HAIGA (Photo Haiku)

May Day

by Robert Kingston

LOST AND FOUND (Part 2 & Last)

 LOST AND FOUND  (Part 2 & Last)

by Richard Banks           
            

         “Come and have a drink,” he says, “you look as though you need one.”

         He sits me down in a corner of the bar and over a whisky mac expresses his regrets over my unfortunate predicament. “You see there’s been a misunderstanding over your apartment and car. We thought you said that you owned them when you don’t which means that your capital assets don’t cover what you owe us.”

         “I need time.”

         “Yes, that’s what I thought, so here’s what we do. You pay us back over one year. That’s twelve monthly payments of £50,000.”

         “But...”

         “That’s the deal, pal. It’s the only one on the table. Don’t get me wrong, I did all that I could, but final decisions don’t rest with me. Believe me it could have been worse.”

         There’s an awkward silence.

         “Let’s look on the bright side,” he says lowering his voice. “You’re an accountant, you have client accounts, twenty of them if I’m not mistaken, surplus funds you invest in short term bonds. Pay us with that. It’s not your money but whose going to miss it? You keep the books, and if any one wants money out you transfer it from another account. Once you’ve paid us you could be all square in eighteen months. Everyone’s happy and no one the wiser.” Tom finishes his drink and leaves me to reflect on the feasibility of his proposition. 

         Of course, it’s not as easy as he makes out but as accountants go I’m a good one, in fact, more than good, and if anyone can do it it’s me. So, two days later I phone good, old Tom and tell him to expect the first instalment by the end of the month. I have a suggestion that he promises to consider: my professional services free for one year in lieu of the final payment. As an indication of my usefulness I tell him about this two year bond paying 4% interest twice a year. It’s an unlisted company,” I say, “but it’s risk free; the CEO has family connections that won’t see him fail.”

         Tom says he will get back to me and when he does we have a deal although it’s not quite the deal I was hoping for. However, it’s better than nothing and I also get to see Tom for regular progress meetings which gives me access to someone who could be more than useful to me. But mainly it’s up to me and if I mess up I’ll either be battered beyond repair or banged up for fraud.  And so I set to, working eighteen hours a day and pushing creative accountancy to a whole new level. Three weeks later I make the first payment and then a stroke of luck: one of my clients retires and heads off on a six month trip around the world. While he’s out playing so am I, and from now on his account is the first one I dip into. The next month I lose a client but gain two giving me additional room for manoeuvre. For the first time I’m beginning to feel in control and with nine payments made and only three to go I’m thinking that nothing’s going to get in my way. Then someone does, and it’s me. I’m out at dinner with a client. It’s his invite so I’m expecting him to pick-up at least half the bill but, after fumbling through his pockets he declares that his wallet must be in his other suit. He’s full of apologies. Next time he says it will all be on him. But next time is not what I’m concerned about and when I try and pay with my debit card the payment’s rejected for lack of funds.

         The next day a client pays an overdue bill and I’m solvent again but it’s too late, people are talking. “Never trust a hard-up accountant,” they say, “if he can’t take care of his own affairs, how can he be trusted with yours.” It’s a good point which is not lost on my biggest client who, without notice, sends in an auditor. The whole house of cards is about to fall but before it does I’m hot footing it away from Denton and everyone I’m in hock to. 

         Where I go is a secret I’m not telling you, only that it’s far, far away and doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK. I’m a new man, with a new name who will soon have a new face. Only one person is going to find me and as I sip beer at a beachside bar I see him walking along the promenade, suitcase in hand. He looks tired but when he sees me his face lights up and his walk quickens to a trot. He wants to run the last few yards, to embrace and kiss, but that’s not legal here so I motion him to slow down and not make a scene. When we’re close enough to touch it’s a firm handshake and the bonhomie of two regular guys who are pleased, but only pleased, to see each other. I buy him a beer. He gulps it down anxious to go inside to where we can be alone.

         “Is this ours?” Tom asks, glancing across the road at the Hotel M……

         I confirm that it is. “I’ve booked you into the room next to mine. Unpack, have a shower. I’ll be up soon.”

