The Earring

By Janet Baldey

It’s just a cheap enamel earring.   An orange flower on a thin chain, but it’s pretty and when it had its mate, it was her favourite.   The second her eyes open it’s the first things she sees, glowing like polished copper against the grey morning light and looking lonely, hanging on a hook all by itself.  A sole earring is no use to anyone of course, and she should throw it out but she can’t bring herself to do that.   To her, it’s a symbol.  It reminds her of the joy of love and the pain of loss but also of hope and when that goes perhaps despair will take its place.

         It was a leaden, late January Wednesday, outside, the clouds spat rain and the windows were decorated with pearly beads.   But it was cosy in his bed, where they’d spent most of the afternoon.  Underneath the duvet she’d melted into him, her troubles forgotten, lost in the release only he could give her.  At last, all passion spent, he’d lifted his body and kneeled beside her.  His face was flushed, his eyes were tender and her heart throbbed with happiness as he grinned and winked.

         ‘Tea Madam?’

 With one swift movement he jumped out of bed,  his pale buttocks gleaming as he padded out of the bedroom door and ran, stark naked, down the stairs.  With a sigh, she stretched like a cat, luxuriating as she listened to him talking to himself.  It was a habit of his and she knew he was already composing phrases inside his head.

 

         As she dressed, she wondered where they’d spend the evening.  It always varied. If he had a deadline, they’d both write, he, on his article and she, on her novel.   Separate but together, they would compare notes afterwards, reading their work out loud.   If feeling flush, he might take her out for a meal.  The White Horse was their favourite and maybe their special table would be free.   Tucked into an alcove it was both secluded and with a wide view of the restaurant so they could see without being seen.  Or maybe, they’d go to another pub where, upstairs in a room watched over by skeletons, they’d mingle with like minded friends.     

It was only later, back home and getting ready for bed that she noticed her earring was missing.   With a small hiss of annoyance she searched her clothes and then the floor but all she found was dust.   She cast her mind back, she couldn’t quite remember but was sure she’d been wearing both of them when they’d made love earlier on.    

The next day, she sent him a message.   ‘Lost my earring – is it with you?’   

‘Got it’ was the reply ‘It’s by the side of my bed.   You’re going to have to come and get it!’      

The bald type was no disguise and innuendo shone through the words.     

   But soon afterwards, her circumstances changed and their magic Wednesdays vanished like sun vaporised morning mist.  Now, they could manage only a few snatched meetings, unsatisfying to both and she sensed a rift widening. She knew his reputation.  He’d made no secret of it and on first counting up the numbers, she’d gasped.  

‘My god!  You go through women like a knife through butter – I didn’t realise you were such a love rat!’ 

‘I’m not.  Not really. I’m more of a love hamster.’  

 She’d laughed then, but at the time she hadn’t realised that hamsters have such very sharp teeth.   As the years passed she’d grown complacent, thinking that each one strengthened their bond, but ever so gradually, the text messages dwindled.   At last, goaded by insecurity, she asked the question. 

‘Do you want to end it?’   She was certain of the answer.  It would be, as it had been so many times before,     

‘Oh, God…no.’     

Instead, he sat slumped in his chair, staring at the floor and afterwards, she wished for a knife to cut out her tongue. 

‘You do, don’t you?’       

The brittle silence that followed was broken by a harsh sound coming from her own throat.     

‘Is there someone else?’ 

‘No’, he muttered, ‘no, there isn’t’.  Rising, he took her in his arms and held her as tears rained down her face. 

         Just before he left, she went into the bedroom and fished out a sweater from inside a drawer.

‘Before you go, you might as well take this. And don’t forget my earring?’
        

He looked at her and for a moment his face went blank.    

‘Do I have to?  I’ll miss it.  It looks good hanging beside my bed.  Let me keep it.  I’ll buy you another pair.’     

Her heart leaped but she didn’t let it show, instead she hardened her voice.

‘Why on earth would you want it?   As a trophy?’           

‘No…no.  Never…..  I promise.’        

She stared at him, not knowing whether to believe. She remembered occasions when she’d come across a necklace, a lipstick and yet another earring that she’d found down the side of his sofa.         

