HAIKU In ACTION

By Rob Kingston

 

 UNCLE ALBERT

By Bob French

Jim Mathews grinned like a Cheshire Cat as he stepped forward and stretched out his left hand and took the firm, but wrinkly old hand of the Senior Scoutmaster for Essex.

“Congratulations James, it is not very often such a young scout as yourself is awarded the advanced tracker badge.”

Jim’s thoughts quickly drifted back to his dad, who had been a ranger in the Serengeti National Park, and since the moment he could walk, his dad had taught him how to track in the bush, then Jim and his Mum’s world came crashing down as his dad was killed by poachers whilst out in the park.

He was nearly eleven years old then and with his Mum, had to make the transition from the warm, wide open spaces of Africa to the cold and damp crowded streets of Basildon, in Essex where his parents had originally come from. 

That was five years ago and Jim had thrown himself into the Scout movement and had thoroughly enjoyed it, but he still missed the wide-open spaces of Africa, the people and most of all, the animals.

One evening he was watching a football match on TV when. At half time an advert came on asking people to adopt an elephant.  Jim asked his mother if he could.  Her love of the old country was as strong as his and readily agreed.  So that evening, they made a telephone call and paid their money on the understanding that they would receive a pack in the next few weeks with the details about Baba Mushouno, their elephant.

“What does that mean Jim?”

Jim could speak several of the local languages and grinned at his mother. “It means Uncle Albert.”

As promised, they received regular updates about Baba’s life; where he’d travelled to, how he had adopted a small herd, and even how long his tusks had grown.  There were always photographs of him taken by the gamekeepers as he wandered through the park.

Then one morning Jim came down to breakfast to find his mother in tears.  In her hand, she held a crumpled letter and when Jim managed to extract it from her fisted hand, he too burst out in tears. Baba Mushouno was dead! 

The letter did not go into detail, only to say that he had been found dead on the edge of the National Park in July.

Jim’s mother contacted the company who initially set up the adoption, but all they would tell her was what the Park Rangers had told them.

Jim, now nearly 18, and just past his driving test, decided that if he could not get the answers about Baba Mushouno’s death, then he would go out to Tanzania and find out for himself.

He sat down with his Mum and together they planned it.  They still had friends out in Tanzania who would readily help Jim upon his arrival.

A month later Jim flew into Dodoma international airport in Tanzania, hired a Land Rover, and vanished into the bush.  He drove deep into the grounds of the national park until he came to the village of Kwin nugo, the home of his boyhood friend Alex, now a proud Maasai warrior with two wives, four children, and thirteen cows.

Their meeting had been a tearful one and for days they sat and talked about the ‘old days.’

When it was time to bring up such matters, Jim spoke of his love of an elephant he had adopted in the far-off land where he lived.  Alex listened carefully, then nodded.

“I know of such killings.  Even though it is forbidden to kill in the park, I hear rumors of the musungu, ‘the outsiders,’ who pay large sums of money to hunt the forbidden ones.

Jim explained that Baba Mushouno had died probably in May or June, inside the north boundary of the National Park.

“I shall have to visit a friend I know in the Ranger Station and ask for details of the death of Baba.”

“How many day's walk will it take you.  I can drive you there if you want.”

Alex looked into Jim’s eyes. “Thank you for offering to drive me, but you must remain invisible if you are going to kill the Musungu responsible for Baba’s.”

Jim stared at his friend and said nothing.  Even when they were young kids, Alex always had the mystical ability of reading a person’s mind.  After a few minutes, Jim lent across and placed his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Thank you, my brother.”

It took Alex just ten days to reach the Ranger Station, listen to the information the Ranger had about the death of the elephant,  

Alex and Jim spent the next week going over the details of the two hunters who had entered the Park during the period of Uncle Albert’s death. The first, A Dane, whose only weapon was a camera.  He had been refused a permit because he had not paid sufficient backhanders to the authorities.  The other was a German; Wolfgang Schnieder, who had been caught a few years ago crossing over into the park and killing protected animals. The word on the wind was that he bribed someone and was released without charge.

Then late one evening as Jim and Alex were talking through the last of their plans a young boy came jogging into their village and was directed to Alex’s hut.