         When I am, we can be ourselves and after the passion of our reunion is exhausted we lie motionless on the bed wishing that the afternoon could last forever, at least that’s what I’m thinking.

         “Do we have the money?” asks Tom.

         “Of course we have the money.”

         “And it can’t be traced?”

         “No,” I assure him, “it’s been three times around the world, it’s lost to everyone but us.”

         “You nearly got me killed,” he says.

         I point out that if he hadn’t told Sunrise than the bond was his idea rather than mine they would only be looking for me rather than him. “Anyway”, I say, “they are looking for me, remember I’m three payments short of what I owe them. What’s more I’m also wanted by the law. But none of that matters because no one’s going to find us.”

         Tom seems reassured and his conversation returns to the money. “So how much did we make?”

         “Three mil.”

         “Pounds?”

         “Yes.”

         “And the interest payments that Sunrise received from your phoney bond came from the lump sum they paid to buy it.”

         This is not a question. He smiles remembering the first time I told him this, the unscripted business of our second progress meeting. 

         “Happy?” I ask.

         He says that he is and that I’m one heck of a devious bastard. By devious he means clever, but the best is yet to come. The town we are in has a casino which already has fifty grand of my hard earned cash. However, as the expression goes, if you can’t beat them join them which is why I have bought the business lock, stock and barrel. From now on all the money I lose on the tables will be mine and if that’s not devious I don’t know what is. Happy days are here again and this time they’re here for good!

The End.

 

 Copyright Richard Banks         

 WHERE ARE THE BLOODY CHICKENS

By Bob French

Jacque Fermanaux stood quite still for several minutes as he stared down towards the low cottage at the far end of the valley and allowed a tired smile to creep across his dirty face.  He had avoided the road through the village and had used instead, the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside.

As he stood in the late afternoon sunlight, he was conscious of the stillness of the warm air; the firmness of the land beneath his boots and the feeling that he had finally reached home. 

The melodic sound of a Blackbird high in the Poplar trees over to his left started to call out its evening song bringing a smile to his face as he took a slow deep breath.  He always liked sitting down with Monique after a hard day on the farm.  Just sitting there with her and the sound of nature surrounding them.  He always used to tell her it was their reward for working hard and caring for God’s land.

Something flashed way off in the distance and his mind was suddenly cast back to another time; another place, when the heat of the day made him suffer from thirst and the cold bitter nights bit into his bones. The endless miles marching with little direction from his officers or food to endure the endless trudging up and down hills, everyday praying that they would not be attacked by Spanish partisans or the British.

Many of his friends had simply fallen out of formation, or wondered off into the darkness.  He felt sad for Marco and Phillippe, his friends these past six years, who had, like him, been taken by the French Militia to fight in the Spanish War against the British.   They had vanished a few weeks ago and hoped that their deaths had been quick. These thoughts he knew would never leave him until his dying day.

Jacque Fermanaux adjusted his tattered rucksack, re-slung his rifle, gave his faded blue battle dress jacket a good brush, and started to move down the lane, listening to the gentle murmur of bees and the distant bark of some farm dog, as it scurried around after the sheep on the slopes of the valley.

He felt content with himself as he reached the canopy of trees that over the years had grown over to form a gateway to the valley. His valley.

Jacque was aware that the passing of time was different here.  There was no need to hurry here or there or rush to keep pace.  Everything seemed to slow down, the pace of the world cared not for the summons of the bugle or the fast pace and rush of the business of war.

Suddenly a figure appeared from under the eaves of his cottage.  His mind quickly recognized the red jacket and white cross belts of the British.  His instincts were automatic.  He dropped to his knee, cocked his rifle, and took aim. He was about to pull the trigger when from his left, another Red Jacket appeared with a small boy high on his shoulders. Jacque swung his rifle back to the first Red Coat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang and everyone froze.

The Red coat who had stepped out from under the eaves of the cottage stood still, then after a few seconds, laughed.

