THE KOSTENIUK DOUBLE BLUFF – Part 1 of 2

By Bob French

The small windowless room was hot and stuffy. A tall elegant woman sat cradling an ice-cold bottle of water.  She said nothing for a few minutes as she stared at the short muscular man with Grecian features, who stood against the air-conditioning unit that hung on the wall, its best days long past.

“So let me get this right Bazyli, the British were not interested in hearing your side of the story regarding your last two performances, and as such were not prepared to share the intel from them or the CIA?”

Bazyli Demetriou, Head of Station for the KYP; the Greek Central Intelligence Service for Cyprus, shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head, but said nothing.

The woman quickly glanced down at her notes.

“The explosion aboard the Italian millionaire’s yacht…. caused by the incompetence of Benni, who accidentally set fire to the galley and the death of the Egyptian tourist, who you were certain was part of a Hamas hit team sent onto the island.”

Still, Bazyli said nothing. She was right.  If only Benni had followed orders. He thought.

The woman slowly stood and moved around the desk to stand directly in front of Bazyli. As he looked into her eyes, he caught the smell of her flowery perfume.

“Who is your contact with the British?”

“Freddy Baxter, Chargè d’affaires at the British Embassy. He’s been out here for years and knows everyone.”

“Then I suggest you start to impress him with how brilliant you and your team are so that he and the American’s think that the KYP out here is capable of not only being a useful ally in the fight against terrorism but is worthy of being a partner to the sharing of intel that goes on. Do I make myself clear?”

“You ask a lot, especially if I have to baby-sit that arrogant little shit, Benni Skassoss.  Is there any way you can replace him?”

The woman smiled at him and he noticed that it never reached her eyes.

“No.  You know that it was part of the deal made with the Director.  His son gets to play at James Bond; we get our funding.  So, fix it Bazyli or you will end up as a stationery clerk in Kazakhstan.”  With that, she left.

That evening as Bazyli sat on the roof garden of his apartment contemplating the day, Uri, his Comms Officers called to see if he was going for a run.

“No thanks, but I could do with having a chat tonight if that’s possible?”

Within minutes Uri, a very fit young woman who wouldn’t look out of place in an Olympic athletics team quietly closed the door to the roof garden and headed for the fridge, took a beer, then came and sat down opposite her boss.

“So Bazyli, how did your chat with Adda Galanos, our illustrious deputy director of EYP go?”

“It would appear that our leaders at National Intelligence Service Headquarters think we are incompetent.”

“Don’t tell me. It’s because of Benni’s screw-ups.”

He nodded and took another swig of his beer.  “I have a plan that will impress not only the Brits but the Americans as well, but only a few of us will need to be in on it.”

“As long as it does not include Benni, I’m listening.”

“What if we tipped off the Brits that there was going to be a suicide bomber in the heart of Dhekelia?”

Uri stared at her boss.  “Did Marco give you this?  Did he get it from White Beard?” There was concern in her voice.

“No.  I just started to think about the plan tonight. There is no way Marco would ever expose his agent White Beard, He’s been running her out of the RAF Signals Station at Troodos for a couple of years now.  No, we groom a young person, pretend that we are from Hamas and then plan the event, but at the last moment, we tip off the Brits about the bomber’s time and place.  They will be on hand to intercept and arrest the bomber and give us the credit for saving many lives.

Uri finished off his sentence. “And we are given access to the intel from the Brits and the CIA, clever Boss, very clever.”

The following morning, Benni was sent off to the docks in Famagusta to meet a shipment of supplies.  After he had left, Bazyli summoned those who were going to be part of his plan.  A man in his twenties called Toni who had infiltrated the young and rich scene on the island, Uri who would run covert comms throughout the operation, and Marco, who was an expert at running agents and be on hand with advice and support.

After the briefing, the room emptied leaving Marco and Bazyli alone.

“What do you think, will it work?”

Marco glanced back at the open door, then spoke quietly. “It would be good if you could move the site to Famagusta instead Dhekelia to coincide with the arrival of an American frigate.  That way you kill two birds with one stone as the saying goes.”

“When is it due?”

“According to White Beard, the tenth of October.”

“Umm, that doesn’t give us much time, but I take your point.  It is best to involve both parties rather than just the Brits.  OK let’s do it.”