After giving the young boy a drink and an offer of some food, the boy told them that his friend, the Ranger, said that the German Musungu has crossed over into the park near the village of Ngulloo.

“Was that all?”

The boy just nodded, turned, and ran off into the dark.

Jim turned to Alex. “That’s seventy miles away.  I reckon we could be there in two hours, maybe three.

After informing his wives that he would be going hunting for a few days, he and Jim left in the Land Rover.

They travelled across country to the outskirts of the village of Ngulloo.  There they sat in the shadows and watched the men who would act as porters for the German, get very drunk.  At dawn on the following morning, three Toyota jeeps with 9 local men and a white man drove out of the village and headed north.

They knew the direction the vehicles were travelling and both spoke at the same time; “Elephant country.”

Their plan was simple. Whittle down the porters until only the German was left, then deal with him.

During the first night, Alex managed to crawl forward and contaminate the water of one of the guards who had fallen asleep with Giraffe urine; odorless, tasteless, and guaranteed to give anyone diarrhea for a week. Whilst Jim had singled out the lead jeep and punctured its fuel lines.

The morning brought complete chaos to the hunting party. The German started to beat the driver for being unable to start his jeep and kick and punch the sick man for failing to hold his drink.  He then ordered them to stay with the jeep until his return.

As the two jeeps pulled away, Alex crept forward and tied a long piece of rope to the last jeep.  At the end of the rope was a freshly killed antelope.  When Alex joined Jim, they laughed.  The smell of fresh meat would attract wild animals for miles around. Sure enough, by midday, they watched as the two jeeps were being chased by a pride of lions and had already driven off the route leading to the elephants.

That night, having disposed of the raw meat, the hunting party built a sturdy camp and posted guards around it.  Jim and Alex could observe the German getting annoyed with everyone as the night wore on. Foolishly they left their jeeps outside their camp, so Jim crept forward and removed the spare wheels from both jeeps, whilst Alex had found a whistling thorn tree not far from their camp, cut off a couple of long ugly thorns, and pushed them into the rear tires of both jeeps.

After eight miles or so, the jeeps started to lose control.  When they finally stopped, the German quickly realised that both sets of rear tires had punctures. Jim and Alex smiled as the German really lost his temper.

“Where are the spare wheels, you idiots?”

The men exchanged looks and shook their heads in confusion.  Thinking that they had forgotten to properly check their vehicles, he started to beat them with his cane.

“Right!  Take the front wheels off your jeep and replace my two back wheels, then leave me all the water!”

The remaining men now realised that for them to survive, they must walk back to the village of Ngulloo without protection or water.

Jim and Alex, who lay observing the fiasco, smiled at each other.  Their plan was working. 

After several hours of cursing and grunting, the wheels were changed.  The German, who had continually beaten the men whilst they changed the wheels pushed them aside.  Inspected their handy work, then grabbed his driver and pushed him into the driving seat, and pointed north.   Within minutes, all that was left was a cloud of dust in the distance.

They tracked the Jeep until it came to a wide-open plane and watched the Jeep skid to a halt.  The German was still ranting and raving and Jim could see he was asking the driver which way to go.  The driver just shrugged his shoulder, which got him another beating.

“We have to get rid of the driver?”

Alex smiled, “I know just the trick,” and started to look around for a long thin branch, then bound together two thorns from the whistling Thorn Tree, spacing them exactly two inches apart.

When he finished, Jim laughed. “Ah, the old snake bite trick, well-done Alex.”

As darkness fell, the German, still fuming, retired to his tent after ordering the driver to stand guard in the Jeep.  Around midnight, the driver decided to relieve himself and wandered off into the bush. Alex had positioned himself in a piece of ground where the moon shone the brightest and waited. Just as the driver bent down, Alex pushed the long thin branch with the two thorns into the driver’s leg.

The driver leapt up, dragged up his trouser leg, saw the tell-tell signs of a snake bite, and screamed.  His first thought was of survival and rushed back to the jeep, started it up, spun it around, and sped off into the night back towards the village of Ngulloo.

The German came scampering out of his tent, only to see the tail lights of his Jeep fading in the dark.  Realising he could do nothing about the situation, went back into his tent yelling obscenities at the moon.