“God Jacque! I knew you were a lousy shot, but that was ridiculous.  I think you hit one of the cows in yonder field.”

Within seconds, Jacque was joined by Marco and Philipp his two friends who had mysteriously vanished from the Regiment one night some weeks ago.

 

“What are you two doing in British uniforms?”

“It was the only way we could pass through Wellington’s lines and fool the Spanish Partisans.”

Everyone was talking at once until the small boy who had been gently put down by Marco, tugged at Jacque’s trousers.

Marco bend down and lifted the boy up to face Jacque.

“This Dominique, is your Papa. He is a very brave man and like us, has come home from the wars to take care of you and Mama.”

 Jacque, stared into the little boy’s eyes and quietly cursed that day he and his friends had been taken by the Militia at the marketplace.

“Hello son. I see that you have grown up to be the man of the house. Sorry I was not here when you were born, but……”

Suddenly they heard a scream and everyone turned to see Marie, Jacque’s wife, striding towards them.

They quickly parted, thinking she was going to embrace her long lost husband, instead, she stood calmly in front of him, stared into his tired eyes, then slapped his face hard.

“You said that you were going to buy some chickens at the market.  That was six years ago.  So, where are the bloody chickens?”

Copyright Bob French  April 2022

 

Tylywoch ~ 13

Tylywoch ~ 13 Map of Cheilin

By Len Morgan

The Empire could be loosely described as a ‘D’ shape on its side, bounded to the North by a straight edge represented by the Sabre Tooth Mountain Range.   To the South and West is the sea and to the East the wild wide, fast-running Staalbech River, where it joins the sea, at its widest, it is 130 miles shore to shore.   The Staalbech is infamous for the lives it has claimed over the years.   It is not and never has been swimmable, despite numerous children’s stories to the contrary.   Only Sturdy sea-worthy sailing vessels would ever attempt a crossing.   The far bank from Cheilin is Bluttland, inhabited exclusively by Bedelacq's fanatical nomadic worshipers; a vengeful god who demands blood sacrifices on the night of the New Moons conjunction which happens twice a year.   On conjunction night, the sky turns red, the stars shine brighter than at any other time and Bluttland, living up to its name, flows with Blood.   Strangers are well-advised to stay away at this time - as all are fair game… 

Cheilin by contrast is remarkably stable, the Clans rule with iron hands, and the Eternal City presides overall.   Outside the clock face, the forts and the thirteenth Clan hold sway.   To the North, the beyond the Sabre Tooth Range, live the Huren, the Meyan, and the Kurdik races.   The inhabitants of Cheilin have never been encouraged to travel, so few know much about these races.   Those that do are either living as exiles, permanently outside of Cheilin, or they are Tylywoch.

.-...-.

His mother died birthing him, his father laid blame for her death on him and was never able to completely forgive him.   His father thrust him as far from him as he could, allowing him to be brought up by his nurse Glamhorten, a beautiful self possessed woman from Bluttland.   She had been sent to seduce the father, but had found him a lost cause; he was hopelessly in love with a memory.   The next best thing was the son Taleen.  She possessed him instead, in the name of the god of vengeance – Bedelacq – the god of her people.   She remained his guardian and mentor for most of his formative years.   At the time of conjunction, she taught him to worship the one.   Inhabitants of the palace frequently found the bodies of dead animals in odd places, drained of blood.   Palek, prince Taleen’s father refused to be concerned over a few dead animals and the habits of his son and Glamhorten.   She was an excellent nurse and companion to Taleen, neither ever bothered him which was just how he wanted it.

When Palek died, Taleen refused to grieve for the loss of that distant stand-offish man who'd done everything to avoid contact with him.   He knew no remorse, only anger at being cheated of his birthright.   Glamhorten assured him he had been born to rule the world in the name of and to the glory of Bedelacq, the one. 