‘Must be my daughter’s.’ He’d said airily when she commented on them.      

She never got her earring back, or its replacement, and over the weeks felt comforted.   She liked to think of it hanging from his lampshade, light reflecting its tangerine shadow on his wall.   Most of all, she liked to think it was a part of her and if he wanted that, maybe he might want the rest one day.

But then summer came and heat shrivelled her hope.  She learned that he’d lied.  All along, there had been another woman, an acquaintance of hers.  One free to spend more time with him.  One who gloated of her conquest, not thinking to spare her feelings.  One who thought that her heartbreak at seven lost years as a stupid pettiness.  A widow, she said ‘I’ve suffered, so why shouldn’t you?’  That was her logic. A woman she used to like but now realises is as sweet as a snake hiding amongst bluebells. 

But this woman has a lot to learn.   She thinks she knows the truth but she has only scratched the surface.  It takes seven years to delve deep. Why, she probably believes it when he tells her she is the love of his life.             

People can only take so much.  Little by little fragile layers of dried tears are sealing the wound in her heart.  And as love creeps out of the window, realisation crawls through the door. In the days when they told each other everything, she learned of his childhood and suddenly everything is clear.   The fault doesn’t lie with her.  Its roots go deeper. All his life his affairs have been a quest for the love that should have been his birthright. 

Understanding that, she’s ready to ask for her earring again and when it arrives, not openly but pushed through her letterbox in stealth, she’ll marry it with its mate, lock it in a box and throw the past away.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey    

 My Town Lyrics

By Len Morgan

It's my town, I'm not leaving 
least not while I'm still grieving. 
Here we grew our hair, 
learned to laugh and swim, 
Here we fell in love, 
then fell out again.

Warm fit lasses and brave lads, 
watch them turn into Mums and Dads 
where's the corner shop, 
the beat cop we knew, 
Here so much has changed 
those ten years, just flew.

But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

Can't see where it's all leading, 
looking back and remembering 
The dark winter years 
when we all caught cold. 
I can see it now, 
play by play unfold

But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

Time's a thief and it's stealing, 
all of those things I believe in 
All the mills are gone, 
friends, I see not one, 
sure as night meets day, 
seasons go that way.

(Refrain): 
But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

I'm not finished with the chorus, it still doesn't seem right to me. My story has a man looking around and realising that everything has changed; through time. It doesn't seem like his town any more, he wants to know where all the old familiar places and people have gone. I need to incorporate that sense of change/loss into the refrain. Still a work in progress...

 

 Pocket-Money

By Len Morgan

"In my experience, ‘spending money’ is a habit. I didn't get pocket money until I was eleven."

"That was in the old days pop... How much did you get?"
"I got a shilling a week. I spent 6 pence on sweets, and saved the rest."

"So how much was a shilling?"
"There were 12 pence in a shilling, and twenty shillings in a pound. A shilling was the equivalent of 5 new pence. When decimalisation happened in Feb 1971; for ages we would convert the new 'Mickey Mouse Money' back into real money. So, 35p was 7 shillings (84 old pence), 240 old pence = 100 new pence. So, (35x240)/100 = 84. Pretty soon we could do the conversion in our heads. Then after a while, we stopped converting altogether."

"Never mind the History & maths pop, will you increase my pocket-money to £10 or not? All my friends get a tenner, £8 is a joke they laugh at me when I tell them what you give me."

"Well kiddo, that is more than I can afford, I was thinking of reducing it to £5..."

"You can't do that! I'm your Granddaughter, your responsibility, Dad gives me £10, Mum gives me £10..."

"Then you're getting more pocket money than I am. Grandma only gives me £25 and I give you £8 leaving me £17 a week, so In future, I'll give you £5..."

"Tosser! I need £10!"

"Show a little respect, you ungrateful wretch! Why don’t you ask your other Grandfather?"

"He won't give me any; he says I get too much already."

"He may have a point there. Keep on and you'll talk yourself out of a fiver."

"That's unreal…  Dad!  Daaad?”

“He left when you called me a tosser!  Shame comes to mind.  He got £1:50 a week from the age of ten, and he never once demanded more.  I think you need to brush up on your negotiating skills.  You just lost at least £8 a week; maybe more...

