens when we go on holiday to my mate’s caravan in Clacton.”

“What do you mean?”

“She bends over in front of the oven, I’ve had a few too many, and in it pops. Quick as apple crumble really.”

“I think you better give up caravanning mate.”

“I think I better give up apple crumble.”

We all roared with laughter.

Two months later I found out that Stuart had died. He had been doing some electrical work on the side. Everybody thought that the tiredness killed him. It didn’t. He was colour blind.

Copyright Phillip Miller

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Books I’ve read No. 2

 

Books I’ve read  02

Jane Skoggins

A book I have recently enjoyed and recommend. 

THE CLEANER OF CHARTRES by Salley Vickers.