During the night Alex and Jim rigged the trap in the open space in front of the German’s tent, then retired into the bush to wait. 

At dawn, the German came strutting out of his tent straight into the trap. The wire gripped his ankle hoisting him two feet off the ground.

Jim and Alex let him blow off steam before they approached him.

“Well, what do we have here?” Alex said.

“Get me down from here you idiots.  Can’t you see I’m trapped!”

Jim approached the German. “You are being punished for killing an elephant last year inside the park.  We will leave some freshly killed buck beneath you.  That should bring the hungry ones to you.  Once they have eaten the food, they will turn on you.”

The German screamed at him. “You can’t do this. I was told that I was outside the park.”

“It was only an elephant. You can’t kill me just for an elephant.  Cut me down, now!”

Jim spoke quietly to the German. It wasn’t just an elephant, Baba Mushouno was special to me.

“What do you mean, and what name did you call it?”

“Baba Mushouno.”

“What does that mean?”

Jim was silent for a minute, then spoke clearly.  “In English, it means Uncle Albert.”

A week later whilst Jim was enjoying Alex’s hospitality, they received word from the Ranger Station that a team of poachers and their foreign hunter had been killed in the park. 

The Ranger’s took no action.

Copyright Bob French

 

 PAST TIMES 

by Richard Banks 

It was Saturday, time to get up and clean the car. Not that I wanted to. After a week on the road reping bathroom consumables I really wasn’t in the mood. But it had to be done and on a blue sky day there was no good reason for not doing what couldn’t be put-off past Sunday evening. Of course I only had myself to blame for the way I was feeling, too much to eat and drink the night before. Little wonder then that, after a restless night, indigestion and a hangover were giving me all the excuses I needed to stay in bed. None-the-less I got up. Of course I got up! I’m a doer not a shirker and with a few pills inside me I was on the job by nine and determined to be feeling better by lunchtime and the big match on Sky. 

         I suppose when you have a hangover there’s no better job than sloshing water about on a warm day and with that thought in mind I was almost as wet as the car when the hose went bang and the water stopped. It must be a fuse I thought, but with wet hands and wet everything else this was not the moment for finding out. So, I finished off the car with a bucket of water and a chamois, got changed, and with dry hands set about putting things right. It was a five minute job. At least it should have been, except that there was nothing wrong with the fuse or anything else I could see. It was a job for the shop where I bought it and with only thirty-five minutes until kick off I departed there minus guarantee which had expired the week before. 

         The day was not going well but nothing a good win over United wouldn’t put right. Then it got weird. There was a new face behind the counter. Usually it was Kevin, if not him the Governor, but today it was Arnie. But Arnie belongs to eight years ago. What is he doing here? But with two customers in easy earshot I’m not about to ask. For now we’re two guys who don’t know each other and whose only business involves the repair of a pressure hose. He gives me a receipt on which he has scribbled, ‘round the back, 15 minutes’. He means the kitchen where we use to meet when the shop was a cafe, the four of us, the ‘Invincibles’  the guys who would never get caught, and so far no one has. I should be beating a rapid retreat but I don’t. What would be the point? If he don’t know where I live he’ll soon will, the shop has my address. I stay and make myself a cup of tea. If Arnie says fifteen minutes it’s more likely to be twenty and anyway the shop doesn’t shut for lunch until 12.15 so I’m not surprised when he waltzes in fifteen minutes later. 

         The players will be on the pitch, the match about to start but that don’t matter any more. I’m looking at a dead man and he’s looking at me like it’s Halloween and he’s playing the scariest trick of all time.

         “Thought you were dead,” I say. 

         He doesn’t reply. He tries not to scowl but he does. Never did like the bugger. Then he smiles, more friendly like. Perhaps this is going to be OK.

         “Haven’t you made one for me?” He points at my mug or perhaps the kettle. 

         “Black, no sugar?” I say. Even after all these years I remember that as clear as all the other stuff I would rather forget. I switch on the kettle and put a teabag in a mug that declares the owner’s allegiance to the Hammers. No change there. 

         “So how come you’re in the land of the living?” I ask. I try to make it sound like normal conversation but normal it ain’t. 