 

Copyright Len Morgan

The Life Song (without a tune)

 Life Song.

By Bootsy & Len Morgan

(Slow refrain)

Life isn't always what it seems, black & white are shades of grey.

Things may turn out alright in dreams, but in life they go astray.

well I've been hurt myself I've known, Heartache pain n misery,

But you'll earn credit in your name, in the book of life you'll see.

 

(Body of the song ~ fast)

Cos life is just an endless game

over n over it's played the same.

For some it goes fast, others slow,

but Death; Is the final curtain call.

As time goes by, day by day,

we all exist as in a play.

the acts the motions n the scenes,

so fragile like crystal dreams.

 

But, when in a million pieces they break.

you find yourself alive and awake.

alone and naked on the stage,

only to die;  at the turn of a page.

 

When in a million pieces they fragmentate.

you find yourself alive and awake.

alone and naked on a stage,

only to die... at the turn of a page...

PTO!

Copyright Bootsy & Len Morgan

 (Song without a tune)

Abbalar tales ~ 30

 Abbalar tales ~ 30 Confrontation

By Len Morgan

'So little brother what have you been doing since our father returned to the wheel,' Paveil asked.

'Nothing of any moment' said Aldor.

'Do you mind if I look for myself,' he asked?

 'You're in my mind, so feel free...'

Paveil watched the climb to Eldoriel’s chambers, watched Genna rescue him, then his storytelling period in Mandrell, the chase to Ordens pillars, his fight with Skaa, and finally his return to Corvalen.

'Something is missing,' he accused.

'How I was changed?   I swore not to reveal that to a living soul, honour forbids me to speak of it or open my mind to the subject,' he said answering his own question.

'I must respect your oath, but that does not prevent me from speculating,' said Paveil, I'll warrant it has something to do with that strange mountain configuration, Orden's Pillars?   It's an area of volcanic activity don’t you know?  Yet, I've never met a single person who has been up there until now; doesn't that strike you as odd?   I think for that reason alone it will warrant further investigation at a later date.  One day, mayhap when time allows' he smiled.

'Does that mean you are going to become Regent?'

'I am by your leave, but first I need to establish contact with some people who can arrange matters and spread the good word.   I, we still have to make good our escape from this place.'

'Most of the guard, the sergeant and the captain included, are disquieted by Faziel's erratic and irrational behaviour of late.   But, they are loyal Corvalens and would not question the undisputed Regent.   If however, he should cease to be the only credible contender for the Caliphate, they would not be slow to re-appraise their allegiance.   Give me the names of those you would contact and I will ensure they are gathered for my execution.' 

.-…-. 

Asba Dylon and other revisionists within his cell worked tirelessly.   Each made contact with another cell not known to his or her fellows, and so the news spread like wildfire throughout the long day.   As the sun edged imperceptibly towards the horizon, the crowd gathered expectantly and the street vendors did brisk trade.  

The sergeant led out his hand-picked guard flanking the tall condemned man, dressed in the traditional black cape and cowl.   The silent crowd gathering in the square outside the palace was many times larger than would normally be expected for the death of a common felon.   The pageant would unfold in the open area immediately before the Porticoed palace, which separated the crowd from the dignitaries.  A flight of overlarge stone steps further distanced the crowd.   Even after countless centuries of use, incredibly, the steps still showed little sign of wear.   Close to the edge of the steps, and in full view of all, stood a large unadorned wooden block.

The Regents personal guard marched into view, from between the fluted columns, led by the Regents champion Kaffeit.   The square had been packed, far beyond its capacity, for an hour prior to the arrival of Fazeil, his retainers, wives and children.   On their right flank stood Jazim and her retinue.   Finally, Kattex, the axe of Corvalen was trooped out and ceremonially unsheathed, to the hushing murmurs of the crowd.   The mirror bright blade captured the oblique rays of the setting sun, spontaneously bursting into flame, burning with an inner fire.   A great collective cry escaped from the crowd, they would have blood.

The 'Supreme Arbiter' of Corvalen stepped forth.   He stood resplendent in his ceremonial robes topped off with the black skull cap and his staff of office.   He tapped the base of his six foot steel-tipped staff on a certain hollow stone, the only one showing any signs of wear and the sound reverberated around the square.  