“There is a problem though. White Beard is getting restless and is talking about retiring and going back to England. And to compound this bit of a bombshell, she has started to drink.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was staying up at Kyrenia last weekend when I heard a rumpus in the bar opposite my hotel.  When I looked down into the street, I saw the owner of the pub forcibly ejecting her from the place.  Before I could get down there, the owner had sent her on her way, and yes, White Beard was drunk.”

“Has she done this before?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I don’t watch or get close to her as you know. We only meet up when we have something of importance.”

“When are you meeting her next?

“I have put a request in her dead letterbox for a meet next Sunday.  I will get to the bottom of what’s bugging her and report back.”

It was Friday night and the seafront down at Paphos was crowded with the young set.  The beer and wine was flowing and the loud music was dragging everyone out onto the streets to dance.  Toni had recalled Bazyli’s briefing.  He was given a free hand to set up things for his part of the operation. 

As he sat outside the Blue Dolphin Bar supping his beer, he went over his plan again and worked out how to get the person needed for Bazyli’s plan, but persuading them was going to be another matter. After about an hour he approached a group of youngsters from the University of Nicosia who he knew well.  Using his Southern American drawl, he joined them by sitting down between two of the bikini-clad beauties on the beach.

“Yo, How youal’ doing?”

His arrival brought a cheer of ‘Hay Toni.’ In response. After his usual quick-fire round of jokes, he notices that the conversation was a little subdued.

“Nothin’ happenin’ then huh?  Come on guys, it’s Friday night, there must be a party goin’ on somewhere?”

Nancy, a young local girl studying Performing Arts at the University stood up.  Toni looked up at her with admiration; her rich black hair and eyes to die for always made his heart miss a beat.

“Yeh, Over at The Boat Yard.  Andreas is launching his latest boat.  Come on, guys, let’s move it.”

Within twenty minutes they had gate-crashed the party which was heading for an all-nighter.

It was around two in the morning when Toni and Nancy found themselves on the bow of the new yacht.

“You still doin’ your acting course Hun?”

“Yes, but the chances of me getting on screen here on the Island are virtually zero.”

Toni leant against her, smelling the cocoa perfume in her hair. “What if I told you that my boss wants me to make a short tourist film for a Brit company. Think you cun do it?” 

Nancy slowly stared up into his eyes. “What’s it going to cost me?” 

Toni lent down and kissed her gently. “Nothin at all Hun.  If yo’are good as you say yo’are, you got yerself a job and maybe a ticket off the Island.” 

“When do I get started?” 

“All in good time Hun, all in good time.” 

Sunday was an overcast day and Marco had stood at the bus stop waiting for the bus. Hopefully, White Beard would be on it and they could start their clandestine meeting. 

It arrived ten minutes late. ‘not bad for a Sunday’ he thought as he climbed onto the busy bus and came and sat behind a woman with short blond hair, in her forties wearing dark glasses. He did not speak to her as the bus trundled through the countryside. 

The bus stopped opposite the seaside attractions at Paphos Beach, and they both stood to get off the bus.  White Beard stepped into the aisle in front of Marco and touched her left ear.  This was the warning that she thought that she was being followed. Macro knew that they would now have to meet at the second meeting point forty minutes later.  All of a sudden their innocent meeting was starting to look dangerous.

 

Copyright Bob French

 Payback Time  

By Len Morgan

  Buquan spent his evening in the one place in Erriton guaranteed to attract him like a magnet; the Bragaddo gaming house.  He had lost steadily all evening then in the final pot, he drew three ladies an unbeatable hand or so he thought.  The pot went past his bankroll.  He put in a marker to cover the shortfall.  Then his opponent revealed three kings.  He looked at his markers, ten thousand credits, he was taken to the cleaners and would be working a long time for nothing…  The house covered his markers so he was taken to the owner’s office to arrange a payment plan.  He would not have had a problem in the Alliance States, He had always honoured his markers, but here in Erriton they were not so trusting. Heddi looked into his pale unremitting eyes.  She had won the Bragaddo gaming house from one such as he, hard and fearless, ”You owe me, and I intend to have what is mine,” she said.

“I have nothing,” he said pulling out the linings of his pockets to show they were empty. 

“Who are you and where are you from, I don see you around much,” Heddi said.

“My name is Buquan, I am from the Allied States…”

“You are D’lore man, you allow vermin who kill our countrymen go free!” she spat in contempt. 

He glowered but remained silent.