         “Well, no thanks to you, that’s for sure. But I suppose I’ve only got myself to blame. Never trust a villain and in those days that’s exactly what you were, a villain with a gun I didn’t know you had. And don’t think because you shot me in the back I don’t know it was you. Who else was there in Kenning Forest at 3am? No one, just you and me, unless you count Bernstein but then he was the reason we were there, the guy we had robbed and were about to bury. No shallow grave for him, you said, you wanted it dug deep so there was no chance of him being found. Room enough for two is what you really meant, except you didn’t. That would have been stupid, even more stupid than me thinking you were a mate. Anything to say or are you just going to sit there looking like the ghost you wish I was?” 

         So, what do you say to a man you shot and left for dead, face down and three feet under? How did I slip up I’m thinking. If I still had the shooter I’d finish the job, but now he’s the one pointing a gun. 

         “Well?” 

         “What can I say, you’ve got me, guilty as charged. Pull the trigger if that’s what you want, but then what good would that do? Why risk spending the rest of your life in prison when you can have all the money that’s owing you. £200K? What about that? No, tell you what, I owe you big time, so you can have half as much again. That’s from my share. What do you say, Arnie? Come on now, you know it makes sense.” 

         “Yeah, that sounds good except that you can’t give me what you don’t have. How did you blow it, Billy? The nags, poker, slots? The bookmaker’s friend that’s what you are. Let’s face it, if you still had the dough you wouldn’t be doing a shitty job pedalling bathroom tat. No, you gambled it away long ago which is why this is all about revenge. Let me tell you what’s next. I’m going to shoot you in the guts and watch you slowly bleed out, then I’m going to bury your dried out carcass next to Bronstein, by that old ruin that use to be a hunting lodge. So, Billy, any last words? Aren’t you going to make a dash for it? Too shit scared? In that case here we go. I’m pulling the trigger. Now!” 

         The gun fires, I scream, scream again, keep screaming but no body hears, so no one comes. I’m on the floor leaking blood. The glare of the sun streams through the window across my face. I shut my eyes to block it out. Then it all goes black, not a glimmer and I’m falling down a big rabbit hole to Lord knows where. “Help me!” And someone does.        

         “It’s OK, Mr Forbes, keep still. No cause for alarm. I’m Dr Assam. You’re in St Benets hospital. I’m afraid you’ve had a bit of an accident – an electric shock from that power hose you were using. You blacked out for a while but you’re back with us now. We’ll be keeping you here overnight but, all being well, you should be leaving us tomorrow. How do you feel, fit enough to answer a few questions? If not it can be put it off until you’re up to it.” 

         “No, that’s fine. St Benet’s you say?”

         The geezer in the white coat smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll hand you over to Sergeant Willard.  He was passing your house when the paramedics arrived.”

         He moves to one side and a rosser steps forward into view and sits down by the bed. He reads me my rights and gets out his notebook.     

         “You’ve been talking in your sleep, Mr Forbes. An interesting conversation with Arnie about missing persons and an unsolved crime. You can deny it, of course. No doubt you will, but if we find those bodies near the old gatehouse it won’t be looking good for you. ..I gather you support Spurs?” 

         “Did they win?” 

         “No sir, it seems their luck is no better than yours, but at least they get to go home. As you keep pointing out this really isn’t your day.”

 

The End

             

Copyright by Richard Banks

Tylywoch ~ 29

 Tylywoch ~ 29 The Subterfuge 

By Len Morgan

Aldor's scouts returned, confirming that the 9^th Clan were massed in strength at all four gates to the Eternal City.  An army of about ten thousand soldiers drilled to obey orders instantly. Their leaders were confirmed as members of the Surbatt.   They would all have views concerning the rights and wrongs of the imminent conflict.   Each, was well aware that anything between five and ten thousand good men would be maimed or die in the ensuing conflict.   Their leaders at least were sure their cause was just, and that within days prince Taleen would be installed as Emperor of the Cheilin Empire. 

It was a stand-off.   Both armies knew the disposition of the other and yet refused to leave their entrenched positions.   Aldor knew the morale of his own force was high.  They believed the Empress still lived and therefore still ruled.   They were well-armed, well-fed, well-led, and highly motivated, from Company levels right down to Platoon levels.   He also knew that they were well-trained.  Each unit would fight as a single entity when the time came, and they would carry out whatever tasks he set for them.   His immediate goal was to get into the Eternal City.   He acknowledged that the 9^th were as well disciplined, but did they have the heart, or the same high degree of commitment, and were their leaders well tested and competent?  Aldor doubted that. 