Taleen turned all his anger and hatred onto princess Veille, now ruling in his father's stead.   They all told him she was a usurper, a thief, they made him swear blood vengeance against her in the name of Bedelacq, his father, and himself.   Glamhorten now his constant companion supported him and introduced him to a young Blutt Priest named Wilden, who became teacher and mentor to the ten-year-old.  In the years that followed he counselled patience and consolidation.   Taleen united the 9^th Clan behind him, building alliances with others.   The dreams of one spiteful and vengeful young man became the dreams of the whole Clan such was his magnetism.   He was cunning beyond words, infiltrating the inner sanctum of the Emerald Palace and moving his forces into the Eternal city without raising the suspicion or concern of anybody there.   Even the Tylywoch, the all seeing all knowing, were caught wrong footed by his stealth.   With Wilden beside him, he executed his coupe fearlessly with panache and daring.   Taking over the Emerald Palace, and executing the pretender Empress he’d long ago dubbed the ‘Shampress’.   It now simply required that he display her body and those of her bodyguard, now universally accused of her kidnap and murder.   At the end of the incident, he would be regarded as a hero of the Empire. 

Wilden had coordinated the attack to coincide with a major conjunction, to give him maximum power for the complete success of the venture.   His sister Glamhorten had been sent to turn a major clan to the one true God, to provide his followers with allies in the Empire, when they invaded.   A holy war, a Jihad, had been declared to bring the whole world to Bedelacq.   With infinite patience, they had laid plans spanning decades.   Plans that were now nearing fruition.   Wilden smiled at the irony, he’d engineered a relatively bloodless coup, to ensure an inexhaustible supply of blood for the God of vengeance.   He’d already had several hundred lives on the day of the attack, now the dungeons were full to the brim with Red Guards and close supporters of the Empress.   They would all play their part in bringing about the earthly manifestation of the God Bedelacq, in the corporeal form of the Emperor Taleen!    In just a few weeks his life’s work would be realised.   Wilden was exhilarated; intoxicated with joy anticipating their success. 

(To be continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 LOST AND FOUND   (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks                       

I live in Denton, at least I use to. I like Denton. Thirty years ago it didn’t exist, now it does. Three cheers to the guys who made it happen. Denton is a new town for a new age, Yorkshire’s answer to Silicone Valley. It has more millionaires to the acre than any other town or city in the UK. If you want to get rich go to Denton. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t work for the Tourist Board, I’m an accountant. What’s more, I’m a successful accountant which means that the people I work for pay me big bucks for a range of services that includes making their tax go away. That’s something I’m particularly good at and providing they’re good at what they do we all grow rich together. Happy days! At least they were.

         So, you’re asking, what went wrong, how come he’s not in Denton anymore. The answer can be summed up in just three words, The Sunrise Casino. If that’s not enough read on. In a way, in several different ways, Paulo Sivori and his casino were no different to myself. We both offered a service, the success of which was based on an understanding of arithmetical principles that, thankfully were beyond the understanding of our clients. We were bees around the honeypot and there we would stay until the pot was empty. But in Denton that was never, ever going to happen.

         At first, my only interest in Sunrise was the business they might be persuaded to put my way.  A formal letter of introduction was never going to be enough so I decide to pay them an unannounced visit in the hope of pressing the flesh with Sivori, the main guy. Unsurprisingly he was not in, or, more likely, not wanting to see me. Instead, I had to make do with Tom, a fresh faced graduate of the Harvard Business School who had just completed his internship at the company’s head office in Nevada. He was good, I give him that, and with the easy charm of one destined for great things deftly declined my kind offer. Seldom had rejection seemed so painless.

         I was about to make my departure when he offered me what I thought was the courtesy of a consolation prize – a tour of the gaming rooms. He left me in the company of an agreeable young woman in evening dress and a dozen gaming chips. “On the house,” he said, “have a good day.” Half an hour later I was chipless and reaching into my wallet to buy more. 

