FREE CHOICE (2nd & Last)

 FREE CHOICE  (2nd & Last)

by Richard Banks

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So he watches them escort the culprit off the premises. The girl he does not remember until it is too late.

         Luke is now entering that part of the evening when his alcohol consumption is persuading him that Cynthia is definitely a seven and worth a snog. Of course, he would have preferred an eight. A nine he feels is not impossible, a ten only in his dreams. Cynthia is seldom in his dreams and when she is his discordant feelings on waking, makes him feel distinctly uneasy. Nonetheless every bloke should have a girlfriend and until someone better comes along Cynthia is it.

         Had he been able to read her mind he would have been surprised to learn that she had similar thoughts about him. Her thoughts, however, ran deeper and predated their first meeting in Threshers Week. She had been to the cinema with two cousins to see the latest Tom Cruise film. They were fans and she thought she was too, then she saw him in a clinch with Nicole Kidman and realised she would rather be kissed by her than him. This was a revelation she kept to herself, a revelation that both alarmed and perplexed her. Unable to disentangle her feelings she threw herself into her studies and unexpectedly gained the A-level grades that got her into Uni. She expected that she would be able to lose herself in further study but there was all this socialising stuff to do first, and that’s when she met Luke.

         He was diffident and awkward like herself but together they survived the various events they were expected to attend and even enjoyed them. He was a sensible, conventional young man, the kind her parents would approve of. Maybe he would be her salvation but when, on their third date, he got round to kissing her their transition from friends to sweethearts proved less sweet than she had hoped. Nevertheless having him around was useful. As a couple, it was easier to make friends and access the various alliances that were springing up around them. Of these, the Saturday group at Stardust was the most enjoyable and the least demanding.

         Tonight she has brought Lorna along. She doesn’t know her well, an American girl a few years older than herself who arrived three weeks after the beginning of term. She is studying Sociology and as Theo is also studying Sociology Luke thought she might be a suitable companion for his over serious friend. So Cynthia invited her along and Lorna accepted with an enthusiasm that seemed disproportionate to the event described. Indeed she was almost gushing and insisted that Cynthia visit her room where they sat on her bed drinking Irish coffee. They were getting on well when Luke was mentioned - her boyfriend said Cynthia - and the conversation faltered, almost stopped, and Lorna remembered she needed to collect a book from the library. The next day they met in the corridor of their dormitory and all seemed well again. What should she wear, Lorna asked, a dress? When Cynthia replied that a dress would be fine Lorna invited her back into her room where she tried on those she thought might be suitable until Cynthia declared her preference for a figure hugging off the shoulder cocktail dress. It was black, Lorna suited black.

         When she was in a good mood she could be any colour that took her fancy. At her best, she sparkled rainbow colours - yellow, blue, red, and all the shades in between, but now her mood is as black as her dress. Like the song the DJ sometimes plays, ‘it started with a kiss.’ Yes, she knew about the boyfriend; Cynthia had mentioned him, but only once, matter of factly and without affection. There was nothing in it, she had told herself, and on first seeing them together her instinct for such things seemed as sure and reliable as she expected it to be. Then he had dropped a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, turned his face towards her, and kissed her on the lips. Lorna can hardly believe what she is seeing. Is the girl mad, why is she putting up with it, doesn’t she know that this can never be, that this is not what she was meant for? If others, like herself, can see it why can’t she? It’s insane. It should not be happening.

         The glass she is holding slips from her fingers and shatters on the edge of the table,  the liquid within shooting back onto her lap, soaking her dress which is spattered with broken glass. She attempts to brush it off but finds her fingertips oozing blood. She must get changed, she says, it won’t take long, Uni is less than five minutes away, she will be back soon, half an hour at most. She leaves but with no real intention of returning, then she knows she must. The nonsense must be made to stop. Cynthia must be rescued, not abandoned. It is up to her, no one else will do it. She wonders how many other Cynthias there are in this place, this horrible place that allows, no not allows, encourages such things to happen. If she can’t save their bodies she can at least save their souls. As for Cynthia, there will be much to explain, it will not be easy, but in time with her love and help, she will understand and be grateful.

         On her return to Stardust, she finds her new friends more intoxicated than before but not forgetful of her injuries. She is OK, she assures them, holding up the three fingers requiring thin plaster strips. Her only concern is that she hasn’t brought everyone a drink. If Cynthia will give her a hand she will go to the bar and buy the next round. She departs with Cynthia in tow, curiously ignoring the only empty space at the long bar. They eventually halt at the far end near a fire exit.

         “We thought you weren’t coming back,” says Cynthia, “you were gone over an hour,” she glances down at her watch and tries to work out the number of minutes she has been gone but the calculation is beyond her.

         “I had a bag to pack,” murmurs Lorna, glancing down at her own watch.

         “A bag?”

         “Yes, a bag. It’s downstairs in the clothes lobby, and in one minute it will go bang.”

         “Bang?”

          “Yes, bang, big nasty bang, but you mustn’t be scared because you’re with me and I’m going to look after you, keep you safe. Now, take my hand and do what I say. See that door. Take a good look, because when the bang happens all the lights will go out and there will be fire and smoke, horrible black smoke, but that’s OK because no one will see us leave. Through that door, we’ll go, down two flights of stairs, through another door and we’re gone, the viper's nest destroyed and we free, cleansed of all the poisons, reborn, better, stronger than before.

         There it goes!! It’s happening, now! Yes, scream, scream loud, that’s what the other girls are doing and we must do what they do, except we must be sooner to the door. Start moving, quick steps, that’s it, we’re nearly there.”

         On the other side of the room above the lobby the fire has already taken hold of the wooden floor, flames begin to reach up towards the ceiling. The decisions people take in the next few seconds will determine whether they live or die.

         Harry is a survivor of many scrapes, he keeps a clear head. While others panic he organises the remaining occupants of table 32 into a human chain and leads them, and others, through the thick smoke and down a little known staircase on the other side of the bar. He returns and does the same for six more. He attempts one further rescue but the staircase is ablaze and, although he tries to find a way through, Luke and Theo go after him and haul him back. There’s no hope they say, and no hope there is for those inside. Although their screams can still be heard no one else is saved.

         Harry is not the only hero that day. Steve stays put in the control room on the third floor calmly issuing instructions to his team on the walkie-talkies they all have. He will be the last survivor to leave, climbing through the skylight above his desk and crossing several roofs to safety.  As he descends a metal fire escape on the outside of Boots he remembers where he first saw the new girl at table 32. She is in a photograph he once saw on the web, one of a group of disaster tourists standing outside the Almeira Club in San Francisco the day after it was bombed by an organisation calling itself WAMO – Women Against Male Oppression. There is nothing remarkable about her, nothing that sets her apart from the other voyeurs in the photograph, but it is her face, that odd frown, he remembers. He has looked into many faces, it is a part of his job, he has seen all kinds of expressions and largely understands the thoughts behind them but this girl is different. He senses a darkness he can’t explain. He is interviewed by the police and tells them of his suspicions.

         Ella achieves one of her ambitions by appearing on the front page of a national daily. Harry, the hero, is being interviewed, photographs taken and she pictured giving him an emotional hug. They are invited to several fundraising events for the survivors. For a while, they are an item but when the newspapers move on to other things so does she. Harry is philosophical in a down to earth way. Having reached all bases he too is ready to move on.

         For Luke moving on is not an option. He should be heartbroken at Cynthia’s death but he isn’t. Sad? yes, but not sad enough. He feels confused, sometimes ashamed, but no one knows this but himself. He has a photograph of Cynthia which he keeps in his wallet, close to his heart, here it must remain, to discard it would be a betrayal of her and a condemnation of himself. He will never marry.