At midnight, he sent a dozen Quads of Tylywoch to strategic points with the aim of eliminating the Surbatt higher command and as many officers of the Surbatt as could be identified.  They performed their tasks efficiently and, by morning not a ranking officer of the Surbatt remained alive. 

Leaflets and letters were distributed amongst the rank and file disclosing the true situation in the city proving beyond doubt that the Surbatt were renegades.   At first light, Aldor led 1500 Warriors from the 13^th, through the ranks of the 9^th, in column of route straight up to and through the open gates of the city with little opposition. 

(to be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan  

 

 THE PASSING OF MOLLY MAGUIRE

By Bob French

It was nearly eight in the evening.  A Friday I recall, on the 23rd of August, in the Year of Our Lord 1915.  The first anniversary of the war to end all wars; a war that if you believe those who knew no better, would end by Christmas.

          I had just got off the tram from St. Pancras and was looking forward to two weeks shore leave from my ship, now docked at Kent when there was a huge explosion.  At first, I thought it was a gas explosion, but something caught my eye and I looked up to see a German Zeppelin slowly vanish into some low cloud.  Without thinking, I rushed towards the smoke and rubble where, just a few minutes ago, a family had been sitting down to evening tea.  As I started to climb over the remains of the front of the semi-detached house, a tall, thick set fireman brushed past me and scrambled into the heart of the house. As quick as a flash, a short woman with a pretty yellow hat pushed past me and followed the fireman into oblivion. Her appearance caught me by surprise, then I could taste the stench of the smoke and the noise of screams started to sink into my head.

Half an hour later, the fireman, the little woman with the pretty yellow hat and I stumbled out of the smoke and debris, having cleared the house of the old couple.  They had been sitting in the parlor taking a cup of tea when the bomb had struck the house. Their whole life’s possessions destroyed in a matter of seconds.

“You ain’t from around here are you sailor boy?”

I turned and looked down at the woman in her yellow hat and smiled. 

“What’s so funny then?”

I leant forward and straightened up her hat and attempted to brush some of the grime that had fallen on it, when she pushed my hand away.

“Ear, enough of that, taking liberties with a single girl.  I don’t even knows your name?” 

I smiled. “John.  John McCormack Miss, of His Majesty’s Ship, Doncaster.”

“You’re a long way from the sea, aren’t you?”

“Got me a 14-day pass and thought I’d spend it up here in the smoke.  I grew up around these parts before I went to sea.  Then when war broke out, I moved from trawlers to fighting ships.”

“So, whose waiting for yer then?

I felt a stab of pain dig into my heart.

“No one.  My parents were killed in the first bombing of the city, then my sister, Edith goes off and joins the Army Nursing Corps.  She’s out in France now doin’ her bit.”

“Fancy a drink then?”  I stared at the woman, then glanced around the surrounding area.  All I could see was devastation, smoke, fire and people wandering around in a state of shock.

“Where?  Everything has been trashed.”

“Just follow me, sailor boy.  I knows a place.”  And with that, I diligently followed her through the ruins. 

We had been walking for about fifteen minutes when she suddenly turned down a very narrow dark alleyway and tapped on a door.  It opened a few inches, then opened wider and I heard a thick Irish accent greet her.  “Hi Molly.”

“This ‘ere is John, a friend of mine.  We just been digging out the Philipson’s.  Poor blighters coped it.  As I pass through into a very short hallway, the Tall, thickset Irishman put up his hand.

“Are youse carrying then?”  I stared at him and frowned.  “Do you have any weapons on you mate?”

“Sorry Paddy left them on board my ship.”  He seemed to accept my declaration and let me pass.  I caught up with the woman who had started to descend a narrow, poorly lit, flight of stairs.  When we reached what felt like the basement, she pushed open a door and we stepped into a brightly lit room.

“Fancy that drink, John?”  I nodded, then to my surprise, took in the number of boxes and crates of alcohol, cigarettes, chocolate and any other items that were the lifeline of what was known as the ‘black market.’