“You are no good risk!  I want settlement now!” she yelled with a sneer.

“I am good for the sum, in the morning I will contact a lender and establish a line of credit, and get you your money…”

“Not good enough,. You are a transient, I want reparation now!  Tonight!  I believe you not live past morning.  Nobody lends to a dead man.” 

“Many have tried and found death themselves, I am still here,” he said in a husky whisper that sents shivers down spines. ”I have no wish to add to the sorrow that abounds in your land.  Please prevail upon hotheads to stay their hands and live on.  I am a man of peace, I uphold the law.  If you do not respect me, you should respect the office I hold.”

“You have three option!  Pay me what you owe – NOW!  Go to prison until the sum is paid, or gamble once more…” She gazed into his eyes.”

“With What?” He answered.

Her face hardened, “with your life!”

He would have resigned himself to Jail for one night, knowing his office would have extended him credit in the morning.  But, that fatal character flaw in his makeup overrode the little sense that remained in his bone head.  He smiled, “I’ll gamble.”

“You don ever know the game,” She said with evident surprise.

“You guarantee a straight game?”

“Of course,” intrigue played across her features, “most pay, some go to prison, nobody is fool enough to choose the bottles…” 

“Nobody?”

“Almost nobody.”

“Tell me about the bottles.”

.-…-. 

A steward entered the gloomy smoke filled room and placed a tray on the table before them.  The room went quiet, tension mounted, as the gamblers gathered closer to witness the spectacle. 

“Here we have five identical bottles,” the steward began.  “Their contents are colourless, odourless, and tasteless.  Two contain poison, two are harmless, and one contains the antidote for just one of the poisons, taken alone it is harmless.  The second poison has no antidote and will kill you.  You are free to choose whenever you wish; if you choose a poison you will feel a prickling sensation in your throat within 30 seconds.  If you then select the antidote the symptoms will abate within 30 seconds.  If not they will continue to increase.  You will have two minutes to drink the antidote if it is not already in your system.”

“Not so sure now are we?” Heddi smirked. “dew wanna change you mind?”

He picked up the bottles and examined them, they were all identical. 

He licked his lips nervously, then slowly and deliberately stretched out his hand.  A low buzz went around the building.  His fingers clasped the bottle farthest from him.  He broke the seal, lifted the bottle to his lips, and drank the contents in one smooth movement. 

Slowly his expression changed a small trickle of sweat drizzled down his forehead. “Shit!” He exclaimed, and reached for a second bottle, broke its seal, and drank the contents. 

Thirty seconds elapsed as he reviewed the three remaining bottles.  He made a selection and downed the draft.

Collectively, the assembly held its breath, waiting the 30 seconds.

Time ceased to have meaning…  Two bottles remained.  Unhurriedly he reached out and selected a fourth, then hesitated as his hand moved to the fifth bottle, it hovered a moment then returned to the fourth.  He broke the seal and drank.  The atmosphere solidified, time was measured by the dripping of a beer tap.  The assembly remained silently spellbound.

Outside two feline antagonists broke into audible combat.  Nervous laughter was sharply quelled by a collective voice “SHH…”

Just one bottle remained unopened.  His big hammer-like fist dashed it to the floor…

“Yes!” came the collective triumphant voice.  A broad grin covered his face, and his arms were raised in victory.

When the applause subsided, Heddi pulled his hair until he faced her, “Preddy damned impressive.  You don really care do you!”

“You’ve done it too haven’t you?” he said.

“Dat's how I won displace,” she smiled.

.-…-. 

“Too much talk; follow…” it wasn’t a request, neither did he want to say no, not tonight.  She took his beefy hand and led him, unnoticed, away from the reverie, through a hidden side door, up a creaking flight of stairs to a deceptively roomy second-floor apartment above the gaming rooms.  They passed through a glass-paneled door which she locked behind them.  It was a large circular room walled with mirrors.  A raised circular bed covered with furs and silk sheets was positioned centrally.  “It was built by my predecessor.”

