THE BLACK NIGHT SKY

By Peter Woodgate

I lie on the grass

And look up at the sky

The black night sky

And recall you and I.

The times when we voiced

Our wishes out loud,

There was no one to hear us

Away from the crowd.

We filled that great void

With a love for each other,

A love that we thought

Would be lasting forever.

We dreamed of the day

When we would be one

And departing the night sky

Walk with the sun.

But a dark cloud descended

The sun turned to rain,

The joy and the ecstasy

Gone, leaving pain.

Why did it happen?

Where did we go wrong?

We both sang the lyrics

But not the same song

So, I lie here alone

Looking up at the sky

The black night sky…

And a tear fills my eye.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 NIGHT DREAMS (2^nd and Last)                                             

by Richard Banks   

      

     Theo wants to see the harbour, so that's where we go. We find a fishing boat at its mooring and two old-timers mending their nets. They're taking the boat out in the evening. They're not expecting to catch much but, as one of them says, it's better than doing nothing. Their faces are as desolate as the abandoned cranes. Theo asks if they know of a decent restaurant where we can have dinner. They recommend Franco's Trattoria, a few hundred yards along the promenade.   

     If Theo thinks he's getting away with a cheap meal in a no star cafe he's got another think coming, but when we get there it looks okay. There's a sign saying it opens at six.

     “Look at that,” says Theo. Under the name on the shop front are the words, 'established in 1983'. “Maybe someone here will remember you and your folks.”

     We go for a walk and return at half six. The restaurant's run by three generations of the same family, the Anselmos. Theo tells the waiter that his grandfather was born in Milan and attempts to order in the smattering of Italian he was once taught. Judging by the look on the waiter's face he's making no sense at all, but it breaks the ice and we find ourselves being introduced to everyone in the family, from Franco to the youngest member of the fourth generation who's still in nappies.

     Giuseppe, the waiter, tells us that the family is from Potenza in the south of Italy. They have another restaurant in Broadstairs and plan to open one in Ramsgate. If they do they will close this one. “The town is not what it used to be,” he sighs. Theo agrees and explains that I used to live in the old house before it became Panchos. Maybe he remembers my family? I tell him that my name is Anna, Anna Franklin, that my parents were George and Greta and that we lived there in the eighties, early nineties.

     Giuseppe says he was only a boy then but will ask his aunt who's working in the kitchen. He takes our order for desserts. They are brought to our table by a woman in her fifties, who introduces herself as Marella.

     “You must be little Anna?” she says. I stand up to greet her and she kisses me on both cheeks. She laughs, looks pleased to see me, tells me I look like my mother. “And how is your mother?”

     I tell her about the car accident and her expression registers genuine regret. Theo invites her to sit down with us.

     “I knew your mother well,” she says, “a lovely woman. How old were you when she died?”

       I answer, “five.”

     “Do you remember her?”

     “Yes, but not well.”

     “And you would like me to tell you something about her?”

     I nod. This isn't what I was expecting; it's emotional and I hang on every word. She tells me that my mother was born in Finland and came to this country when she was twenty, that she worked as a hotel maid and met my father soon after he moved to the town. He was a courteous man but very reserved, not easy to know. Estranged from his wider family in Yorkshire, he had few friends and seemed to resent my mother making friends of her own. “A shame,” says Marella, “without family they needed friends. At least your mother had me.” 

       “So when they died there were no relatives for me to go to?”

     “Well, none I know of. I only wish I had known about your parents' deaths, I would gladly have taken you in.”

     “I'm sorry you didn't,” I say. “I would have liked it here.” I feel the tears coming but manage to hold them back. “Was I a happy little girl?”

     “You were mischievous, quite wilful at times, but yes, you were happy. You liked your ice cream I remember. Your face always lit up for that. You lacked for nothing and neither did your brother.”

     “But I don't have a brother,” I say. “There were just three of us; Mum, Dad and me.”

     Maria looks perplexed, then bewildered. For a few moments, she seems uncertain what to say.

       “No, Anna, you are wrong, you had a brother.”

     “Had?” I say.

     “Yes, had. He died one month after you moved to London. He stepped out of an upstairs window. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was dead. Your mother wrote me this in a letter.”

     “Was it suicide?”

       “No, nothing like that. The boy was only twelve; a little slow in his thoughts. In your old house, there was a balcony outside his bedroom on which he sometimes played. We think that maybe he was forgetting where he was. It was nighttime, maybe he was sleepwalking. It was a terrible accident.”

     She falls silent and I don't know what to say. Theo suggests we exchange addresses. He says we must have much to catch up on after all this time. Marella agrees. She thinks she may have some photographs of Mum and myself. If she does she will send them to me. Theo replenishes our glasses. “So, what about you?” asks Marella, “what have you been doing all these years?”  There is much to tell.                                                                  

                                                   **********

      We return to the hotel around 11:30. There's a party going on in one of the downstairs rooms, but as we mount the stairs to our room the music stops and the party moves on to a  club. I'm putting the sheets on the bed when Theo has one of his eureka moments. Usually, these happen when he's reading his encyclopedia and discovers something really, really interesting that he can't keep to himself. This one happens when he's staring out of the window.

     “Come and take a look at this,” he yells.

     I do and see two red lights on either side of the entrance to the harbour.

     “There's your monster eyes,” he announces triumphantly, “and if the bed was nearer the door you would be seeing them bang in the middle of the window,” … which means, if he's right, that this was once my bedroom.

     We sit up for an hour or more discussing possible explanations for the other things in my dream but nothing rings true. Theo goes to draw the curtains but realises, for the first time, that there are none. We undress in the dark and slip under the covers. He gives me a hug and we slowly drift off to sleep.

     At 3am the inevitable happens and I sit up in bed screaming. There are images in my head that weren't there before, but worse of all is the gorgon. I'm awake now and it should be gone, but it's not. It's standing at the foot of the bed. I scream again. Theo tries to calm me, then he sees the gorgon and he's as freaked out as I am. The gorgon should be coming towards me with that black stuff, but it's beating a rapid retreat towards the window which is wide open. Theo gives chase onto the balcony. He returns a few seconds later breathing heavily.

     “It's okay,” he says, “it's that guy in the end room. The chancer was probably after my tablet. He's got nothing.”

     Theo wants to call the police on his mobile but I say sod the guy, forget him. I've got something important to say and I need to say it now while it's fresh in my head. He sits down on the bed and I tell him how the bars in my nightmare were really the railings on my cot and that it wasn't the gorgon doing the shrieking, it was seagulls. “But how can that be,” I ask, “birds sleep at night.”

     “Not if the harbour lights were on and fish were being unloaded,” says Theo. “Don't you see, it makes perfect sense. Your gorgon opens the window to let himself in and the outdoor noises get louder, just like someone turning up the volume on a TV. And what about the blackness that was pressing down on you?”

     “A cloth, probably a blanket. The gorgon was trying to suffocate me.”

     “And who is the gorgon?” Theo speaks quickly, abruptly, as though he's trying to jolt the information from my sub-conscious.

     “Pass,” I say. “But it wasn't the guy in the end room.” I mean this to be humorous but Theo doesn't get it. He shuts the window and finds the catch that locks it. “Do you want the light on?” he asks.

     I say that man with no clothes on should leave lights off, otherwise, he might get arrested. Better he gets back into bed and be arrested there. That's a joke he does understand but he knows that what I really want to do is talk some more. By the time it's light we have most of the nightmare figured out: someone or something – no let's stick with the rational – someone comes along the balcony and through the window of my room while I'm asleep, except that I'm not asleep, maybe I wake up when I hear that person clambering in.  The lights are off so all I can see is a dark outline and the harbour lights. I want to run away but can't get past the bars on my cot. The man, surely it must be a man, presses something down on my face, shutting out whatever light there is in the room, making it impossible for me to breathe. I try to cry out but can't, lose consciousness, I think I'm dead.

     “And you still don't know who the gorgon is?” Theo asks.

     I say, “No. Maybe I never did.”

     Theo says, “Let's think about it logically. The gorgon is unlikely to be an intruder. The balcony is on the second floor. There's no way anyone could climb onto it from the street. So it must be someone already in the house. Did you have live-in servants, a nurse perhaps?”

     “I don't think so,” I whisper.

     Theo speaks softly, telling me what I do not want to hear. “In that case the gorgon is one of three people no longer alive.”

     “But that's horrible,” I say.“You're telling me that someone in my family tried to kill me.”

     Theo clicks his tongue in that irritating way he has when he's annoyed with himself. He's about to start back-pedaling; we've been there before. “Not necessarily,” he says, “dreams are not always what they seem. You remembered monster eyes when they were harbour lights. Maybe the gorgon wasn't trying to smother you. Who knows what it was intending to do.” He clicks his tongue again. “I wish this was ending better but we are where we are. I hope it's been of some help.”

     I say that it has, but already I'm thinking it's worse than before. I'm tired. I want to sleep, and sleep I do. 

                                                             **********

            We awake at 9:00 and are out of the hotel by 10:00. All I want to do is go home and have a shower. We are making our way back to the car when we see Marella coming back from the shops with a bag of groceries. She waves and crosses the road to speak to us.

     “There's one thing I forgot to tell you,” she says. “Your brother; his name was George, after your father. That's what he was christened but the priest was the only one calling him that. Even as a baby he was always known by his second name, Gordon.”

     For a moment I can't take it in, then I do. “The Gorgon!” The words spill out before I can stop them. I sound like I feel; in shock.

     Marella seems not to notice. Her own voice is thoughtful, matter of fact. “No,” she says. “It was Gordon, as in the gin. Here is a picture of him. I was going to send it in a letter but I give it you now. As you see he was a handsome boy, the same fair hair as yourself. Your mother loved him but he was always in trouble; a difficult child but not a bad one. He was, how can I say it, a boy not clear in his understanding. A pity.” 

                                                           **********

      So, that's it, the last piece in the jigsaw: the gorgon was a boy called Gordon, my brother. Did he try to kill me? I doubt it, although he gave me one hell of a fright. More likely it was just a silly prank by a mischievous boy 'not clear in his understanding'. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Theo favours the happy option. “Today,” he says, “is the first day of the rest of your life. We should celebrate.”

     I say, “Yes, let's do something we've never done before.”

     “Like what?” he says.

     “Like going to bed and not waking up until morning.”

     Theo says that’s a really odd reason for going to bed, but he's prepared to give it a try.

     “Me too,” I say. “We could even make a habit of it. The first fifty years will probably be the worse, but then again it might even be fun. What do you think? Shall we give it a go?”

     He asks if the last 'it' has the same meaning as the two before?

     “It's a commitment sort of it,” I say.

     Theo pretends to be distracted by a pigeon walking across the road. The twat! Then he gives me his answer.

     I'm not going to repeat his rubbish line about the first day of my life, I have one of my own. It goes like this: it’s a special day and there’s no word special enough to describe it. So crap, so true.  

(The End)   

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 

 

 How did he know?

The Riddler

Three prisoners are condemned to death.  The Prison Warden explains that as a cruel joke he will allow one to go free… The remaining two will be executed. 

The Warden produces three black and two white discs.  He fastens one to each of their backs, there are two discs remaining.

(For your benefit alone, I will reveal that he is left with one black & one white disc.)

Each prisoner can see the discs on the backs of his fellow prisoners.

The Warden tells them: the first man to leave the compound and correctly identify the disc on his back will go free, while the other two will be executed.

They are allowed to speak to each other and ask questions but nothing said can be trusted…  Yet one man left the compound and correctly named his disk.   

HOW?

 The Dragon’s Head Clasp

By Janet Baldey

The police were conducting house to house enquiries and now they were starting on her street.  They’d be wasting their time at her house, she had nothing of importance to tell them although she hoped they had some luck soon.  Two women had already been found dead and she didn’t want there to be a third.

         Marie opened the door of her sister’s room and walked into a cloud of fragrance. Roses were everywhere.  Thrust into vases, they decorated the room in shades of cream, ivory and gold.

         “Wow”. She said. “Ronnie’s really pushed the boat out. What prompted this?”

         “They’re not from Ronnie.” Joanne was peering at herself in the mirror, her varnished fingertips blending in dabs of foundation. “Ronnie’s history”.

         “Oh, no! You haven’t broken up with him?”  Marie’s distress was real. In her view, Ronnie had been a keeper.  Her sister, not yet twenty, had already left behind her a string of broken hearts. Most had been not worth a jot but Ronnie had been different. Hard-working and sensible, with good humoured patience he had tamed her wilful sister without using either a whip or a chair.

         “Yep. He was boring.” Joanne brushed her hair into a tawny waterfall.

         “Who sent the flowers then?”

         Joanne put down her brush and her green eyes were sparkling as she spun to face Marie.  “Neville from work.”

         Marie’s heart took a dive. She shared an office with Neville and detested him. Boastful and arrogant, he demanded attention incessantly and even after work his voice followed her home. To get by, he relied on charming the right people but always totally ignored her. Homely women were not to his choice and he made this as obvious as a slap in the face.  Even worse, she sensed he had a darker side. She’d caught a glimpse of it when a colleague had contradicted some nonsense he’d spouted. Fascinated, she’d watched as his complexion reddened and his eyes flamed. Sensing trouble, she’d immediately become immersed in her work but not before she’d seen him stride out of the door and punch the corridor wall with violence that scarred the plaster. Ever since, she’d treated him as one would a time-bomb.  But it was no good telling Joanne this, she wouldn’t believe a word, so Marie hid her feelings.

         “Really. He’s an awful flirt, you know.”

         “Not now he isn’t,” Joanne smirked as she slid into a sheath that accentuated every curve.

         “So, where’s he taking you? Must be somewhere special.”

         “We’re going on a mystery tour!” Joanne gestured dramatically. “Isn’t that exciting?”

         “Depends on where you’re going.”

         “Oh, I think I know.  He’s taking me to meet his parents. That’s why it’s such a secret. He’s terribly well connected. His dad’s an ambassador and his mum’s a barrister. They’re an actual Lord and Lady and live in a huge manor house in the Shires. He says it will all be his when they pop off.”

         Marie’s concern deepened. She didn’t believe a word of it. It was a typical ‘Neville flight of fancy’.  But it did beg the question. What sort of man treated his parents’ death as a pulling tool?

         “If he’s so well off, why is he working at the post office”.

         “Research. He’s writing a book. He’s written several.  Fancy, I’m dating an actual author.  Can you do this up for me?”

         “Oh, that’s pretty. Marie looked at the necklace Joanne was holding out to her.

         “Beautiful, isn’t it. Neville, gave it to me. Said it matched the colour of my eyes. Just paste but still…” Joanne parted her hair and bent her slender neck.

         The gold chain felt smooth and heavy in Marie’s hands and its faceted stones caught the light and glittered. It didn’t seem like paste to her and a memory struggled to surface.  She looked at its clasp and gasped. Goosebumps peppered her skin.

         “Hold on, Joanne. I’ve seen this necklace before. Do you remember that robbery that was in the local paper? They showed pictures of jewellery that was taken and one of the necklaces was just like this. It had the same clasp, a dragon’s head with little emerald eyes.”

         “Oh, what nonsense. Are you saying that Neville’s a thief?  I call that downright nasty. You’re just jealous. Give it back and I’ll do it myself.”

         “No, really Joanne. Wait I’ll get the paper.”

         Her heart pounding, Marie ran downstairs praying that she hadn’t thrown in out. With a gasp of relief she saw it was still beside the table. She snatched it up.

         “Look,” she slapped the newspaper in front of Joanne and pointed. Her sister stared at it and when she did speak, her voice wavered.

         “OK, it’s similar, but it can’t be the same. Now leave me alone, I’ve got to get ready.”

         “What time are you meeting him?”

         “Eight o’clock. Not that it’s any of your business.”

         Marie ignored her. “Joanne, listen. I promised Dad I’d keep you safe and it’s just not safe to go out with a man you hardly know. People get murdered. There was that poor girl only recently. You don’t want to end up in a ditch, do you? Look, for Dad’s sake do me a favour. The police station is just around the corner. You’ve got plenty of time.”

         “Your trouble is you read too many crime novels. Neville’s not a thief, he’s not a rapist and he’s certainly not a murderer. He’s a sweet man.”

         Yeah, thought Marie. As sweet as a snake hiding amongst bluebells.

         But, as Marie had hoped, the mention of their father did the trick. Joanne had been his favourite. He’d always called her “His prettiness” and even though he died over two years ago, Joanne still cherished his memory. Eventually, she allowed herself to be led to the police station where she pouted and stared at the ground. The Desk Officer examined the necklace carefully and passed it over to a Detective Inspector who beckoned them into his room.

         It was Marie who did most of the talking to the very nice man who listened intently and then asked Joanne a lot of questions. So many, that Joanne began to fidget and look at the clock.

         “Sorry to keep you madam. Just one more. Where did you say you were meeting your young man?”

         “I didn’t.” Joanne clamped her mouth shut but changed her mind when she saw the expression on the detective’s face. “The Mall, outside Creasey’s,” she said.

         “I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep the necklace. I’m sorry.”  Now it was the D.I.’s turn to look at the clock. “Now I just have to make a quick telephone call, then we’re done.”

         The telephone call was anything but quick and by the time he re-appeared the room had grown too small for Joanne; she was pacing its perimeter and spitting at Marie like a caged cat.

         “Can I go now?” without waiting for an answer, she was off, slamming the door behind her.

         “Too late I’m afraid,” the officer muttered. He winked at Marie and shook her hand. ” Thank you for your cooperation. She’s a bit sparky, your sister so I’m afraid your name is going to be mud for a while. But never mind, in a day or so she’ll be thanking you. You may even have saved her life.”

         Panting, Marie hurried to catch up with her sister. As she did, she wondered what the detective had meant. He was very nice, she thought. Lovely eyes, and had he held her hand just a trifle too long? The sudden sound of police sirens exploded her dream and she followed her sister back home.

         It didn’t surprise Marie that Neville didn’t turn up for work on Monday. What did surprise her was what he was charged with. The detective had turned up on their doorstep the following day. He couldn’t tell them much, but what he did say shocked them both and even succeeded in wiping the scowl from Joanne’s face.  Pieces from the same set of stolen jewellery had been found on the bodies of the two murdered girls. It seemed that Joanne had had a lucky escape; they’d brushed shoulders with a monster and for the first time, Marie felt glad to be plain.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Likes, Choices & Preferences

The Riddler

I like sitting quietly, listening to the rain bouncing off a tin/glass patio roof. Watch rivulets of water pouring down the window panes.

It’s calming & relaxing, almost hypnotic, it concentrates the mind; encouraging deep thoughts.

“Chill in the rain it’s good for the brain!”

I like the aromatic smell following a summer storm; after a dry spell.  The rich earthy scent lingers enticingly in the air!  Others like the scent of new-mown grass, or the perfume of spring flowers.

 

I am drawn to unconventional faces.  Freckles and imperfections,  Wonky, bent noses. Thin, broad noses & lips, Almond-shaped faces, broad and square faces.  The sameness of perfection, and classical beauty, is a turnoff for me.  The unconventional is attractive & exciting appealing to my inner sense of aesthetics.

 

Some might consider a preference for short dark-haired girls with small breasts an indication of latent homosexuality, I say not!  Variety is a constant theme in life; it keeps our species vigorous and diverse.

 

At a club disco, a group of young men were asked to pick out the girls they thought were FIT (their word).  Seven boys each picked a different girl.  We then asked the same question of the seven girls, selected; of the boys, they thought were FIT two picked the same boy. The interesting thing was that three girls picked the boy who’d picked them.  What does this mean?  There’s hope for us all…

 

 

  NIGHT DREAMS  (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks                 

                   

         Theo asks if I'm okay. The question is as repetitive as the dream and should be irritating; it is irritating. Of course I'm not okay but angry words will only make things worse. He switches on the bedside lamp and, with a towel, wipes the perspiration from my face.

     “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

     Each time I do he listens patiently, hoping, like me, that this time I will remember something new, something that will jog my memory, for the nightmare concerns the past, my past, of that I am certain. So here we go again: it is night, I am awake, looking out through a window into the red eyes of the gorgon that's come to destroy me. The creature is shrieking, screaming. It has opened the window and is climbing in.  There's no time to lose. If I am to survive I must get away through a closed door but there are bars that separate me from the door. I try to squeeze through them but they are too narrow, too high. The creature moves slowly across the floor, its black silhouette becoming larger until it looms over me. It brings a heavy blackness that falls down on me, choking me, snuffing out all semblance of light. I have only seconds to live. I start counting, knowing that by seven I will be dead. I reach six, scream, scream again, keep screaming. I'm awake.

     “And all this happens in the old house?” says Theo.

     I tell him, yes, but he knows I'm not sure. How can I be sure? I was only four when we moved to London.

     “And it's the old house that's on your birth certificate?”

     “Yes.”

     Theo has a plan but not one I am going to like. As I thought, it involves going back to Milsea. “Confront your demons,” he says.

     Prat! Who needs demons when you have a gorgon? But he's right of course. It makes sense to go back to the house, see what memories it brings back. Perhaps by just going there, the nightmare will stop. One thing I'm sure of is that if I don't get sorted, Theo will leave. It's only a matter of time; he wouldn't be the first.

    

                                                       **********

 

      We set off after breakfast. If nothing else it will be a day out by the sea. When we arrive the sun is shining which is just as well because Milsea is a mess. It's inner-city deprivation by the sea. The only good thing about the town is the sky above it. Thirty years ago it had a working port, now there are shut down places on every street. We park outside a boarded-up house.

     Theo has a map of the town he's downloaded from the net. We set off to find Linklater Street where the old house is, or was; who knows if it still exists. I'm half hoping it doesn't; then we find it, a grey brick Edwardian villa that's doing its level best to fit into the neighbourhood. It's dirty, the paint's peeling and there's fungus on the wall. Oh, joy! I look long and hard at the five steps leading up to the front door. Do I remember them? I think I do. The rest of the building I don't. It doesn't help that the house is now a boarding house, Panchos. The name's on the fanlight above the door.

     “Well​?” says Theo, “Any memories?”

     I remind him that I left here when I was four, that the house was different then. It must have been. Dad was a chartered surveyor; he would never have lived in a slum like this.

     “So, that was twenty years ago?”

     I say yes, except that it was twenty-three years ago; that's one secret I'm keeping to myself!

     Theo looks thoughtful. “That's not long after the port closed. Guess your Dad saw the way things were going and sold up while he could still get a decent offer.”

     “I guess so. Lord knows why he bought it in the first place. It's far too big for three people.”

     “And then there was one.”

     I say nothing, there's no need. We've been through all this before. Theo's a good listener. There's not much I haven't told him about the car crash in which Mum and Dad died and the twelve years I spent in foster homes. He knows I'm tensing up but keeps digging. “And no-one's ever said anything that explains what your dream is all about; the red eyes, the bars in the room, the gorgon. I mean, why a gorgon? That's something out of Greek mythology. How weird is that, but it must mean something.”

     “No doubt it does, but the something, whatever it is, goes back to when I was a small child. I don't remember what it is. How can I! Mum and Dad never said, and there's no one left who can tell me.”

     Theo says sorry, he didn't mean to upset me but I'm the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have got uptight; he's only trying to help. He gives me a hug. We kiss. It doesn't matter that there's this man in a string vest leering at us from a first floor window; this is a moment I don't want to pass. Theo has similar thoughts. “Let's get a room,” he whispers.

     I think he's joking but he isn't.

       “What in this doss-house? You must be crazy!”

     He looks embarrassed and pretends that he only wants us to go inside so I can see where I used to live. “Isn't that what we came for?”

     It is, so in we go. There's a man in the office at the end of the hallway. If his name isn't Pancho it should be. He looks like a Mexican villain in a spaghetti western; greasy, swarthy and unshaven – all he's lacking is a sombrero. He seems surprised to see us. We don't fit in here. He knows it, so do we. 

     Theo asks if he has any vacant rooms. Pancho says he does. It will cost us £10 for the night. Even if we only want it for the afternoon it will still cost £10. If we want fresh sheets they will cost another £10. He recommends room twelve, it has a sea view and a door that locks. Theo gives the man a £20 note. I think he's expecting £10 back, instead, he's handed two sheets and a key.

     The room's on the second floor. When we get there we find a narrow corridor with four doors on either side. We're just in time for the cabaret. A couple are arguing, then it all kicks-off and they're shouting unsweet nothings at each other. A door at the far end bursts open and a girl, minus the clothes she arrived in, is pushed out into the corridor. The door slams shut behind her. My Sir Galahad is all for going to her aid but this girl don't need no saving. She pushes hard against the door and when that doesn't work she leans back and kicks it for all she's worth with the flat of her foot. The door jerks open and back in she goes.

     Theo is thoroughly turned on by this. He's in the mood big time. We might have new sheets but there's no time to spread them. No time for me to say no, but by now I'm not sure what I'm wanting to say. The bed we're on must be the noisiest in the hotel, if not the world, resting on the world's creakiest floor. Theo sounds like he's having an asthma attack and though I'm trying not to add to the racket I might just as well join in. Well, what the heck, we're only here for the day! Theo eventually brings proceedings to a conclusion, rolls across the narrow bed, teeters on the edge and disappears over the side with a resounding crash. The window rattles and a guy in the room below cheers and shouts out something I have no intention of repeating. Theo crawls back into bed. When he recovers his breath he asks me what I think about the room.

     I tell him that, “it goes up and down quite a lot.”

     “No, seriously,” he says, “do you recognise anything about it?”

     This is rather detracting from the afterglow I should be feeling, but I sit up and take careful note of all four walls. As walls go they seem very much of a muchness; covered in yellowing wood-chip, they are as unremarkable as the emulsioned ceiling. My attention shifts to the sash cord window with its view of the harbour. There's a balcony outside with a cast iron balustrade that goes from one end of the building to the other. Do I remember any of this? I'm not sure.

     Theo raps the wall on my side of the bed with his knuckles and declares it to be a stud wall, whatever that is. He thinks our room and the next one were once a much larger room that was divided into two when the house became a hotel. What else has changed, I wonder. Is there anything that's still the way it was?        

     Theo, however, is trying to stay positive. “Look,” he says, “we don't have to be out of the room until morning, so why don't we spend the night here.”

     “Why?” I ask. “Haven't you had enough excitement for one day?” 

     Theo's logical brain is working overtime. “Look,” he says, “all we know for certain is that your dream takes place in this building during the hours of darkness. If you dream what you do, here, tonight, what better chance is there of you remembering?”

     “And if I don't remember?”

     “Then at least we've tried.”

     So apparently there's nothing to lose unless we're murdered in our sleep. I agree, on two conditions: one, that he buys me dinner, and two, we don't come back here until at least 11pm.

     Theo retrieves his boxer shorts from the floor but is in no hurry to put them on. “It's only 3pm,” he says. “What are we going to do until dinner?” Two hours later we finally leave the hotel, under the watchful eye of Pancho, who gives Theo an approving nod; he knows a satisfied customer when he sees one.

[To be continued]

Copyright Richard Banks

 Banishing the Blues

By Len Morgan 

When I’m feeling down and low

I strum my guitar and sing

all the saddest songs I know

well, ain't that a funny thing?

I sing of those in trouble

or falling apart inside,

seem happy on the outside

because they still have their pride

Magic happens, all things change

The darkness will turn lighter

Heavy weights lift from my soul

The future looks much brighter

sadness changes into joy,

it needs the touch of a switch

then sloughs away like rainfall 

drains into a muddy ditch.

Changing all my lows to highs

setting all those wrongs to right

Just singing, all that sadness?

will banish it all from sight

Need a lift, inspiration?

Just you take this tip from me

leave the drugs and alcohol

Singalonga me, it's free!

 

Excellent guitar for sale £25 ono?