She caught my eye.  If you got nothing special to do on your shore leave, do you want to help us?”

“What do you do?  I tried to think how such an operation could run without the law getting to hear about it, but asked anyway. “Run the black market for the east end?” I chuckled.

“On the contrary, we have teams of volunteers that goes out to every bombing or explosion in our area to try and ‘elp the lads of the fire brigade dig out those poor blighters.  If we find any survivors, we takes care of them.”

“How?”

“You ask a lot of questions sailor boy.”  A face covered in a ginger beard popped up from behind a dozen crates of chocolates.

“No offence. It is just I’m struggling to find out what a person who had just lost everything could do with a couple of bottles of brandy and some chocolates or ciggys?”

Molly slowly moved to the mirror and took off her yellow hat, gave it a good brush, then, staring into the mirror, placed it back on her head. “We don’t give them any of this stuff.  Well sell it on the black market, and the money we gets, we gives to those poor blighters who needs it, depending on their needs.

I felt so foolish. “So, you are the Good Samaritans saving the lives of those who have just lost everything, and help them to put their lives back together again.  Unbelievable.”

The ginger bearded head popped up again. “We also advise them on how the council can help em.  You know, rehousing, rebuilding, moving schools.  All kinds of stuff.”

I turned to Molly.  “If it is alright with you Miss, I’m In.”

“Good.” She glanced down at my dirty naval uniform. “We can’t ave you roaming the streets looking like a tramp.  You need to change.” Albert!” she yelled and a door over to the right of the room opened. A distinguished looking man wearing what looked like a regimental tie stepped out. “Be a love and give John ‘ere some decent clothes and shoes.  Then give him the brief about what we do.  He starts tonight.”

“Right you are Molly.” I followed the man through into his office and he nodded me to a curtain. Within minutes I was standing in well-worn civies. I glanced in the mirror and thought that my Petty Officer would never let me go ashore looking like this, but, ‘when in Rome ’I thought.

His parting words to me, after the briefing, was that ‘what Molly and we do was, as far as the law was concerned, illegal, and they have been after her for months.  This is the fourth time we’ve moved in the past year, so get in, and get out sharpish.  If you get caught, play dumb.”

As I relaxed with a cup of tea, Molly introduced me to Michael.  A deserter from France.  “Michael here will show you the ropes, so watch, listen and be careful, understood?”

Within the hour, the telephone rang.  Molly took it, then stared at the map that hung on the wall, then put the phone down. “It’s at the East India Dock road and Saracen Street junction. Number 23.”  It took me by surprise at the speed at which Michael grabbed his jacket and a brown leather bag and was halfway up the stairs before I caught up.  It took us fifteen minutes to reach the area but the police and the fire brigade had already cordoned off the area, but Michael pushed his way forward until he came up against the law.

“I’m a doctor.” He raised his brown leather bag that most doctors carried around.  As if by magic, they let him through.  I was about to follow him when a hand stopped me.

“Sorry son, only emergency staff.”  Then I heard Michael shouting over his shoulder, “he’s with me.”

We found that there were four survivors.  The family had lost two young children.  Michael took down as much information as possible, then pretended to look them over, and nodded. 

As we left Michael asked the father where he and his family would be staying.  Once he noted the address down in his book, we quietly withdrew.

Back at the basement, Michael passed the information to Molly who then gave Albert the details.  She smiled at me.  “He’ll work out what we have to sell so we can support them until the council steps in. They’ll get a goodly handout in the next few days. Now go up to Paddy on the door and he’ll tell you where you’re sleeping tonight.  See you at ten tomorrow, and thank you, John.”

This went on for ten days until one night, Michael and I were out on a call.  When we returned, the house where Molly ran her operation was in flames. Thick black smoke spiraled up into the night sky and what remained of the place seemed to be burning furiously.  We tried to get closer, but a police sergeant stopped us.  Michael looked concerned as he asked.

“Did anyone survive Sergeant?”

The police sergeant shook his head, then looked as us.  “To late I’m afraid. You lads local then?”

We shook our heads.  He seemed to be talking at the flames.