"Silence!" he yelled.  

The crowd settled into a charged expectant hush.

"We are gathered, to carry out sentence duly passed on the felon know as Aldor – duly tried and convicted of murder - by a jury of Freemen residents of the city of Corvalen..."

The expectant crowd murmured.  As they quietened a voice from amongst them cried, "By whom?"

"Tried & convicted…" the arbiter continued, ignored the interruption and, attempted to continue.

"Name the Freemen who sat on the jury and the counsellor who acted in his defence!"  The voice in the crowd demanded.

"Tried & Con…" the supreme arbiter attempted a third time.

"I have the names and sworn testimony of twenty eyewitnesses, to the incident, all stating the soldier's death was an unfortunate and tragic accident."

"Who are you?   Step forth and be recognised, and if you be acceptable, present your statements."

Asba Dylon stepped out from the crowd, a thick bundle of papers and a heavy tome of law clutched to his chest.  

"These," he said, waving the thick bundle of papers at the crowd, "are all statements from Freemen, duly witnessed and notarised.   They all maintain the man Aldor is innocent of any crime."

“Shame, shame, shame…” a chant rose from the crowd.

"Silence!" the arbiter heeled his staff into the same worn spot four, five, six… times.   The sullen voice of the crowd lowered once more to a background hum.

"The young man was assisting me in my capacity as a counsellor of Corvalen, when a drunken oaf of a soldier launched an unprovoked attack on my person.   Aldor acted, as any responsible employee would, he came to my assistance.   When he arrived I was aground and taking a fearful beating; as my wounds will attest.  I honestly believe, had he not intervened, the lout would have killed me.   I do not for one minute believe the soldier was acting, in an official capacity, under the Regents instruction.   How could he justify beating to death the first counsellor of Corvalen?" Asba asked.   "Now as I understand it Aldor issued a challenge. It was accepted by the soldier, and according to the rules of chivalry should have been answered at dawn today, by the man himself, but for his fatal accident, so, as custom dictates he challenge should be answered by his superior.   Apparently his commander, a capt Vascelli has already been transferred to the Bycroft front.  A sudden transfer order was issued yestereve.   So according to law the challenge then passes up the chain to his commander who, because of the transfer, assumes the responsibility of answering the redress.   Do you know who that person would be sir?"

The supreme arbiter consulted briefly with his assistant.

"It seems the next in line would be the Regents’ champion, Kaffeit.   But I am given to understand this Aldor is not a native of Corvalen," he said, reading from a note handed to him by another assistant.   "Only native-born Corvalens are eligible to issue a challenge of this kind, therefore the challenge was invalid.    "It appears therefore that your man has had a lucky escape.   It seems there were indeed irregularities in his conviction, the Regent has made further enquiries and ordered that it be quashed.   He is free to go!"

"No sir!"  Said Aldor.   "I am a free-born man of Corvalen and I will not forego the challenge, or allow Kaffeit to wriggle out from under, let him present himself."

"What he says is true," Asba confirmed, would you like his credentials to be checked?"

"I was told he is from the north, an alien recent arrived.   But, if the first counsellor will confirm it, you surely do not intend this to go ahead,” the arbiter pleaded, "it would be suicide."

Neither Aldor nor Asba replied they continued to gaze at him stony-faced.

"You do realise that if you were to vanquish Kaffeit, the Regents office would be yours to proffer, so long as you nominate a brother, and not more than nine months have elapsed since the demise of their father the illustrious Caliph Endrochine. May he rest easy." He added.

"If you challenge my position as Regent, you must reveal the name of the man you champion," Fazeil said breaking his silence.

"I can name a brother, and then subsequently change my mind?" Aldor enquired.

"That is so," said the arbiter.   Asba nodded in confirmation.

"Then I name Ahlendore of Corvalen," he replied.   Even as he spoke the words he saw close advisers surreptitiously leaving the assembly, to seek out the nominee and put him to death.   They would seek in vain, but they would be out of the way for days mayhap weeks.   Which would suit Paveil’s cause?   He also liked the thought that for a few brief moments he would be the Regent designate that would be accomplishment enough.