         Theo lapses into depression. He should, he tells himself, have done more to help those who died. He saved only one life and received no thanks for that. His friend, Cynthia, and her friend, Lorna, are counted among the dead. In all eighty-two people are thought to have died. As therapy, he writes down his thoughts on the disaster in a memoir that later becomes a best selling book. People, he writes, are never free of other people’s choices. In choice, there is both freedom and tyranny, love and hate, and every emotion in between. Choice should be with the angels not with those on Earth.

         Lives interrupted continue, including those of Lorna and Cynthia. Despite Steve’s suspicions, their names appear on a memorial plaque to the victims. Since their presumed deaths four more nightclubs have been bombed or set alight in Europe, South America, and Australia. Steve scours every photograph he can find of the burning or ruined buildings. One day he will see that face again, one day he will be proved right, but already it is too late.

The End. 

Copyright Richard Banks

              

Cheilin Saga ~ 21

 Cheilin Saga ~ 21  Reprise

By Len Morgan

O’Keffe had been raised in the ways of the one, ‘the trail of blood’.   She had been taught at an early age that the end justified the means.   In this case, the end would be total domination of Abbalar by Bedelacq, the living god, and his chosen and loyal worshipers.   That was fundamentally ingrained in her heart.   Young, intelligent and resourceful, she was quick witted and possessed a quality that made her irresistible to men.   That was why she dressed down, for anonymity, when other girls of her age were openly angling for a man, the best provider they could catch.   Her hair appeared badly cropped but was cunningly tucked and coloured.   Her face was pallid and she behaved in an outrageously tomboyish manner.   Even so, she found it difficult to pass unnoticed in mixed company; which was why she was forced to chew Pullu root, a plant extract guaranteed to repel men at the merest whiff of her breath.   She was a loyal and ardent follower of Bedelacq some would call her a zealot.   There was no room left in her life for complications from anything or anyone else.   She had been assiduously trained and was fully aware of her feminine attributes, and her ability to control the opposite sex.   By the age of puberty, her training was completely taken up with manipulation and control techniques.   But, no sooner had she begun to enjoy her newfound powers than she was forced to hide them, in order to carry out her duties as a spy.   That was when she was introduced to ‘la femme’, the richest and most exclusive Bordello in the city, where men of power and influence visited daily to expend their energies and converse with their favourite concubines.    The girls were sworn to secrecy, they would never repeat a word, the code was strict and the penalty for passing on pillow talk was branding and expulsion.   The girls and boys of the establishment were debriefed individually by the Madame, at the end of each session.   Then, if any other person, in public life, were seen to make gain, from such information, the girl who’d been privy to it would be questioned searched and followed.  If adjudged to be guilty of an indiscretion she would at least be on the streets, with her whores licence revoked.   Any gains they may consider she had made would be taken away with interest.   In such a situation she would be extremely fortunate to escape with her life.   Fortunately for all concerned, it never happened. 

.-…-. 

   O’Keffe was not subject to the strict code of ‘la femme’.   She was not a working girl, just a servant.   She cleaned and cleared the rooms as quickly as possible after they had been vacated; ensuring they were available for use when next  required.   She would wait patiently, in her small cupboard like room, with the tools of her trade.   Invisible and silent, she listened carefully to pillow talk, registering and passing it on, without acting upon it.   The intelligence was never for personal gain, so nobody could become aware of her clandestine activities.   If questioned, the Madame, her girls, and their guards would only remember a pale faced mousey haired gangly waif who did for them all quickly and efficiently without being observed by the clientele.  It was doubtful that anybody even knew her name, she was known simply as the scullion, transparent and anonymous, just as she liked it.   Outside of those premises, nobody could pick her out in a crowd.  she was the perfect spy.   She worked at the Bordello for two years, gleaning information useful to her group.   It was rumoured that a royal prince would be visiting the establishment seeking a concubine. Later confirmed to be prince Gavein, the heir to the Daidan dynasty; who would become Daidan IV, on the death of his father.   There were to be auditions, prior to the visit.  The Madame would select six suitable candidates to be presented to the heir apparent.  

   She arrived as herself, no more the waif, her hair now long black and lustrous; her deep green eyes drew men to her like lodestones.   She entered ‘la femme’ as if she owned it.   A plethora of beautiful women turned to look as she entered and their hearts sank.   Where they were spangled and bejewelled, she wore a single string of dainty pink fire pearls and a single matching jewel in her navel, which alone was probably worth more than all the other finery in the room.   All her rivals wore makeup in the latest style, in contrast, she appeared to have none, but the discerning Madame could sense a master’s touch in the crafty unobtrusive accentuation of line and form.   Even as their eyes met, she knew that this was the one.   Five other girls would be chosen to make up the numbers. 

“Have we met before child?” asked the Madame.

“Possibly…” she replied in a lazy husky voice that caused a thrill of excitement. 

“Exactly why are you here,” asked the Madame. She's the one! she thought.

O’Keffe smiled and her eyes widened in amusement, “You are seeking a suitable concubine, for a young prince, and I am she.”

“I shall require proof of your experience and other more personal details.”

“Here is a resume from my mistress,” with a flourish, she handed over a sealed envelope.

“You are Zop-hi-ra?”

“Zopheera” the girl corrected her.

“So, Zophira, you are not from the Eternal City.”

“That is a problem?   I was birthed here; my parents are from the northeast.”

“You understand we have to be sure you know the duties of a concubine, and what will be required of you…?” 

.-…-. 

Prince Gavein was smitten at first sight.   Zaphira’s history was carefully checked again, by Palace officials, and she formally became a resident of the Emerald Palace.   Never was there a more committed teacher or a more avid pupil.   In accordance with the tradition relating to concubines, her movements were not restricted in any way.   She lived in but was not expected to remain in, the women’s quarters.

   O’Keffe was therefore still seen on a regular basis, about the streets and circles of the city, though not as frequently as before; people just assumed there was a man in her life.   The most efficient cleaner ‘la femme’ had ever known mysteriously disappeared, without notice, she didn’t even return to collect her final stipend.   The Madame however collected enormous kudos, in the circles of bordello keepers, from having discovered and trained a royal concubine. 

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

LESSONS

By Peter Woodgate 

They sent me to school one day

To teach me about society,

They taught me how to read and write

To do my sums and be polite

They didn’t think I should enjoy myself

Or look to my heart for guidance,

We must progress and build machines

To hell with the old and good riddance.

We will all learn new technology

Without a backward word or apology,

We won’t need to build robots though,

They already walk the earth.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Free Choice 

By Janet Baldey 

As Betty opened her front door, she saw her usual half pint hadn’t been delivered.  Sighing, she looked up and saw the sun was already burning off wisps of high cloud. It was going to be a hot day.  A glance at the thin gold Rotary on her wrist confirmed there no time to ask, she could only hope that her neighbour would notice and take it in for her.

         Hurrying down the street towards the bus stop, she saw the gleam of headlights.  Milkman was late, bus was early what else would go wrong she thought as she started to run.  Jumping on the bus, she flopped down on the nearest vacant seat, adjusted her hat, smoothed her gloves and sat looking out of the window until the bulky outline of her Ministry building appeared.   She stared at its rigid exterior; something was up at work, she’d realised that for the past few weeks. Its usually quiet corridors were teeming with harried-looking men, carrying document cases and disappearing into conference rooms.  Her own immediate superior, Mr Goodwin, normally so laid back as to be almost comatose, was scurrying around, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  Her girls noticed it too.  “Blimey”, one said.  “Old Goody looks as though he’s got a rocket up his jacksie.”  The other girls craned their heads and giggled.

“That’s enough,” she called. “You’ve all got work to do. Face the front and get your heads down.”

         Gratified, she heard the clacking of typewriter keys as the girls complied.  They were a good lot.  It seemed a shame to keep them all but chained to their desks in this grim building. Like keeping a cloud of butterflies in a cellar. Never mind, they had their whole lives in front of them, soon they’d meet their young men, marry and disappear from the work-place.  She often wondered what it would have been like if Graham had survived the war. She’d be married by now with two or three children clinging to her skirts.

         Lost in her own thoughts, she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

         “Miss Henderson, your presence is required in Boardroom One. Immediately, please.”

         She looked up to see Mr Goodwin looming over her, and her throat clenched as she smelled his sweat.  His face looked pinker than ever and what remained of his hair was awry.  This was unthinkable, he was normally so dapper.  Her heartbeat quickened as she cast her mind over the past few weeks.  Had she made some terrible mistake? Was this the end of her career?

         With an effort, she kept her voice steady. “Of course, Mr. Goodwin. I’ll be along right away”.  Rising she addressed the sea of faces she knew were staring at her.

         “Finish what you’re doing girls and then you can take your break.  Half an hour and no longer.”

         Boardroom One was the biggest of the conference rooms and as she entered, she saw it was crammed with men in suits, together with a meagre scattering of women.  She shot a quick glance around the room, recognising several familiar figures, but nobody looked at her, their attention was fully fixed on a man with close-cropped dark hair and rather prominent ears, sitting at the far end of the highly polished table.  Astonished, she realised it was the Minister himself, Manny Shinwell.

         Seconds later, the Minister leaned forward and tapped his pen on his water glass and waited until silence was complete. “Is everyone here?”  He glanced at his aide, who gave a brief nod. “Right. Could somebody stand against the door please. As from this moment, no one will be allowed to enter or leave.”  He paused, drew his fingers through his thinning hair and took a sip of water.

“You will all be wondering why you’re here and I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.  However, firstly I want to remind everyone that you’ve all signed the official secrets act.  Under no circumstances, should anything you hear this morning, leave this room.”

The hairs on the back of Betty’s neck rose as his words began to fill the silence.  Her jaw dropped open as she learned reliable sources had alerted the government to the fact that Russia was planning a nuclear attack on London.

         “We believe it will be three-pronged.  Croydon to the south, Uxbridge to the west and Romford to the east.  Massive casualties are inevitable with the resulting firestorm causing catastrophic damage to buildings and, it is feared the rest of Britain will be affected by radioactive fallout.

         This is truly a disastrous scenario and we can only pray it can be averted.  Our Prime Minister is, at this very moment, pressing for urgent talks with Mr Kruschev. 

All of you here have been invited for a special purpose and I will now hand you over to your various heads of departments, to explain.  Remember everybody, panic is to be averted at all costs so ‘Mums the word.”

         Nobody spoke as the Minister gathered together his papers and left the room. Through the stunned silence, Betty could clearly hear the chirp of sparrows and their cheerful innocence made her want to cry.

         In the anteroom, coffee was being served and Betty gratefully sipped at the bitter liquid, hoping it would clear her head. She looked around for Mr Goodwin and saw him beckoning her towards the door.

         Once seated in his office, he leaned towards her, his face grave.

         “These are dark days, Betty.  As the Minister implied, Britain is in a desperate situation but the government have made certain contingency plans.  A building, especially constructed to withstand a nuclear attack, has been built in a secret location in the Essex countryside.  This is intended to house senior members of the government and others especially equipped to re-build society once the attack is over.  We believe you can help with this.”

         “Me? What can I do?”

“Most of the occupants of the bunker will be fully trained military personnel but certain civilians will be necessary in order to acquaint such individuals with other duties and as a longstanding member of staff, your expertise will be of value. Think carefully about it, Betty.  We are well aware you have no immediate family so this is your free choice, albeit a difficult one.  But, before you make up your mind, we have arranged for you to visit the bunker and transport has been booked for you tomorrow morning.  Arrange for one of your girls to stand in for your absence.”

He stood up and Betty understood that she was being dismissed.

***

Betty’s eyes felt sore and gritty as she stared out of the window of the car, part of an irregular convoy of nondescript Fords, Austin’s and Hillmans.   Last night, she hadn’t slept a wink, feeling every spring in her bed as her mind refused to shut down. To think, the only thing she’d been worried about that morning was whether her milk would spoil.  In the event, it had and its silver foil top had been peppered with tiny holes where the cream had tempted the blue tits.  They were welcome to it, she thought. If what was feared, happened, there would be no blue tits.  She couldn’t stop herself going over the events of the day obsessively and looking at the haggard faces of her companions, she guessed they’d been through the same sort of ordeal.  Beyond superficial greetings, none of them spoke. Nobody was in the mood for small talk. 

Just after they passed through the village of Kelvedon Hatch, their driver made a quick right turn down a track leading towards a wood and as they bumped along the rutted ground, Betty clung on for dear life.  They seemed miles from anywhere, yet she realised they must be in easy reach of London. Small birds were flitting in and out of the trees and Betty couldn’t bear to think that this lush Essex countryside might soon disappear under layers of noxious ash.  It was the worst of nightmares.

At last, the car stopped in front of an odd- looking building tucked into  the side of a hill.

“Here we are ladies and gents – a bureaucrat’s idea of a country cottage. Just the place to spend your ‘olidays.”

The driver’s words were met by a nervous titter.

Inside, it was even odder, the outside being merely a façade, as their guide took pains to explain.

“This bunker has been designed to withstand all but a direct hit from a nuclear missile.  We have tunnelled under the hill to a depth of 125 feet and its walls are ten feet thick and made of reinforced concrete.”

They followed him through massive steel doors and one hundred yards down a long bare corridor to where the bunker itself was located. The guide walked fast and Betty had trouble keeping up, while trying to take in what he was saying.

“We have enough tinned and dried food, plus our own water supply, to enable 600 people to survive for a bare minimum of three months. You will notice the Geiger counters stacked by the entrance. After three months, the air will be tested daily before the doors are opened.

  Until then, we have a canteen, a sick bay, dormitories and the hub of it all is the information centre, where we can plot which way the wind is blowing the clouds of radiation.”

Betty shivered, and misunderstanding, the guide looked at her.

“You may find it cold now but with 600 living bodies packed inside a relatively small space, our main problem will be the heat.”

His voice continued relentlessly as they followed him through a honeycomb of chambers.  One room was packed with typewriters, teleprinters and switchboards. Betty guessed she would be based there but before she had chance to have a real look round, they were off again. 

‘These are the dormitories.  We will operate a system of hot bedding – I take it you know what that means?  But you will also be issued with your own sheet so it should be relatively hygienic.”

As they followed him around, Betty began to feel more and more claustrophobic.  She couldn’t imagine spending at least three months in this overcrowded space.  There were washing facilities, eating facilities, medical facilities but what facilities had been provided for leisure?  Almost immediately she felt an overwhelming feeling of shame.  She was one of the privileged, she was being offered the chance of life when millions would be annihilated.  She had no right to quibble about non-essentials.

On the return journey, once more the silence was deafening.  Betty felt as if she was inside a glass bubble as she mulled over her choice.  The guide had said public information broadcasts would alert the general public on steps they should take to protect themselves.  They should retreat to basements, or other enclosed spaces, with enough food and water to last them out.   In truth, she realised, that was all hot air. Most had no hope of survival. They would either be blown to pieces by the blast or die from radiation sickness.

And what of the people who did survive?  What life could they expect?  Poisoned earth, no wildlife, plummeting temperatures as a nuclear winter gripped.  Britain would become a dead zone. Her brain felt numb; were those held prisoner in the various nuclear bunkers to be envied or pitied?  She had no idea.  

As they entered London, she suddenly saw a swirl of bright skirts; there was a group of girls laughing in the sunshine.  They should have the chance of life, she thought, not a dried-up old maid like herself.  It was at that moment, she made up her mind.

Copyright Janet Baldey  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

        

 

 

        

 

 

        

        

        

        

 

        

        

        

 

 

THE LAST OF THE OLD GUARD.

By Rosemary Clarke

Let's hear it for the Scotsman who delighted all our screens
The one who was so naughty with his plotting and his schemes.
His bicycle is silent now, but then it was so used.
I'll bet he's up there watching plotting yet another ruse!
He's with Marina now, just like he thought he should, but Pearl is up there also so it won't do any good!
I'll bet the angels love it, up there must be feeling fine.
They've only bagged all of the cast of Last of The Summer Wine!

To Robert Fyfe, his family friends and all who made this wonderful series possible; thanks for the laughs!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 New Term Nerves 

By Sis Unsworth 

With summer almost over, the new term’s drawing near

the thought of it did fill, poor Rupert with some fear.

Being new to the district, as they’d just moved there in June,

and the time had passed so quickly, September came too soon.

He was feeling rather nervous, the new kid on the block

leaving all that was familiar, had given him a shock.

But, he’d had the opportunity, to go and view the school.

He'd felt apprehensive, but played it rather cool.

His future did depend upon, how he performed this year,

he wondered how he’d deal with it, now the time was near.

His white shirt washed and ironed, now hung behind the door,

highly polished shiny shoes, were placed upon the floor.

He was well-groomed with confidence, he headed out that day,

he notice many students, were also going his way.

Then as he reached the school gates, his heart was beating faster.

But he knew he had to go inside, as he was the new headmaster.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 FREE CHOICE    (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks

“To choose is to be free,” says Theo. After three Seattle Shakers, he is becoming philosophical, after four he will have great thoughts and after six there will be no remembering them. His headache the next day will be a reminder that no choice is free of unchosen consequences. But for now, everything is good, the drinks are free, his round yet to come, and he senses that his witty, insightful conversation is attracting the attention of Ella. She is, without doubt, the most attractive of the three girls in their group.

         No one, he thinks, has been gifted more free choice than her. Free in that she has never been known to buy a drink either for herself or anyone else but still the choice of every man seeking the enchantment of female company; that Theo is such a man is a secret he is trying to keep to himself. It is an impossible dream. She has an army of devoted followers from which to choose and when she does it is invariably a six foot plus Adonis, the star player or captain of one of the college teams. Clearly, Theo’s membership of the debating team is not enough, especially as they have lost their last three contests. At five foot six, he is scarcely taller than the lectern.

         Luke and Harry also suffer from the disadvantage of being ordinary, although somewhat taller. Accepting his fate Luke has taken up with Cynthia who he rates a six but with her make-up on will sometimes pass as a seven. They sit together, gradually merging into each other as one drink follows another. After four they are sometimes known to kiss.

         The sixth and final person at table 32 in the Stardust Club is Lorna, a friend of Cynthia who has been brought along in the hope that she might prove to be a suitable companion for Theo and distract him from drooling over Ella. So far they have spoken only once to exchange names, their mutual indifference only less obvious than Lorna’s scarcely concealed interest in Cynthia.

         “That’s crap,” says Harry. Harry is not a member of the debating team and tends to express himself in the on-field vernacular of the Sunday league football team for which he plays stopper, centre half. No fancy dan passing out of defence for him, he is old school and when he isn’t booting the ball fifty yards down the pitch he is usually questioning the parentage of the opposing team’s centre forward. For him, words are a blunt instrument, a cudgel not a rapier, and their purpose is to end debate not prolong it. The world is how it is, how he knows it to be, not how Theo thinks it should be.

         His membership of their Group is an alcohol shrouded mystery that no one remembers in quite the same way. Table 32 used to be his table, that’s where he sat, keeping it to himself and repelling all unwanted borders until this really fit bird asked him if anyone was sitting there. “No, be my guest,” he said. Then it turned out she had four friends who plonked themselves down before he could tell them to bugger off. Nevertheless, the fit bird sat next to him rather closer, he thought, than she needed. If she was pleased to meet him she was even more pleased when he brought her the most expensive cocktail on offer. He had read about girls like her, posh birds slumming it in bog-standard clubs, desperate for a bit of rough like him.

         On learning that her name was Ella and that she was a first-year student at the Uni, he had volunteered the information that he was a professional footballer with United. This never failed to impress the girls and was a fiction he was usually able to sustain until the following morning. In case this was not enough he raised the stakes by announcing he was also in England’s Under 23s. This she did not appear to understand but, having supplied the necessary clarification, he was able to achieve first base by placing his hand on her surprisingly cool knee. By the time his imagination had conjured up David Beckham and Victoria he was up to second base and contemplating his next move when she took hold of his little finger and hauled it and the rest of his hand onto the tabletop. In case he had not got the message she smoothed down the mini she was wearing so that it now covered most of second base. Other girls would have made a fuss, slapped his face, but she said nothing, her switched-on smile undisturbed, only a flinty look in her eyes signalling that what he wanted was not going to happen.

         To be repulsed with such style and subtlety seemed almost a distinction, and although he later felt anger it was never at her. Next day he took it out on the other team’s centre forward. Having rendered him unconscious with a head butt and threatened the referee he was sent off the pitch and fined £50 by the Association. To this dent in his wallet, he added the cost of the overpriced drink he had brought her, reflecting that some choices were anything but free, even for those that didn’t get past second base.

         A month later these are memories he has largely succeeded in pushing to the back of his mind. With Ella, it is as if nothing ever happened. There is no awkwardness between them. They have established a boundary and that is that nothing is said, nothing is needed to be said. It would be fine, water under the bridge if only Theo would stop going on about choice making people free. OK, it’s different to his own thoughts, he gets that, but nonetheless, it’s stirring up stuff he would rather forget. It’s crap, total crap, and he has stunned Theo into silence by telling him so, but not for long. Any moment now he will be drawn into a debate in which he will be expected to articulate a point of view that he can’t define beyond knowing that he is right and Theo a pretentious twat for thinking different. This is an argument that must be ended before it begins.

         “It’s crap man, it stands to reason and if you can’t see that I’m not going to waste my time putting you right. Now, it’s your round you tight bastard, so choose yourself a drink, and while you’re about it get me a pint.”

         There is an edge to his voice not usually present in his rough banter and Theo isn’t slow to pick up on it. “What is everyone having?” he asks, and on being told, makes his way to the bar with Luke. By the time they are back the conversation has moved on to Game of Thrones and Harry is back to being their streetwise older brother who is a good laugh and keeps them out of trouble.

         On a Saturday night, there will be at least one minor skirmish at Stardust and if the bouncers are quick in ejecting those responsible that might be the end of it. For now, they have only to man the doors while Steve, their boss, monitors the many screens in the control room. Presently the focus of his attention is table 32. No threat there, just a group of students who have formed an unlikely alliance with Harry Deeks. Harry is a good lad, knows the score, settles his disagreements in the alley outback. No harm in that unless you’re on the receiving end of Harry’s fists. Tonight there is a new face at their table, a girl he hasn’t seen before or has he? It’s her first time in Stardust, of that he is sure, but the frown that surfaces briefly on her unremarkable face seems familiar.  Just the frown, nothing more, but where. A flashing light over monitor eight diverts his attention to the Zodiac Bar where an argument is threatening to get out of hand. He dispatches two of his team to sort it out and watches them escort the culprit off the premises. The girl he does not remember until it is too late.

[To be continued.]

        

Copyright Richard Banks