         This is not what I intended. In fact, it’s back to front, instead of taking their money I’m giving them mine. But no problem this can all be turned around to my advantage. I’m an accountant and numbers are what I know best. Choose a game, figure out the odds and make them work in my favour. So I choose roulette and for the next month, I’m at Sunrise every evening until late. Of course, I don’t expect to win from day one. While I’m developing my system there will inevitably be losses but once I know what’s what the cash will soon be flowing in. A month later I’m a hundred grand down and my bank account’s nearly in the red. But no matter, I’ve almost sussed it and as a ‘regular and valued’ customer of Sunrise, I qualify for a member’s account with a six figure credit limit. So, now when I get it right, I will make a fortune by playing with their money rather than mine.

         He can’t be serious you’re thinking, but remember I’m an accountant, I’m good at figures, I have a system. At least I nearly have a system and if I can only….... OK, we all know where this is going so let’s cut the proverbial and fast forward two months. I’m back in the office after another late night at Sunrise, the telephone rings, and fresh faced Tom bids me good morning and requests the pleasure of my company for a review of my account. “Can you call by at 3,” he says. This is the news I’ve been waiting for since applying to increase my credit limit, and judging by Tom’s untroubled small talk this is going to be no more complicated than the signing of a few forms. 

         I arrive with five minutes to spare and tell the girl on reception that I have a three o’clock with Tom Parker. She frowns but when I tell her my name she brightens up and says that I’m down to see Mr Vicinti. “It’s the third door on the right,” she says pointing towards a corridor marked private. Vicinti is the only guy in the organisation you don’t call by his first name. That is a secret known only to his friends and, judging by his unfriendly expression, I’m not one of them. If he has a nickname it’s probably Scarface owing to the etching down one side of his face. I sit down and his cold, grey eyes cut into mine.

         “Hi,” I say.

         He responds by opening a drawer in his desk and taking out a baseball bat. This he regards almost with affection before returning it to the drawer and slamming it shut. Given a choice Vicinti would rather be wielding the bat than passing the time in conversation, but business is business and can’t be done without something being said. He’s brief and to the point, “five hundred grand.” He looks at me as though I have just insulted his mother, wife and everyone else he holds dear.

         “I’ll pay it back,” I say. “I just need time.”

         Vicinti thinks that now is a good time and that if I have any thoughts about bankruptcy forget it. “That way Sunrise gets only a few cents on the dollar.”

         “But,” I say.

         “There’s no buts. We want the full dollar, 100 cents; in your lingo that’s £505,735.55p. Sell what you have and if that’s not enough beg or steal the rest. No one welshes on us. You pay or you pay. If you want to stay living there’s no other choice. Now, get out of my sight.”

         At last he’s said something I want to hear and I can’t get away quick enough, so quick that I almost collide with fresh faced Tom. Tom’s a nice guy although I’m inclined to believe that his presence in the corridor is not the accident he makes it seem.

         “Come and have a drink,” he says, “you look as though you need one.”

 

(To be continued)

        

Copyright Richard Banks

Haibun from me

 News round

Rob Kingston

 

News round

Mum was always first to rise. A stealth-like shake on the shoulder would see the remaining sleepers continue without so much as a disturbed breath.

out sharp a brief cat lick sharpens the light

On time to hear the 6 a.m dock whistle, I weave through the pre and post-war buildings, collect my round and make haste for the start.

Barking dog I own the broken clocks.

Like me and most, my dog Max was a bitsa (mongrel), he would head off to search out anything that moved in the shadows. Always finding something, always being someone’s alarm call

regurgitated war news I drag my feet through father’s youth

The papers of the time were filled pretty much as they are today. Ads, a bit of pomp and bravado, some sport, and the latest craze on the street.

rattling the blue blood a punk on the king's road.

Copyright Robert Kingston

 

 MAX

 PROOF

By Rosemary Clarke

Proof of Crime

Parliament states

When we all know

Of Partygate.

Proof of war crimes

Ain't it sad?

Is the world

Entirely mad?

Proof he hit her

Or she hit him

Our future is

So very dim

Many have seen

With their own eyes

No need for these

Evasion lies!

If no one listens

To what we say

The liars will

All have their day.

No more justice

Will come to pass

Then law will really

Be an ass!

Why can't we all

Tell the truth

Or soon we will need

Proof of proof?

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke