Picture Haiku In Action
by Robert Kingston
We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
by Richard
Banks
The last stragglers, finding the bank’s largess all but depleted, began to leave through a side door in the main office, for the more congenial surroundings of a nearby public house. His chief clerk, Miss Pymm, supervised their departure and shut the door behind them.
They were alone now, free to play out their
Christmas ritual. She would emerge from the staff room, red-cheeked from the
cumulative effect of too many sherries, with a sprig of mistletoe placed
conspicuously in her hair. He would bid her the compliments of the season and
attempt to peck her on the cheek, while she quickly turned her face to catch
the full impact of his lips on hers. Subsequent developments were less
predictable. Last year she declared herself unable to release the clasp at the
back of her dress and his help was needed not only to unfasten it, but to unzip
Miss Pymm to a point where her brassiere strap should have been.
Mr Trundle shuddered at the recollection and steeled himself for what was to come. Through the open door of his office, he watched Miss Pymm totter towards the staff room and close the door. He
readied himself for her reappearance by rolling up the blinds of the large
plate glass window that overlooked the High Street, and standing conspicuously
in front of its lettered glass. For good measure, he turned on the wall lights
on either side of the window. Not even she, he reasoned, would try anything in
full view of the fast food bar across the road. He looked stony faced at the
staff room door, and with mounting apprehension observed the handle turn and
the door slowly open.
The Miss Pymm that came into view was not
the Miss Pymm he was expecting. He felt a strange mixture of relief and
rejection. There was no mistletoe on her head, at least none that could be seen
beneath the crash helmet that almost entirely covered her auburn hair. The
floral, cotton dress that had swayed elegantly about her knees was now replaced
by a navy blue tracksuit which terminated just above a pair of mud splattered
plimsolls. A rucksack, containing her party clothes, was strapped to her back.
She advanced a few steps into his office
and squinted short-sightedly in his direction. “I’ll be going now if that’s
okay. Got a bit of a headache. Mrs Sullivan’s clearing up next door, she
shouldn’t be long.”
“Oh,” said Mr Trundle. For a moment he was
at a loss for words. “So, you’re off then?”
She confirmed that she was and with
measured deliberation attempted to walk, in a straight line, towards the
basement stairs. She paused at the top and clutched the banister. “Mr Trundle,
could you do me a favour?”
Mr Trundle felt his knees buckle. His
voice, when it came, was unusually hoarse. “If I can, Miss Pymm.”
“Would you give me a hand with my bike?
It’s in the basement.”
Mr Trundle wiped a clammy palm down a pin-striped sleeve and, without further conversation, descended the stairs. He
resurfaced several minutes later, with the bicycle, to find Miss Pymm still
clinging to the banister.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “I think I’ve had
too much sherry.”
Mr Trundle suggested that some fresh air
might help and managed to steer both bicycle and Miss Pymm into the walkway
outside the side entrance. He held the bicycle steady as she mounted it, and
for good measure gave the saddle a shove that propelled her beyond the façade
of the bank into the middle of the busy main road. He retreated inside and
returned to his office, where Mrs Sullivan was gathering up the debris of the
party into a large bin sack. He acknowledged her presence with a grimace that
he thought might be mistaken for a smile and waited for her to finish. She had
almost done so when the telephone on his desk gave two shrill rings. He picked
up the receiver, intending to say that the bank was closed, when the agitated
voice of Miss Pymm reverberated around his left eardrum.
“Is that you, Mr Trundle? Oh yes, of course, it is. Thank goodness you’re still there. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an
accident.”
“What kind of an accident, Miss Pymm?”
“One involving a bus, Mr Trundle. It
stopped and I didn’t.”
“Oh,” said Mr Trundle. “Is there any damage
to the bicycle?”
“That’s why I’m ’phoning. The front wheel
is buckled. Would you do me a favour and bring me my spare one? It’s in the
basement, next to the radiator.”
“But where are you?”
“At the top of the High Street, in the
Saucy Gander public house. It’s only a mile from the bank. It won’t take you
long.
There was a brief silence as Mr Trundle
considered the full implications of what she had said.
“It’s on your way home,” added Miss Pymm by
way of final appeal.
Mr Trundle repressed a sigh and confirmed
that he would shortly be on his way.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, to find
the pub in darkness and the car park almost deserted. He pulled in beside a
Ford Fiesta that was parked outside the main entrance and turned off the
ignition. A curtain parted in an upstairs room, to reveal a dim light within.
There was the sound of voices and a few seconds later a neon strip light
spluttered into life behind the glass panelling of the front door. Mr Trundle
gathered up the spare wheel from the back seat and hesitantly approached the
door. He was about to push it open when it was swung inwards by a sandy haired
man of middling years. The man greeted him in an affable Irish brogue.
“Come in, sir, do come in. The young lady
is upstairs with my wife. She’s a bit shaken, but the bike’s okay.” He escorted
Mr Trundle through the bar to a corridor where a narrow staircase rose steeply
to an open door.
“Up there?” queried Mr Trundle.
The Irishman smiled reassuringly and called
up the stairs. “Miss Pymm, your gentleman friend has arrived. Is it okay if we
come up?” The unmistakable sound of Miss Pymm’s voice confirmed that it was.
Mr Trundle mounted the steps and found
himself in a small storeroom containing a stack of packing cases against one
wall, several benches and a small table, where Miss Pymm sat observing her face
in the mirror of her powder compact. The Irishman followed him into the room as
another man stepped from behind the door. The man advanced resolutely towards
Mr Trundle, who sensing his presence, turned to confront him. His startled
expression changed to utter astonishment. “Meekins,” he said, addressing the
tall, thickset figure of the bank’s security guard. “What are you doing here?”
Meekins applied a large, gloved hand to Mr
Trundle’s jaw, and forced him against the wall. “Now listen good, Trundle. Do
as we tell you and you’ll be home tomorrow in time for Christmas dinner. Play
the hero and I’ll use this on you.” He pulled a revolver from his jacket and
pressed the muzzle against Mr Trundle’s cheek. “Now when I take my hand away
from your mouth, you sit down opposite Miss Pymm and listen very carefully to
what my colleague has to say. Is that clear?”
Meekins released his grip sufficiently for
Mr Trundle to signify his compliance. He sat down as directed.
The Irishman crossed the room and settled
himself next to Miss Pymm, who with apparent indifference to the drama before
her, was reapplying her lipstick with a gloved hand. “Now, Trundle, we are bank
robbers and it’s your bank we’re robbing. In a few minutes, you, me and
Meekins, are going there to empty that fine new strong room of yours. We will
need your keys and the combination number that’s in your head. We’re armed and
dangerous, which means that if we don’t get what we want, Meekins and I will
be queuing up to put a bullet through your brain. Have you any questions?”
Mr Trundle spoke slowly and in a faltering
voice. “If I co-operate, do I have your word that you will release me unharmed?”
“You do.”
“And, what about Miss Pymm?”
The Irishman let out a raucous laugh. His
hand alighted on Miss Pymm’s knee and gave it a playful squeeze. “Did you hear that, Vickie? He’s concerned
about your welfare. That must be a first. Look, Trundle, this is a three-way
split. You’re the only victim here. Our little Mata Hari has found a more
generous employer. Isn’t that so, my lovely?”
Miss Pymm arrested the upward drift of his
hand. “Better do as he says, Mr Trundle, no point in getting hurt.”
“None at all,” agreed the Irishman. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my dear, we will be on our way. Expect us back in half an hour, forty-minute tops. Until then, keep your gloves on and the curtains drawn. You, Trundle, will sit in the back of Meekins’s van with me. Meekins will drive. …Well, come on gentleman, let’s get busy. We have a withdrawal to make.”
Mr Trundle allowed himself to be driven to
the bank, where his abductors donned balaclavas and swiftly disabled the
security alarm and CCTV camera. He opened the safe and within twenty minutes
the contents of his strong room were transferred into six large holdalls that
were loaded into Meekins’s van. On their return to the Saucy Gander, they
hurried up to the storeroom.
The Irishman was first into the room, and
with a celebratory jig advanced across the floor towards Miss Pymm, who leapt
from her chair, sending it tumbling to the floor. “Vickie, we did it! We’ve hit
the jackpot, just like you said.” There was a tangle of arms and heads as they
embraced.
“Later,” she whispered.
The Irishman’s thoughts
returned to business. “Take off your jacket, Trundle, and roll up your sleeves.
Meekins has a little something that will give you the best night’s sleep you’ve
ever had.” He held Mr Trundle firmly by the arm as Meekins inserted the
contents of a syringe. They lowered him to the floor and watched as he rapidly
lost consciousness. “Okay now, no time to lose. Let’s get going. Vickie, you
take my car, I’ll follow in Trundle’s. Meekins, you hold on here for ten
minutes. Make sure he’s properly out, then lock up and follow on. Don’t lose
your way now, or my friend with the alibi will have other things to say about
you. Are you ready, Vickie?”
She glanced anxiously at the prostrate
figure of Mr Trundle.
“Don’t worry my dear. He’s fine. No damage,
just as you wanted.”
Without speaking she left the room. The
Irishman nodded grimly at Meekins and followed Miss Pymm down the stairs.
Several minutes later the sound of two cars could be heard leaving the car
park.
Mr Trundle opened both eyes and stared at
Meekins, who was peering through a gap in the curtains at the main road. He
quietly raised himself to his feet and reached out for a chair. Meekins heard
the movement and swivelled round to find Mr Trundle gently easing himself onto
the chair and mopping his face with a large handkerchief. Meekins raised his
arms in triumph. “They’ve gone,” he announced. “They’ve bloody well gone.
Trundy you’re a genius.”
Mr Trundle’s face creased into a weary
smile. “Not at all, dear boy. Couldn’t have done it without you. Indeed, had
you not told me their plans I would now be as dead as the proverbial dodo.” He
winced at the thought of what might have happened.
“Thank the Lord for Miss Pymm, is what I
say,” said Meekins. “Had she not insisted on you being unharmed, O’Leary would
have shot you in the back of the van.”
“Instead, he had to find a way of keeping
Miss Pymm onside while still ensuring my silence.”
“Quite so, Trundy. That’s why I got the job
of shooting you, once Miss Pymm was off the premises. O’Leary said you knew too
much and that killing you was the only way we were going to get away with it.
He was right, of course. Fortunately for you, he was talking to the wrong man.”
Mr Trundle was overcome with emotion. “My
dear boy, how can I ever thank you. Come here, big man, and give me a hug.”
Meekins did as he was bid. For a few
moments, they clung to each other, oblivious of everything except each other.
The siren of a passing ambulance jolted them back to reality.
“We’ve
better get on, Trundy. When I don’t turn up at O’Leary’s place he’ll be back
here in double quick time.”
Mr Trundle wiped the tears from his eyes
and took a deep breath. “Quite so. No time to waste.”
“Do you want me to do the shooting now?”
asked Meekins.
“Why not, dear boy. May I suggest, you fire
three bullets against the wall over there and three more into the packing
cases.”
Meekins connected a silencer to his gun and
discharged the bullets as directed.
“And now for the blood,” said Mr Trundle,
reaching for the spare wheel that had lain unheeded beneath the table. He
produced a tyre lever from the hip pocket of his jacket and carefully opened up the tyre to reveal
two plastic tubes.
“Shall I do the honours, Trundy?”
“Why not,” said Mr Trundle. He watched
attentively as Meekins snipped off the top of one tube and poured its contents
onto the floorboards beneath the bullet holes in the wall.
“Is that your blood or mine?” asked
Meekins.
“All yours, dear boy. Mine’s here. Now
trickle some of it down the packing cases and the rest on the floor.”
“Like that, Trundy?”
“Perfection, dear boy. What a picture it
paints! They shoot me, I stagger back against the packing cases and slowly
slither down to the floor.”
“Then, you and I bleed a bit before they
cart off our corpses and bury them in the woods.”
“Never to be found,” added Mr Trundle. “Innocent
employees of the bank, murdered by their ruthless abductors.”
“The Daily Mail will have a field day with
that, Trundy.”
“Banner headlines, no doubt, especially
when the perpetrators of this heinous crime are arrested.”
“Well if you’re careless enough to leave
your fingerprints at a crime scene it stands to reason you’re going to be
nicked.”
“Absolutely, dear boy, and what could be
more incriminating than Miss Pymm’s fingerprints on her very own teaspoon.” Mr
Trundle picked up the spare wheel and shook it until a silver-plated spoon
tumbled from the rubber tyre onto the table. “And what about you, Meekins? Did
our little ruse work?”
“Like a treat, Trundy. Told O’Leary that
one of my bullets looked a bit suspect, so he picks it up and gives it the once
over. When he gives it back to me I take it in the palm of my hand and slip it
into my pocket.”
Mr Trundle nodded approvingly. “Then all we
need to do is leave it in a none too obvious place for the forensic
investigators to find.”
“What about between the packing cases,
Trundy?”
“Capital idea, Meekins. The teaspoon can go
under the table. Remember to leave your own fingerprints about the room. After
all, as innocent victims, neither you nor I would be wearing gloves.”
“Good thinking, Trundy. ….. There, that
should do it. Is there anything else?”
Mr Trundle shook his head. “Nothing more to
detain us here. We will, of course, need to alert the police. An anonymous call
from a concerned citizen reporting gunshots in an unoccupied public house and
two large objects being loaded into the back of a car. That should bring the
boys in blue running to the scene.”
“We can do that on the way to the marina,
Trundy.”
“Quite so, dear boy. Let’s go. We have two
hours to get there, load up and set sail before the tide turns.”
“Then goodbye
“Please do Mr Jones. After all, those are the names on our passports. New passports for a new life together. What could be better? This really is a very special Christmas.”
The End
Copyright Richard Banks
By Len Morgan
As the door slammed, and the key turned in the
lock, Bector wretched violently; bringing up most of the potion he’d been
forced to swallow. He still felt dizzy
and sick but at least he was still conscious.
The world seemed like a reflection in a lake and his head wobbled as he
attempted to walk. Several times he
found himself on the ground, attempting to walk up the wall; he made a lot of
noise which alerted his guard. Seeing
the state he was in the man thought to help him back to his cot as an act of
kindness. As he regained his feet he
push the guard away from the door, dived out, slamming it shut behind him. He saw the key in the door and locked it,
there was a purse on the table with bread and cheese; he snatched them up. In moments he was out of the building and
running towards the
His memory had now completely returned and he knew exactly what he should do. He knew she had tried to take over his mind, and failed, or was he fooling himself? He saw the guards below and a-top the thirty-foot stand. He realised he would have to follow the plan; he worked his way onto the structure and started to climb. No voices demanded to know what he was doing. Above him were three figures, two very still, the third was using them as a shield. He continued to climb, closing on the assassin, his presence masked by the noise of the crowd. But his luck didn’t hold a figure at the top pointed towards Bector. He heard the shout from above, and so did the assassin, the man turned to face him, leaving his bow and quiver with the two corpses he swung from the structure, like a monkey, to get a favourable position above the newcomer. He grinned as his free hand drew a throwing knife from a bandoleer across his chest. Six, Bector mentally counted the blades, but the man could only throw one at a time.
‘It’s as well he doesn’t know I’m unarmed’ thought Bector backing away to minimise the target he presented. The man was bronzed and obviously operating in his own element, Bector was, by contrast, a fish out of water. He did however have one advantage, over the rogue rigger, he was Tylywoch. He was a survivor. He focused on the projectile and centered his mind. The arm went back slowly then shot forward and the blade arced towards him, as if in slow motion, and he was able to react by moving his body to one side. The blade clashed harmlessly with a pole and fell unnoticed to the street below. Already the rigger was hefting a second; Bector centered and faced him again. The rugged face broke into an evil snarl as he flicked the second blade.
.-…-.
Aldor watched the cat and mouse game being played out twenty-five feet above the street. He had moved closer but there were too many people milling around for him to intervene, with any hope of accuracy. But, he knew that Bector was resourceful, it was in his hands, all Aldor could do was watch and hope.
.-…-.
A third blade cluttered harmlessly past
Bector’s shoulder, this was not good, and the man was closing in.
“Come to me,” said Bector gesturing with a
confident grin on his features.
The man held his distance and drew a fourth blade. Bector leaned back resting his shoulders on the planking behind him. ‘Yes,’ he thought. The arm drew back and the blade began its flight, tumbling end over end, closing the distance one, two, three and a half turns, he rolled aside. Tonk! It struck the boards point first and bit deep. He grasped the hilt pulling it free and, in one fluid movement, returned it to its owner. A look of surprise froze on the rigger’s face as he slowly draped over a horizontal poll, at waist height, and hung there suspended twix heaven and earth. Bector moved towards him. It seemed as though he heard a warning shouted above the noise of the crowd. He ducked back and to the side, and a quarrel split the planks an inch to the right of his head where he had stood an instant before. Bector moved swiftly, towards his recent protagonist, using him as cover. From its angle, the shot had come from above. He raised the dead man onto his shoulders, as a shield, and made his way towards the bo’stad and quarrel then waited patiently for the new attacker to reveal himself.
.-…-.
Aldor watched as the second man drew a bead ‘Take care, shooter at right eye quarter’ it
seemed that his silent warning was heard and heeded. The shooter drew back from the rail to
reload and Bector took up station beneath it.
As the man came back to fire again he seemed to freeze and slowly tip
over the rail tumbling down past Bector to the ground below. There were screams from the crowd and people
rushed to the impact site. Others pointed
up to where the four motionless figures stood.
Bector was about to clamber up when Aldor spotted a third man
approaching the rail.
‘There’s another!’ His urgent warning was enough. As the man took aim Bector fired.
It seemed as though somebody was inside his
mind, at first he feared it was Efelel, but he didn’t doubt the warning. He reloaded and covered the rail waiting for
the second bo’yer to appear. When he
had a target he took his time and aimed carefully, the trajectory is
different when aiming up or down. The
bo’yer fired quickly, but allowed for the standard trajectory, and missed. Bector loosed his shaft a hair's breadth
later, but it flew straight and true.
He saw it take the man in the throat, no body armour there, his eyes
glazed over just before he fell.
Moments later a platoon of the Red Guard appeared at the top of the
structure he looked down and signalled that all was clear. A second man took a longer look and counted
the bodies 1, 2, 3, no four.
“Four
bodies sergeant! Ho, he heh,” he
laughed quietly under his breath.
“What is it Welek!” the sergeant yelled; then he heard it - loud and unequivocal. He leaned over the side and there was Bector, fast asleep, snoring like a tiger.
“Now that’s what I call being
cool under fire,” Welek grinned.
(To be
Continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
By Barefoot Medic
A deep throbbing bone ache drags me from sleep. I squeeze my
hands alternately, massaging the sensitive muscle tissue. Smoothing out the
tender flesh. Dad would say I’ve got the
screws. In my youth, such pain would have made me cry
out, and send me scurrying to the nearest doctor for
surcease. Now, it merely confirms that I’m still alive; I can
go on for another day smiling and bearing up as if nothing is
wrong. But, nothing is wrong, it’s just old
age. In fact, it’s been my age for thirty-five years, more
than half of my life. I smile, recalling one of Dad’s old
jokes:
“Doctor,
Doctor, I keep getting stabbing pains in my left arm.”
“It’s your
age,” says the Doctor.
“But, my right arm is the same age and it’s never felt better!”
I don’t consult a Doctor anymore, no
point, they never do anything to help. You’ve got a
Headache? Take two Paracetamol/Avril. Broken
leg? Take two paracetamol. Broken
heart… I just cut out the middleman now and take the pills.
I’ve just collected my repeat
prescription for blood pressure tablets, (one advantage of being over sixty in
the
They did it on food packaging, the
boxes doubled in size, and so do the prices, or the price stay the same and the
contents shrink from 500g to 425g:
Ingredients: Potato Starch,
Maltodextrin, Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil, Salt, Colour (E150c), Flavourings
(contains Celery, Soya, Wheat), Wheatflour, Flavour Enhancers (E621, E635),
Emulsifier (E322) (Soya), Spice & Herb Extract.
In case you’re wondering, on the other side of the drum it just say’s ‘Beef Gravy Granules’ (in 24 point text), with no mention of beef or chicken extract.
Maybe the name should suffice, it did
in the past. In the British Army circa 1964 I remember eating tins
of stewed beef with WD>1945 stamped on them, I pointed it out to
the cook. “Yea we got a job lot at a special rate,” he
said. I wonder if they’ve run out yet? a friend tells me his
grandson was eating out of the same WD>1945 cans in the first
The government has set up a watchdog
committee, costing the taxpayer two million pounds a year ($4 million US, and
shrinking), to check that we are not being poisoned. I rely on
the old tried and tested method, suck-it-an-see. If it tastes alright,
eat it.
Have I become a
cynic? When everything you see and hear in the news leads you
in that direction, it’s hard to refute; 2+2=4 yes?.
Have fun!
By Peter Woodgate
Janice
sat on the park bench and looked around. It was Autumn and the trees were looking decidedly bare, in fact, her
whole life seemed bare.
She
glanced at her watch, it showed 1245.
“Where
is she?” Janice thought nervously, “she was supposed to meet me at half-past,
she better not let me down.”
Her friend Jo arrived, out of breath and
apologetic, “sorry” she said as she gave Janice a hug, “now what’s this all
about?”
Janice hesitated before bursting into tears,
“come on, spit it out,” Jo gave Janice another hug then sat her down on the
bench.
“It’s Jim,” Janice wiped the tears from her
face, “I just don’t seem to be able to get through to him these days, whatever
I say or do makes no difference, it’s like everything is normal but it’s not.
“What do you mean exactly?” Jo asked
inquisitively,
“Well
for a start,” Janice blurted out, “we haven’t made love for six months, he just
doesn’t seem interested, it’s not as if I don’t make an effort, you know, Ann Summers
and all that, he’d rather watch football,
There’s
no fun in our lives anymore.
“Oh come on girl,” Jo put her arm around
Janice’s shoulder, “you know what men are like, I’m sure it’s just a phase you
are both going through. Arrange a nice romantic evening where you can both
talk, I’m sure that will do the trick, after all,” Jo added,” Jim’s a good
bloke, you don’t want to lose him.”
Janice looked at Jo and hesitated for a
moment before blurting out her fears. “I think he has someone else,” Janice had
a lump in her throat and fought back the tears.
“Don’t be silly,” Jo replied, “Jim’s not
like that, I mean, he’s just a bloke and blokes are, well just not sensitive to
our needs, it doesn’t mean he is cheating on you.”
Janice thought for a moment, “perhaps you’re
right,” she replied.
“look
I must rush or I will be late back from lunch, I will try what you have
suggested though, thanks for listening to me. They hugged once more before
going their separate ways.
Janice didn’t get much work done that
afternoon, she was too busy thinking about how she could arrange this heart to
heart and whether it could save their marriage. At present, she felt totally
depressed, was suspicious of everyone and felt almost alone. “Thank goodness
for Jo,” she thought.
Calling in at the local deli on the way
home she purchased ingredients for an Italian dish, “nothing like a romantic
Italian,” she thought,
“and
the foods not bad either,” Janice chuckled to herself, the first time in days
she had managed to smile, “keep it up girl,” she whispered, “keep it up.
Janice had prepared most of the food and
had laid the table by the time Jim got home. “Hello Darling,” he called out as
he flung his coat over the banisters, this was one hell of an annoying habit that
really bugged Janice. “Have you hung your coat up?” Janice replied, knowing
that he hadn’t. “I’ll do it in a minute,” Jim retorted, “there’s football on
the telly in five minutes, it’s an early kick-off and I want to change into
something casual.”
“Why
do I bother? Janice thought as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Look,” she
shouted up, “I’ve cooked a nice Italian
meal for us and it will be ready in ten minutes, we really do need to have a
chat. Jim mumbled something inaudible and after a couple of minutes came down
the stairs two at a time. His coat was still draped over the banister and he
nearly tripped over it before deciding that maybe he ought to hang it up after
all.
He walked into the kitchen and was greeted
by the delicious aroma of savoury pasta and noticed the table had been laid
with a cloth and candlestick. “Bit posh,” Jim remarked as he walked over and
switched the TV on. “Jim,” Janice raised her voice, “I thought we could have a
nice meal and a chat for a change, there are more important things than
football you know.”
“Not to me there isn’t, we could go top of
the league tonight.”
Janice
gave Jim a glare, “OK,” he held his hands up in submission, “I’ll turn the
sound down.” Jim walked back over to the television and turned it down to a minimum.
Janice
poured the wine and Jim sat down making sure he had an unobstructed view of the
match. “Smells lovely,” he said casually
his
attention taken up completely by the match as Rooney fluffed yet another
chance. “Sod it,” Jim thumped his fist on the table spilling his wine. Janice
was straining the spaghetti and hadn’t noticed so Jim wiped it up quickly using
his serviette, “hope it doesn’t stain,” he thought, glad that they were
drinking white and not red.
Janice served the Bolognese and sat down
opposite Jim, he was about to tell her how lovely it looked but realized Janice
had obscured his view
Completely.
He decided he would move his chair a few degrees to the left but Janice was
wise to this and moved her own the same distance to the right. “Look Jim I’m
serious about this we need to talk.” Jim decided he would “get it over with”,
after all, if he agreed to everything he could get to watch the second half in
peace.
“Ok,
what is so important that we have to have this talk, right in the middle of an
important match too?” Jim had put on his angelic voice,
very
submissive, and if Janice hadn’t known him better, sounded almost as if he was
interested.
Janice began explaining her concerns, they
were just not close anymore and they didn’t do things together (she didn’t actually
mention the sex word but by way of metaphors made it quite obvious). Jim
responded by dropping his fork on the floor which enabled him to peek at the
screen as he bent down to pick it up.
Janice sighed in despair and found herself
staring past Jim to look out of the window. She was staring but did not see the
rain that was now lashing down. A sudden gust of wind sprayed the rain onto the
window which broke Janice’s trance, she looked at Jim, he was oblivious to all
except the match on the TV. She started to plead with him to listen but Jim was
now upset, mainly because United had gone one nil down, and shouted back at
Janice.
“Look,
I don’t know what all the fuss is about, all I want is to watch a football
match in peace, is that too much to ask?”
Jim got up and stormed out of the room to
watch the match in the lounge. Janice felt completely deflated and got up to
start clearing the table. As she did so she heard a bleep from Jim’s mobile
which he had left by the side of his half-eaten spaghetti Bolognese. She was
about to take it into Jim when curiosity got the better of her and she slid
the phone open nervously and pressed the view button. It was a message from Jo
and Janice gasped as she read the message. It was short but had the impact of a
“Gone With The Wind” saga, it read;
Saw Janice today
She is suspicious
I think we should tell her
XXX
Janice
stood mortified, staring at the message but was brought back to her senses by
an almighty whoop from the lounge (United had obviously equalized) and she
became aware of her predicament.
“I
must get rid of the message,” she thought, “otherwise Jim will know that I have
read it.” She quickly deleted the message replacing the phone back on the table.
She finished the clearing up on auto-pilot; her mind fixed on one thing only;
“Where
did I go wrong?” The question rolled over and over in her mind and the fact
that her one and only friend was involved just compounded the misery. She
thought about Jo and felt nauseous, “bloody Judas” Janice mumbled under her
breath.
The match finished and Jim breezed into the
kitchen, “oh” he exclaimed, “I was just about to help you with the clearing up
but see you have finished, tell you what” Jim was now in high spirits, United
had won with a last-minute penalty, “why don’t we go down to the local for a
few drinks? You said we needed to do things together, let’s start with that.
Janice
was taken aback, this was not something Jim normally suggested, drinking was
very much a “boys” thing. Was it possible that he had been listening and really
cared? Janice wanted to say “no” she wanted to confront Jim about the text, she
wanted to smash something over his head but found herself saying “ok.”
As
she changed into something more suitable Janice kept thinking about the text,
her best friend, and whether her marriage was over.
They arrived at the pub to discover it was
a quiz night. Janice didn’t care much for quizzes but knew that Jim loved them.
She had been hoping for a nice cosy drink and a chance to chat but once again
her attempt at a serious talk had been blown out of the water.
It had been decided that teams should consist of up to six persons and
Jim had already collared his workmate together with his partner and he now
looked around for another couple when, who should walk in but Jo, Janice’s best friend (well ex best
friend) and her boyfriend. Jim immediately pounced on them and dragged them
over to their table. “Look who’s here,” he smiled at Janice, “we have a winning
team now girl.” Janice found herself recoiling as Jo gave her a hug and just
about forced a smile.
“You know Dan don’t you,” Jo
gestured towards him as he gave her a smile and held out his hand. Janice knew
Dan alright, in fact, most people knew Dan, he was a right boozer and Janice
couldn’t understand how Jo had ended up with him. Although none of her business
Janice had felt Jo could have done so much better, right now though she felt
they deserved each other.
Throughout the quiz, Janice noticed that Jim and Jo were getting very “familiar.”
They whispered to each other and laughed without sharing the jokes. This made Janice
feel very uncomfortable and she began to simmer.
Dan either didn’t notice or didn’t
care as he poured pint after pint down hi neck.
The quartet, in fact, came up with
very few correct answers and, had it not been for the other couple on their
team they would almost certainly have finished last. As it happened they fished
third from bottom and, disaster averted, Jim thought they should celebrate. “Anyone
for another drink,”
Jim was already sozzled, same
again Darling vodka and tonic?”
Janice declined, saying she had a splitting headache and wanted to go
home. She could see that Jim was annoyed but he begrudgingly agreed to join
her. They said goodbye to the others, Janice taking particular note of the kiss
Jim gave Jo, and then left for home.
It was a short walk, the footpath running through a small wooded area
before crossing the canal and joining the road that formed part of their estate.
As they crossed the bridge Janice peered down at the cold dark water that
flowed underneath and for a moment, an all-encompassing fleeting moment wished
for an end to the torment she now endured.
They arrived home and Jim immediately went to the lounge to pour himself
a drink determined, it seemed, to make up for what he had missed out on at the
pub. “Would you like one Darling?” Jim called out from the lounge, “OK,”
replied Janice, thinking it an ideal opportunity to get the matter out in the
open.
She walked into the lounge and, as Jim handed her the drink, she asked
bluntly, “are you having an affair with Jo?”
Jim nearly choked on his whisky
and stared at her disbelievingly, “what did you say? Jim replied, giving
himself a few extra seconds of thinking time. “I said are you having an affair
with Jo?” Janice found herself shaking as she asked the question again. Jim hesitated
for a moment longer before replying,
“Have you gone mad, what makes you
think that?” Janice noted that Jim didn’t actually deny it before shouting, “I
saw a text on your mobile it was from Jo, how do you explain that?”
Jim looked at her enquiringly,
“What text,” Janice then explained how she had read the text repeating it word
for word then found herself screaming,
“How do you bloody explain that
then?”
Jim stared at her blankly before
replying in an unemotional tone,
“Look, I don’t know what all this
is about, perhaps she sent it by mistake, maybe it was for someone else, why
don’t you ask her?”
Jim then switched the TV on before
settling down to watch the highlights of the rest of the evening’s matches.
To Janice, Jim’s reaction was an admittance of guilt and she left the
room climbing the stairs with tears in her eyes.
Janice was dreaming and the vision of Jim and Jo making love made her
scream waking her up with sweat pouring down her face. Jim was snoring next to
her as she glanced at the clock, the harsh red glare showed 2.30am. Janice slid
out of bed and collecting her clothes, crept silently downstairs.
She propped the envelope upon the mantlepiece before leaving the house
closing the front door quietly behind her.
The ducks had built a sleeping platform in the rushes under the bridge
That spanned the canal and they
flapped nervously as a loud splash sent a wave that temporarily flooded it.
After a few quacks and rustling of feathers, they settled down again, heads
neatly tucked under their wings, oblivious to the release of a tormented soul.
Jim woke up and reached over to touch Janice, his arm fell on an empty
pillow. “Strange,” he thought, as he glanced at the clock. The red glare showed at 6.15am. Jim got out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and made his way
downstairs.
“Your up early,” he called out as he entered the kitchen, then, realizing
it was empty, approached the lounge with a puzzled look on his face. He caught
sight of the envelope as he entered and walked over to open it immediately. His
jaw dropped as he read the message;
“I would have stayed up with you
all night had I known
how to save a life. I am sorry but
at least
you can get on with yours.”
“She’s
gone and left me, stupid cow” Jim thought angrily and I’d gone to all that
trouble to keep her special birthday treat a secret, Jo did say we ought to
tell her but I thought it would be a great surprise.
Jim
was seething as he looked up and saw the police car pull up outside the house.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
By Carol Blackburn
A track is cut, by so many that heeled,
Their way was direct, to shorten the
trips
It may be because of, dodgy hips.
But out and about in pastures, once
green.
A delight of scent and all that’s seen.
Freedom moments, that are stolen
catapulting into motion.
Now.
Memories of our devotion
Of another Indian Summer.
Not diluting its feel
In Autumn, is such a thrill!
As the dusk descends across our backs
And takes heed of all who went and
tracked.
Across the harvest fields, I would
tiptoe
For the scent and sight of the green,
Now mown.
Copyright Carole Blackburn ~ September 2021
By Len Morgan
Efelel sat in Mawld’s mind and witnessed the struggle on the rooftops. She intervened to gain him an advantage. She was shocked by the speed and the violence of her expulsion from Aldor’s mind. Confused, and in a daze, she lost contact with Mawld.
.-…-.
Daidan stood up in the carriage and waved, to
the crowds en route, encouraged by the warm reception he was receiving.
“I don’t think you should be doing that, light
of the world,” said the young woman sitting beside him. He could not imagine why Aldor wanted her
there so close to him. She seemed such
an intensely serious young woman it didn’t even occur to him to ask why she
thought she could give orders to the Emperor of Cheilin.
“You worry too much” he chuckled, ‘can’t see what Aldor sees in you’ he thought. “What is your name?”
“Emmiline,” she replied.
“I’m told you are one of Aldor’s friends from
Samishaan?”
“That is where I met him,” she said sighing
with relief as he returned to his seat.
“There is nobody out there trying to kill me,
listen to them, they love me.” He shook
his head, “It’s all scaremongering, to justify Aldor’s’ position.”
“I certainly hope you are right but…”
“Yes?
Don’t hesitate, my dear, you were about to say something pertinent?”
“Did you know there have already been five
thwarted attempts on your life this morning?”
Dan giggled, “We're almost there,” he said but
stayed firmly in his seat from then on.
“So which particular threat are you here to
protect me from?” he asked.
“I am just a contingency,” she said smiling
sweetly.
Forgive me for saying this but you don’t look
much like a contingency.”
“How then do I look?” she asked.
“More like somebody my sons would like to
know.”
She glanced towards his sons, one with eyes
for Zophira only; the two younger boys averted their gaze, furtively, as her
eyes fell upon them. She smiled
inwardly.
“Don’t need to be a mind reader to know what’s
on their minds” he said.
She
blushed, ‘touché’ he
thought triumphantly; at last a human response from her.
“They
will get over it” she said.
He looked
again, disappointed; mayhap he had imagined the blush?
She
smiled inwardly and spoke aloud, “touché light of
the world!”
“I like you,” he chuckled, “call me Dan.”
.-…-.
The confusing
scaffold structure, of the reviewing stand, loomed ahead. It seemed different with hundreds of people
milling around. Major Meredin looked up
with true appreciation of the effort and skill that had gone into its
erection. The gaffer had informed him
that several men would be posted aloft in case final adjustments were
required. Halfway up he spotted two
sun browned men sitting patiently in the basket like construction. They sat perfectly still, so as not to draw
attention to themselves. But, a
movement deeper within the structure drew his attention; a pale skinned figure
eased forward from the rear.
Sergeant, take a look at those riggers,” he
said.
“Sir” he took a folding glass from his belt and planted it against his left eye.
“Does anything strike you as odd?” Meredin
asked.
“They seem very still, one even has his eyes
closed, he heh! That’ll cost him, he
just dropped his hammer.”
Meredin turned and grabbed the spyglass,
“they’re dead,” he said quietly. “They
have been carefully posed.” As he
looked he saw further movement, the pale figure had moved in closer, behind the
two riggers. “There’s somebody up
there, waiting, we need a Bowman, It’s too long a shot for one of those,” he
said pointing at the bo’stad on the sergeant’s arm.
The sergeant’s face wrinkled in a pained
expression. “In close quarter
situations like this it’s a waste of time attempting to use a bow, so we didn’t
bring a single one,” he said.
“Somebody has to get up there, try to slow the
parade down and pass the word, I’ll see what I can do” he said heading towards
the structure.
Emmiline spotted the commotion and scanned the sergeant’s mind as he raced back towards the entourage.
.-…-.
Aldor
witnessed the look of amazement on Mawlds face as he clasped at the quarrel
projecting from his chest.
“Why did you play it out so long? You knew me right off,” he said accusingly.
“I thought perhaps he might give away some useful information?” Sloan was already looking to his friend Dragor. “I did not want to kill the man in cold blood; that would have made me no better than him. I had to cool down and act as an instrument of the law, not as an out of control maniac. If I allowed myself to act thus I would be no better than those I have condemned and hunted down over the years.”
Aldor had stood over the dying man and scanned
his mind which had been left open, almost as an act of confession, revealing
all his past misdeeds. In moments he
had discovered a man not so different from himself, but for the accident of
birth they could have been brothers. He
learned the details of his childhood, his rise to the heights, his downfall and
ultimate enslavement. He realised Mawld
had been driven and acted as directed by Bedelacq, not as the man he had
been. He felt anger and humiliation at the manner in
which the creature was misusing mankind.
“Why do you shed tears, for that?” Sloan had
been watching Aldor as he knelt over the dead assassin.
“He was a man, and he was gravely misused, but
I will avenge him and all like him.” ‘Bedelacq will not win!’ Aldor vowed.
“That’s conjecture, you don’t know that for
sure, you are just guessing” said Sloan his voice cold and empty, but his eyes
revealed the truth, without entering his mind Aldor realised that he had guessed
something of the truth.
“We need a longbow,” said Aldor dismissing it,
and becoming suddenly animated, all he could find were short range weapons
discarded by the assassins. He looked
up at the stand, in frustration as he saw movement.
“Why” asked Sloan.
“There are two dead riggers up there and an
assassin lying in wait” said Aldor with certainty.
“Then we need to get closer,” Sloan grabbed
the nearest bo’stad and a quiver. They
headed along the rooftops towards the stand.
“Do you have anybody closer? I
don’t think were going to get there in time.”
“There should be a man at the top” said Aldor,
scanning for the distinctive mind. A
man came to the edge Sloan waved, to attract his attention, and pointed down.
Aldor knew immediately he was not Tylywoch and
that the person below was; possibly their only chance.
“He’s not one of ours,” Aldor said, too late to stop Sloan.
(to be Continued)
Copyright Len Morgan