"You fool!" Fazeil yelled triumphantly.   You do realise that if he is not already dead, you have signed his death warrant, and of course your own.   Kaffeit was able to best Ghorik, my father’s champion of some twenty years standing, with ease.   No scribbling clerk will best him.   Let the challenge stand arbiter, the scribe will die for nothing!"   He smirked in triumph.  

"I will schedule the duel for dawn tomorrow," the arbiter began...

"No sir!"  Aldor replied.   The crowd held its collective breath.   "The challenge was issued yestereve.   By the rules of combat, it must be settled before the sun sets today.   We have ten minutes of the day remaining."

"It is not possible; there are preparations to be made…"

"Do it!" Fazeil said angrily.

The crowd gasped.   The arbiter nodded silently, deprived of choice.

"Aldor pulled back his hood and, discarding the cape he, turned to face Kaffeit.   Two pairs of hard flint eyes locked in a battle of wills neither would look away until Kaffeit shook his head and drew his sword.

 

"Take your time Kaffeit's voice rasped, "ten minutes is an eternity when it's all the time you have left.   Hahaha!"

 "Make your peace with the devil, you'll soon be joining him!" Aldor answered.

"You will need this," Jazim called out to him.   Harby ran forward with Aldor’s blade.

"Kaffeit did not wait, "I don't need ten seconds to kill you, son of a whore." He yelled and came in swinging while Aldor was distracted.

"Aldor ducked easily under the flailing weapon and, for the second time in his life, he tapped his opponents most sensitive parts.

"Remember me?"  He taunted with a smile on his face and contempt in his voice, "Killer of old men and children.  Coward!" he yelled.   He would not use any enhanced powers in this battle, he knew they would not be necessary.

Kaffeit, humiliated, cried out in anger to mask his pain, his face already a prophetic rictus of death, as Aldor walked calmly over to take up his sword.   He blocked a powerful overhead cut nonchalantly producing a deep ringing knell and a shower of sparks.   Any other blade would have shattered; his instead illuminated the face of Fazeil's champion with the last dying rays of the sun.  Disengaging elegantly, he disembowelled the dazzled Kaffeit.   As the curtain of darkness descended he turned in silence and walked away.   The corpse he left kneeling on the top step, clutched its innards protectively, even in death.  

The crowd became silent, it was over...

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Everyone, Cheers!

 Everyone, Cheers! (‘Super Saturday’ approaching during Covid 19 )

By Carole Blackburn 

We cannot raise a glass or two,

I fear amidst our old friends, as I knew.

It is not granted my love, for fear,

The sprawl of this unseen,

stench less, hushed, viral killer.

As hosts it transforms us, it is no thriller.  

Ailing.

Descending.

Shifting us to stay away, until Friday.

 

In the past, oh, but the brave, dare to trudge,

One hour a day, it was, for our amusement.

This prolonged monotony was becoming translucent.

For a drought-like, brunch?

Through recreational park gates, 

For sure, with all our best mates!

To sit, to stare, to wait, for tavern times, to reinstate.

 

We all pray and yell, “This might be Heaven”

 In thought, please God finish, belay this, Hell.

Striding out, unlike week 7.

The gentle relaxing,

 of our enforced stay,

 we must try, and obey.

 

With no permission now, to ask,

to wander freely, about

is our task.

As this weekend, we are all let out!

To ‘App’ and sip and sway.

At a pub, just walk this way!

 

Now, happier hours are here.

We all need, again, in unison to hear,

“Cheers, my dear!”

 

But those others, we toast,

we wonder, are becoming, more hosts?

But bid, this killer.

Good riddance! For today,

as in the glowing brilliance,

of the taverns.

Intoxicated by our mid-year beers,

don’t approach me! For still in fear.

We guzzle, gulp and swig.

Boisterous proclamations, as we jig.

Pealing, chiming in our ears,

Cheers, everyone, Cheers!

 16^th July 2020

Copyright Carole Blackburn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 TIME ON HIS HANDS

by Richard Banks

     

Danny looked at his watch but it had stopped and no amount of prodding and shaking was going to make it work again. Other boys would have just ditched it and got their parents to buy them another one, a solar-powered one with extra functions, like a compass and thermometer. But he wasn’t like other boys, never had been, never would be, of that he was certain.