“Did you…”  He was silenced by her shaking head and a finger held to her lips, for silence.  She slowly disrobed him then herself; leading him into a smaller, tiled adjoining room.  She closed the door and jerked a lever and a torrent of cold water rained down upon them.  Slowly it warmed as she began to lather him all over, rubbing more slowly around his erogenous regions, then she handed the soap to him to return the compliment.  The temperature rose from warm to hot.  Their bodies closed in for intimate contact, they caressed and stroked, kissing and kneading intimately, admiringly.  She was a nubile sultry woman, black eyes and long dark tresses, full inviting, pouting lips.  He held her firm lean body and she responded by digging her talons into his musculature.  His body was older with more than a few scars.  Scars she traced slowly with a pointed fingernail, teasing, and pinching his nipples alternately with strong white teeth.

His hands encircled her waist, and he hoisted her to his shoulder heading for the bed leaving damp patches on her expensive floor covering.

.-…-. 

Buqan left Erriton and Heddi sleeping soundly, an hour before sunup.  A dangerous lady, he thought smiling, Better leaving early than explaining why I can’t stay longer. 

Heddi’s eyes opened to the empty space where he’d slept in her embrace. She smiled; his debt had been paid with interest.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 A DISH SERVED COLD                                                            

by Richard Banks 

I want one thing clearly understood from the off – I am a cat. This is not one of those stories that beguiles the reader into thinking that the protagonist is a human being only to reveal in the final paragraph that he or she is nothing of the kind of literary device known, I believe, as a twist in the tail. No way! My tail is not for twisting, especially as it no longer exists. Like the rest of me, it is as dead as dead can be which, of course, accounts for my ability to articulate my thoughts beyond the restraints of my feline creation. Yes, the afterlife is a wonderful place, an equal place, where animals of every kind, can communicate their thoughts as well, if not better, than their human masters. We have long been silent and therefore have much to say.

         From now on the ‘you’ I will be addressing is a single you by the name of Jason who is the central character in the story I am about to tell. You, Jase, are asleep. You think you are dreaming, that my thoughts are really your thoughts, an amusing little entertainment you have devised to occupy the nighttime hours. Think again, this dream is a developing nightmare that will continue into your waking world, it is in the way of a haunting.

         So, having filled your dreams with discordant thoughts, how shall I continue? Subtly, I think, a gradual escalation starting with the trivial quirks of peripheral vision, those half seen, half sensed movements that may or may not have happened. Tired eyes you think, a trick of the light, but when it occurs for the sixth or seventh time a cold shudder tells you that something odd and inexplicable is happening and is showing no sign of stopping. Nonetheless, in search of rational explanation, you go to the optician who is unable to provide one. Your sight is unchanged from your last check-up, there is nothing he can do. Perhaps, he says, a few early nights might help, less time in front of the computer. You follow his advice but to no avail, the only change is that now you expect to see what you previously were at pains to deny. One day that little blur of motion will come sharply into focus, then what will you see, nothing pleasant you are thinking.

         You, Jase, have a secret that the world has yet to learn. You have been clever as well as evil, you have laid false trails and left no clues but now all that cleverness is about to unravel. Strange things are happening and you are no longer pulling the strings. The visual distortions increase to the point that they are ever present. You try to avoid them by staring straight ahead but sideway glances are a part of the human condition, a lifetime habit impossible to break. And then you see it. For the first time, the blur takes shape and you glimpse not what you are expecting to see but the face of the almost forgotten Tibbs. Yes, you are looking at me. Your face registers horror, confusion but you manage to stay silent. Your brain is whirring, attempting to make sense of what you have seen. Is this really the same cat who saw what you did and tested your patience once too often. You search for logical explanations but there are none. You go back to looking straight ahead. While you do so the world is normal, but you are not, and never will be again.

         For now, you are able to escape me by being out. You hurry off to the town centre buy a few groceries and take a coffee at Costa’s. There you feel better, reassured. It is just imagination you tell yourself, get a grip when you return home everything will back to how it used to be, how it should be. Nevertheless, you delay your return for another hour.

         I hear the rattle of a key in the door and observe you coming in through the front door. You are whistling, affecting a nonchalance unconvincing even to yourself. Even so I will allow you a short respite, a few more hours of hope. You hang up your coat and proceed briskly into the kitchen where you prepare your evening meal. Having consumed two large mugs of coffee and a doughnut you have little need for food but the cooking of it will take your mind of the things you don’t want to think about, the things you try and banish from your mind like they never happened. Then the telephone rings and the pupils in your eyes involuntarily flicker across to the hall where your landline is located. Your vision is clear, taking in only the reassuring things that should be there. You answer the phone and talk animatedly to a friend who asks about Annette. No further news, you say, since she used her debit card in Calais. From there she could be anywhere, a new life, a new identity, who knows what she’s up to. Having promised to meet the caller when next in London you replace the receiver and return to the kitchen. You are more confident now, things are looking up, what happened before was just nerves but now you’re back on track. To test the waters you deliberately look both left and right as far as you can go. Everything’s normal and normal has never seemed so good. This, of course, is a false dawn, my purpose now is to build you up, that way you have further to fall. The landing when it comes will be a painful one, no torture could be worse. The landing I postpone until the following evening.

                                           *****

         Twenty-four hours have passed without a single sighting of what you don’t want to see. You, Jase, are in a good mood, almost euphoric. You feel like celebrating. Your microwave dinner is almost eaten and you are washing it down with a large glass of wine. There’s football on TV and your team is winning. They score again but as you leap up off the couch you realise you are not alone. The realisation is shattering, the blur is back and what’s more, it’s beginning to clear. You fall back onto the couch, wine and glass falling from your hand. The red stain on the carpet is the least of your concerns.

         It’s time to tighten the screw, I add sound to the mix. Above the roar of the football crowd, I meow. You think I am behind the couch on which you are sitting, my much used hiding place from you. It enters your head that you must catch me but can you catch what should not exist?  Nevertheless, you pull the couch away from the wall. You see a movement, a translucent swirl that moves away, tantalisingly out of reach. I meow again to signal that I am now on the wall unit where your wedding photographs used to be. This is more than a generous hint as to where I am but your senses are scrambled, overwhelmed by confusion and fear. I prepare to meow again but there is no need, another voice is heard. It calls out a single word, your name, in a voice that fills you with dread and me with joy.

         Annette’s back. No gradual escalation for her. Having made herself heard she now sits down on her chair and materialises. I drop down onto the floor and scamper towards her. As I jump up onto her lap I also become visible. We look lovingly at each other and then unlovingly at ourselves. Once we were in fear of you but now there is no need. This is payback time. You sink to your knees. Logical thought is beyond you now; you stare in terror at us and then at yourself, at the hands that made us what we are. For a while you are incapable of movement then you crawl across the floor to the drinks cabinet and begin to down a bottle of Scotch. You drink straight from the bottle and having finished one you begin another. You pass out. You have achieved a reprieve through oblivion but, no matter, in the morning you will have come to.

         Until then Annette and I will share our thoughts in a way impossible before. She says she always knew I was a clever, knowing cat but even she didn’t know how right she was.  As her decease predates mine by almost three weeks I bring her up to date with Strictly and Corie, plus what she didn’t know, but I did, about the plumber and Mrs Brown two doors along. It’s the best girls-in ever and we talk away the night until a light through the curtains informs us that it’s morning and time for breakfast. We may no longer be flesh and blood but that doesn’t mean we’re off our food; it’s just that now we smell it rather than eat. So, off we go to the Bentley’s who are cooking pancakes to be followed by croissants and freshly ground coffee. Perfect, heaven can wait!

                                              *****

         We return home for the serious business of the day. There we find you, all woke up and attempting to walk in a straight line. It’s like Bambi on ice and when we materialise again the shock’s too much and you come crashing down onto the coffee table. Annette giggles, but somehow you manage to rise to your feet and stagger towards us. You have murder on your mind, but even in the grip of the worse mind-numbing hangover, you have ever had you know that not even serial killers murder their victims twice. To increase your confusion we turn off the visuals and you stare stupidly at the empty space where we were. It’s all a dream you mutter but when did that dream begin? - you have no idea. Maybe Annette is still alive, maybe you didn’t bury her at the top of the garden. There’s only one way to find out and having fetched a shovel from the shed you begin digging until Annette’s mouldering body comes into view. You groan like you are in pain and Mr Phillips from next door peeps over the fence to see what’s going on. Only when you are back in the house does it occur to you that disinterring Annette in broad daylight was not a good idea. By then the police are on their way and when you do not respond to the ringing of the doorbell they break down the door and come in anyway.

                                            *****

         Needless to say, everything has turned out rather well. You, Jase, are in the asylum, and Annette and myself free to flitter from house to house sampling the varied cuisines on offer and watching the TV screens tuned in to our favourite shows. For all of this and much more, we thank you. Yes, of course, you were a heartless, murdering bastard. For what you did you deserve to rot in hell for the rest of all time, but the inescapable truth is that now you have freed us from your odious self we have never been happier. But don’t count on our forgiveness, that’s never going to happen and when your wretched, detestable life comes to an end your one certainty will be that Annette and myself will be ready and waiting to make the asylum feel like heaven on Earth. The worse is yet to come, we can hardly wait.                                                                                                                                     

Copyright Richard Banks           

Cheilin Saga ~ 33

 Cheilin Saga ~ 33  Contact from Orden

By Len Morgan

 

‘Aldor what is happening, why do we keep losing contact for long periods?’  Orden asked.

Aldor had just returned to the Eternal City; via the portal. 

‘I have been away from the city visiting with friends.   For some reason, their location must be a blind spot to our mental form of communication.  I will warn you when next I go,’ he said. 

‘You were right, it seems, the Blutt forces have pulled back from the Stalbech and we have gained a further six months grace, mayhap more,’ Orden confirmed.

‘Do you have any news from our mutual friend in the north?’

‘Still no word from Wizomi, but I cannot bring myself to believe he is gone, I know deep down that he still lives,’ said Orden.   ‘It’s strange that both you and Wizomi can disappear so completely at convenient times and places.   You must talk me through one such location sometime.’

‘When I have time to spare’ Aldor agreed. ‘Have you been following events through me?’

‘I have, but to be honest there is one thing that is causing me confusion.’

‘Which is,’ Aldor enquired.

‘The young woman Constance.’  He paused for effect, hoping to draw out some comment which was not forthcoming ‘not the natural choice for a bodyguard I’m thinking?’

‘She is a talented telepath who agreed to monitor the minds of those around the Emperor; for me.’

‘How did you find this young telepath?’ Orden enquired.

‘In the usual way,’ Aldor replied.  In answer to silence, Orden’s unasked question, he added ‘I advertised.’

‘I really do not follow everything you are doing, contrary to your beliefs’ said Orden.

‘Then let me say simply that our minds touched and we developed an affinity…’

‘There is something between you?’ said Orden, a glint in his eye.

‘There is nothing, are you familiar with a god known as Geoffe?’  Aldor asked.

‘Just another nonexistent pagan idol’ Orden said.

‘Well, she is one of his followers and, their Order believes me to be his messenger.   I cannot tell you more save to say they are working with me in the interests of mankind.   I asked them for assistance and they sent Constance.’

‘Stay in touch,’ said Orden and was gone.

Aldor smiled, Dan is right, the truth works every time. 

.-…-. 

Dragor was buried with honours.   Many colleagues from sectors all around the city attended, as well as his own watch, and many of the local inhabitants also turned out to pay their final respects to a popular and consistent champion of law and order.   There were eulogies from all levels.   Aldor was present but kept a low profile, he noted that Sloan stood unashamedly with tears on his cheeks, normally unemotional; he did not even try to conceal his depth of feeling at the loss.   Aldor was surprised also to see Doreeta and Bordek also among the tearful mourners.  

.-…-. 

Sloan's anger smouldered as he left the scene.   Some very good people had died, ostensibly in the service of the Empire, but Sloan wondered.   Obviously, the Tylywoch had a vested interest in the Emperor's survival but, he had recently learned that Aldor was not born to them.   It was possible that his agenda might be quite different.   Thus far he had acted consistently in Dan’s best interest but for how long might that continue?   He had followed Aldor, out of curiosity, and witnessed him disappear through a solid stone wall; that was not normal, in Sloan’s eyes, and he was deeply suspicious of things and people that did not conform.

.-…-. 

  “He returned through the same stretch of wall, through which you say he disappeared,” Faux confirmed.

“Goodman,” said Sloan “Your replacement will be here shortly, get some rest and return for your shift this evening.   Until further notice, this will take priority over everything else.   I want this place under 24-hour surveillance.”   As Faux left, Sloan slipped into the shadows to await the next watch.   Fifteen minutes passed before a young man appeared.   He seemed to linger close to the spot.   Sloan was about to call out and ask him what had kept him, but a sixth sense made him hold fast.   On closer inspection, the man proved not to be Militia.   Sloan watched as he moved, quickly to the wall, with his palm out in front of him.   Sloan made an instant decision and ran at the man.

.-…-. 

Brother Ignatius was instructed to keep Aldor informed on the progress of the five captive brides.   Since Aldor had exorcised their demons their minds had regressed, to childhood, they remembered nothing after the green light.   All had an aversion to the colour green.   When allowed to roam free for short periods they were unable to move freely, in open country, where grass and leaves caused them to become catatonic.   They were, in essence, seriously disturbed thirteen year old children.   Aldor had suggested that they be kept away from the trigger colour until he was able to return and assess them fully. 

.-…-.  

Brother Ignatius returned to the portal, deep in thought.   A quick look around, to be sure that he was alone, then he reached out for the entry pad.   As the portal opened something hit him in the back.   He fell forward, knocked unconscious by the force of his entry, into the portal.

.-…-. 

Sloan gazed down at the young man, with concern, turning him over to check that he was still breathing.   ‘There must have been a hidden catch’ he thought.   No, he knew it could not be so; he’d checked the other side thoroughly and knew for certain that the wall was solid.   Why had he even considered it?   At first, the place was in total darkness, now he could see the young man’s face.   Unless his senses were failing him there was a faint luminescence, growing brighter, emanating from the ceiling.   The floor was smooth and warm to the touch.

“Where am I,” he said aloud, hoping there was somebody within hearing.   He listened and consciously registered a barely audible hum coming from a door opening to his right.   Straight ahead there was a door, he tried it, inside there were two single cot beds covered in a soft white material.   After a moments thought he went back to retrieve the still unconscious young man and lay him on one of the cots.   He rubbed his hand across the top of the door and inspected his fingers, no dust, obviously in fairly regular use he thought.   He went back into the entrance hall to examine the walls.   They were off white smooth and warm to the touch, similar to the floor, the ceiling had lightened appreciably now almost as if it sensed his presence.   He followed his ears into the doorless room seeking to locate the source of the hum.   He noted there were two moulded seats of material unfamiliar to him.   He sat on the nearest, it was firm but remarkably comfortable.   As he looked at the table a panel began to glow revealing some unfamiliar symbols.   Below the panel, he saw an oblong plate set into the surface of the table, covered with a regular pattern of offset square tiles each bearing familiar, but stylised, letters and numbers.   He tapped some of the half inch square tiles and the letters were duplicated on a flat glowing tile set into the wall behind the table and above the glowing panel.   He tapped the letters ‘A L D O R’ which appeared white on a dark blue ground.  

‘You are not he…’ came the immediate response in yellow letters. 

 ‘N O,’ he tapped. 

 ‘Who are you’ came the reply.

‘S L O A N’

‘Ah a standard… no, a latent Revisionist!’

‘What does that mean?’ he typed.

‘I could awaken your senses.’

‘No!   You do nothing to me I am happy to be normal.’

‘Oh but, you have never been normal, you are a loner neither one nor the other; an in between.   Contrary to what you say you are unhappy and should make the choice, one way or the other, you would however be wasted as a Standard.   Let me…’

‘NO!’ he typed angrily.  ‘I am normal, a standard if you like…, he slammed the pad angrily.

‘Careful with my keys’ said the voice in his mind.   ‘You are certainly not normal even amongst Revisionists; you would be far from the norm.’

‘How are you doing that’ he thought, looking at the blank space where the words had been.

 ‘Do you not think it a far more efficient means of communication?   No chance of deceit or misunderstanding…’ said the voice.

‘I will ask again, who are you, where are you’ he demanded.

‘I or should I say we are the Portal.   This place is just a control centre, just one of many on Abalar, would you like to see the others?’   Before he could answer the screen lit up a map of the city appeared.   A small pink light winked in the middle of the screen.

‘This is where we are, the light turned blue, and these are all the others;’ the Eternal city shrank rapidly to a dot and a map opened out like a flower to reveal the whole world, and thousands of tiny pinpoints of light flashing like stars…

‘Aaah,’ He cried out in surprise.

‘You are not alone; you could travel anywhere, simple as passing through a door,’ said the voice in his mind.

‘Which door?’  He asked.

‘Just tread the blue line at your feet,’ was the answer.   He looked down and saw a luminous blue line had indeed appeared on the floor, leading out into the entranceway and to the left of the room in which he’d laid the unconscious young visitor.

‘Where would I go.’ he asked.

‘You have the world to choose from, you can go where ever you want’

“Where did Aldor go?”

‘The Abbey at Samishaam,’ said the portal.

“Then I will go to Samishaan,” he answered, speaking aloud.

‘Then you would have me awaken your senses?’

He paused “I don’t know,” he replied.

Copyright Len Morgan

 THE CHOICE TO CARE

By Rosemary Clarke 

We can't categorise people's problems

We can't put them on the shelf

The more we talk about them

The more we are ourselves.

We can't 'brush it under the carpet' 

We've got to lend a hand

To every single creature

In every single land.

We know how we are feeling

We just don't let it out

So I say that the whole damn world

Should just stand up and shout!

It would make us feel much better

And we'd be able to cope

To bottle it all up inside

Is acting like a dope!

EVERYBODY'S problem

Should be EVERYBODY'S care

That way when we all need a hand

We know there'll be one there.

Everybody's problem

No matter big or small

If everybody cared more

There would be help for all.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 The Best Gift of All

 

By Rosemary Clarke

 

     You know it's all very well to get presents at any time but the adage 'to give is better than to receive' is so true!

     The lovely glow that you get deep inside when you spend the time finding just that perfect present or card for that extra special someone, is out of this world and it doesn't have to cost the earth to give either; a sandwich to a person on the street without a home, a small amount out of wages to help a charity to make things better in our world, but the one we never give to is our planet.

      Really look at your recycling; can you give a jumper or perhaps a piece of furniture you never use to another, that may be the best gift in the world to them.

Instead of throwing the tins or plastic tubs make use of them and stop the seas and ground from being riddled with waste that we produce.

      And what about the other animals, why not put a dish in the garden of leftovers and see who comes? You will have the unique joy of seeing another animal and that might make your day too.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Jamie ~ 8 The End

 Jamie ~ 8  Twilight 

Len Morgan

 Just at the close of day, before the house lights came on, Jamie slipped quietly past the old upholstered chair.  He was conscious of the two bright yellow orbs that lit up, and the folup – folup as four padded paws hit the floor running just a few feet behind him.  He sensed the leap, and threw a zig-zag pattern, stopped, changed direction and continued his flight.  Always that tantalising yard or so ahead of the cat.  He knew his life was at stake.  He slipped from room to room, the deadly shadow closing in closer, closer ever closer…  Jamie stopped for a breather under the grandmother clock, listening to the yowling and hissing from his adversary.  He feigned to exit on the left then the right, repeating the pattern to wear Midnight out but it didn’t seem to work.  So, he lay down mid centre beneath the clock.  All the time midnight reached in with his left then right paw getting angrier by the minute.  Then, following each attempt the cats paws seemed to reach for longer and longer Jamie bit the offending paw which was withdrawn so fast it almost pulled him out from his hiding place.  He went back to his central position, but the paws were not grasping at him anymore, instead, the cat stalked around the clock…   

Meantime the other mice were raiding the kitchen, running off with as much food as they could carry.  When they’d gathered enough food, peed in Midnight’s food  & water bowls, they signalled to tell Jamie their larder was full.  They made loud squeaks and scurried around, and, as expected, Midnight gave chase…  That was the signal for Jamie to make his dash…

He hit the stairs at full speed, bounding up them with scarce a pause.  He was halfway up before the cat took up the chase, even so, he barely made it to the little room at the top of the stairs. 

He slipped through the partly opened door and straight to the bed.  As the door burst open with a bang Jamie was scrambling up the candlewick bedspread.  He barely had time to dart beneath the long straw-coloured tresses, spread out on the pillow, before the cat landed on the bed close by, Jamie wriggled to draw her attention then slid beneath the pillow.  Midnight saw the movement and pounced to where she’d last seen the mouse.  She slashed viciously with both her front paws, claws extended.  She felt them sink into soft tissue.  Jamie gave a squeal.  She ripped viciously attempting to toss her prey high… 

There was a piercing scream. A flailing of arms; Midnight struck out defensively, just as the lights came on outside.

.-...-.

“Aaagh!  Mummy Mummy…” 

“My god, that’s Melissa,” June yelled.  “I’m coming baby,” she bounded up the stairs.  Sean overtook her in time to witness the cat dashing from his little girl’s room.  He entered and saw their baby’s blood spattered face. 

“Daddy, Daddy, Midnight attacked me…” tears mingled with the blood on his handkerchief as June took Melissa into her arms.

“That cat goes, first thing in the morning,” she said, with cold finality. “No more Cats!”

And so it was!

THE END

 

Copyright Len Morgan