      He flipped a stone off the jetty and watched the ripples spread across the lake towards a band of shiny water that reflected the moon and the security light of the boathouse. Soon it would be day, the main road would roar with the sound of commuting traffic and the boat keeper arrive to bring in the boats from the island where they were moored. The boat keeper didn’t like feral boys who tried to break into the boathouse. He was a big man, belligerent, not a fellow to tangle with. Best to be gone before he arrived, to lay low in the wood where Shoeless, Irish and Old Jack lit fires at night and drank super strength cider. Like him, they were outcasts, no- hopers, good for nothing. Maybe that’s why he kept the watch, a reminder of better times when everything was normal, sometimes good, like things should be like it was for other boys - even then the bad times were never far away.

      He remembered that Friday, in the school holidays, when he was late back from football. Dad was angry but Mum said it wasn’t his fault, the boy didn’t have a watch, how was he to know what time it was? The routine of another row was brewing; Dad trying to lay down the law, Mum talking back, defiant, hands on hips, raising her voice as he raised his, Dad shouting, inarticulate with rage, losing the plot and Mum screaming as he lashed out.

      Danny abandoned the opening hostilities and retreated to his room where he lay on the bed reading a comic. Next door the emotional tumult of voices reached their inevitable conclusion and doors slammed, signalling that Mum had taken refuge in the flat’s other bedroom. A few minutes later the living room door opened and Dad was on his way to see if she was okay, he hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t do it again - of course, Danny could have a watch.   

      The next day Dad took him down to the jewellers in the High Street and asked the man to show him the watch in the window, the bright blue one with a picture of      Thomas the Tank Engine on the dial. “But that’s for kids in infant school,” Danny protested, “the other boys would laugh.” He needed something more grown up, with a window in it to show the day of the month. Dad was getting angry again but the man said he had just the watch, the New Trekker,  and although it was more expensive than the one in the sale it was stronger, better quality, and came with a five year guarantee. When Dad hesitated, the man, sensing that he was about to lose a sale, said he would take half the money now and the rest at the end of the month. The deal was struck and Dad paid with a crumpled ten pound note and a fistful of coins.

      On the journey home, they stopped off at the park and Dad strapped the watch to Danny’s wrist and showed him how to change the time and date. They examined the instructions together and discovered that the watch also had a light that lit up the dial and an alarm which they set for 7.30 in the morning. They hurried home to show Mum, to explain how it worked, and Mum said it was the best watch she had ever seen and that they should fill out the guarantee and send it off before something happened to it. Then Mum read the instructions and found that the watch also had a stopwatch and she set it for fifteen minutes to remind her to take the dinner out of the oven. The sun shone warmly and no one wanted the day to end.

      Two weeks later Danny was back at school and Dad was in and out of another job. There had been an argument, punches thrown and the police called to escort him from the factory. Life was back to normal; three people struggling to coexist in the unwanted togetherness of four small rooms. Mum threatening to leave but with nowhere to go. Dad affecting indifference, inwardly seething, a time bomb ticking. Danny with the golden memory of a perfect day, that made the spring days that followed seem dull and deficient. He consoled himself with the thought that he now owned a New Trekker, not a hand-me-down from the cousins or something from a charity shop; a new watch that was the envy of his school friends. Not even Barrett, who lived in the big house next to the church, had anything that good.

      Ever the pragmatist, he knew it couldn’t last. In time, maybe before the end of term, other boys would get new watches, better watches, and his unexpected rise in their esteem would be at an end. But until then he was someone, the indispensable someone who was needed to time their races and football matches, the boy who told them the minutes past the hour, the free meals boy who was now ‘one of them’. Although revelling in the novelty of his newfound popularity, he was, none-the-less, troubled by uneasy feelings that linked the outstanding balance on his watch to his father’s unemployment. What if Dad couldn’t pay? What would happen then? The answer came on the penultimate day of the month.

      He arrived home to find Dad sorting out the household bills into the usual columns: those that were the subject of a final demand requiring at least partial payment, those only one or two months overdue and others that could be safely ignored because the amounts were insufficient to warrant recovery action beyond an angry demand for payment. If the jeweller’s invoice was in the third column all was well, instead, it occupied a separate space on the dining room table, a puzzling anomaly in Dad’s system. Mum asked if he would clear the table for tea and Dad, unusually compliant, returned the bills to his box. There was an uneasy silence and Mum said that Dad had something to say. His words came slowly, in short, clumsy sentences. The watch had to go back. He had spoken to Mr Drewett, the jeweller, who was going to refund the money already paid. It was needed for other things. 

     Dad couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, it wasn’t his way. Neither was he a man to explain his decisions. He was a man of action, not words and Danny saw that he had failed in both. This headstrong man, full of bluster and defiance, was going to surrender his watch for the paltry sum of £12.50. It wasn’t fair, it mustn’t happen. Rage surged through his body. As his father reached out a palm to take possession of the watch Danny brought up his hand in a tight fist that struck the tip of his father’s bristly jaw. There was a look of disbelief on both their faces. For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Dad tried to catch him by the arm. Danny stepped back several paces, anger giving way to fear, aggression to flight. Another backward step took him almost to the front door. In a few panic stricken moments, he was through it and running hard towards the woodland at the end of the road. Dad was shouting at him, and Mum was shouting at Dad, but as their voices decreased in volume Danny realised that neither was in pursuit.

      He reached the trees and stopped to catch his breath; to decide what to do next. They would soon be looking for him, he had to get further away. On the far side of the wood, there was a boating lake with benches and an ice cream parlour that stayed open late on summer evenings. There would be people there. People that might save him from a beating if Dad appeared, belt in hand. By the time he reached the lake, the sun was low in the sky and the boat keeper was no longer hiring out boats. Two of Danny’s classmates were there. They talked, played football with a tennis ball and threw stones into the lake. It was nearly dark, the last rowers were returning to shore and family parties drifting off towards the car park. “Is it 9 o’clock?” said one of the boys. Danny confirmed that it was and they sauntered off to their homes on the other side of the main road. The boatman took several boats in tow and moored them on the island. He returned in a dinghy and dragged it up the gravel bank into the boathouse. The ice cream man served his last customer and put down the shutters. “Fancy a pint?” he asked. “Why not,” said the boatman. They locked up and departed together, unaware of the boy sitting cross-legged on the jetty.

      In the darkness on the other side of the lake, an invisible figure observed the boy he had first noticed an hour before. He knew the boy and where he lived. There was no time to lose. If the boy moved away from the security light, he too would become invisible. He moved around the side of the lake where there were trees and bushes close to the waterline, finally arriving at the boathouse end where the boy still sat.

     The man knew not why he did the things he did, only that he must, his mind was too full of nightmare, paranoia and White Ace. He had once been a boy, an abandoned boy; there had been pain, suffering. He tried hard to forget, he drank to forget, but the memories wouldn’t go away, he hid them in dark places, but no place was deep enough and memories, fragments of memory, would break free and burst into the light, and the light became nightmare.

       He was closing in, nearly there, only a cricket pitch between them, his bare feet silent on the stony ground. The man was once a soldier, won medals, twice promoted, he had strong hands, he was used to death. The stones no longer hurt his feet, he was on the jetty now, four more steps, maybe five and he would be there. He reached out his hands and rushed forward.

                                                *****

      Danny tossed another stone into the lake. It had been a long night, frosty cold, the trees leafless, dark skeletons against the dawn sky. Was it seven or eight am? He wasn’t sure. If the watch still worked he would have known the time, known precisely when to leave. What good, he thought, was a watch with a broken glass and hands stuck on ten o clock? The breaking of it he did not remember. His only memories were of the thick fingers that gripped his neck, that forced his head and shoulders into the lake and the bitter taste of the water that flooded his lungs. He struggled, splashed the water with his arms, made one gargling cry for help, but no one was there, only the man, and he was too strong.

      The sun was rising, it was time to go back to the wood, to the shallow grave in which his body lay. One day someone would find him and Mum and Dad would scrape together enough money to take him to church in a big limousine, just like they did for Granddad Jones. Things would be different then, better, maybe good. For now, he felt only sadness.

Copyright Richard Banks