“Funny, no one could recall hearing an aircraft or seeing a zeppelin, so it must have been a gas leak.  Pity. We been keeping an eye on this place for a week.  The Guvnor thinks it was the main bases for a gang of black marketers.”  It was then that I saw in the flickering flames the crumpled yellow hat of Molly’s laying in the rubble.

“Which gang?”

“Molly Maguire.  She was very good.  We been after her for nearly a year.  Well, at least we can cross her off our list. By the look of these flames, they’ll be nothing but ashes come the mornin.”

We stayed for a few minutes, then went back to our digs to think about what we should do next.  I couldn’t get it out of my head that Molly was gone.

I looked across at Michael.  What regiment were you from mate?”

“Second Battalion, the Middlesex Regiment.”

“Do you have any family in London?”  He shook his head. “Newcastle.”

We spent that night talking about the old days, before the war and some of the jobs Michael had pulled off before joining Molly’s organization.  I decided that it was time to get back to my ship, so I packed up my things into my kit bag; tried to clean my uniform so that I could pass muster at the quarterdeck, then left.

It was a good half hours walk to St. Pancras, so I stepped out in the crisp morning sunshine.  I came to a crossing and waited until the lights changed. As I stood there staring aimlessly at the people on the other side of the road, a figure moved out of a doorway and caught my attention.  As our eyes met, she smiled, then a double decker bus slowly passed between us.  When it had gone the doorway was empty.  Molly had vanished.  As I joined the surge of people crossing the road, I said a silent farewell and wish her all the best.

 

Copyright Bob French

Halloween

 Halloween 

Jane Scoggins 

We had had a good night out at the Travellers Joy pub in Rayleigh, me and the girls. Six of us old friends. It had been ages since we had had a night out together, before the Covid pandemic struck in fact. We had all had Covid at some point over the last 18 months or so. Jenny and I had been really poorly and Jenny still didn't feel 100% but apart from a lingering cough for a month after, the other girls hadn't been too badly affected. Anyway we were all glad to have survived intact. Both Ann and Clare had lost a loved one during the lock downs. Ann her Nan, and Clare her Granddad who had been in a nursing home. Neither had been able to visit and say goodbye. A horrible time it had been. We were all triple vaxed up and ready to celebrate all the missed birthday celebrations and Christmas get togethers. We all arranged to get a taxi home or have our partners pick us up by11pm. At11 pm I was the only one left to be picked up. My partner Tony had texted to say there had been a bit of a hold up on the A127 but was on his way. The pub was ready to close so I was waiting outside on the little terraced balcony.  We had had a scorching summer and although it was the end of October it was quite mild. There was virtually no traffic passing at that time of night and not a soul about. It was quite nice waiting in the quiet gloom. We had all had quite a lot to drink, me included, which was unusual, but I felt mellow rather than inebriated. After 10 minutes or so I thought I would walk around the car park a bit to avoid starting to get cold. It was getting a bit misty and the Halloween pumpkins dotted about were looking a bit spooky with their funny cut out eyes and mouths. One of the flats across the road had one lit up in the window which looked more cheerful than scary.

After a while, I stood nearer the road to look out for Tony as the pub lights were now turned off. All was silent and then I heard a muffled voice somewhere near but no actual person to be seen. I thought it must be my imagination until I distinctly heard a young voice say:

 ‘Miss, Miss’.  I looked around but there was no one. And then I saw a most extraordinary thing that so shocked me  I was rooted to the spot. Looking down I saw what looked like a hand appearing out of the ground. Impossible I thought. Then it moved and stretched its fingers. It looked like the hand of a young male. I looked closer, yes I guessed, a young man’s weather beaten hand. The air was beginning to feel cooler and a bit damp. Whatever I had drunk that evening had definitely gone to my head. The voice came again. ‘Miss Miss’. The voice seemed to be coming from below the ground and then with a swirl of mist it rose above the ground and was very close. I waited, still rooted to the spot. The voice came again nearer to me.

‘Miss, my name is James. James Cook. I died a very long time ago.

‘How long ago,’ I heard myself ask. As if it mattered at all.

‘In 1829 Miss’ came the disembodied reply.

‘ It was wrong Miss, a miscarriage of justice Miss, I never done what they said I had. Mr Green the farmer I worked for said I set fire to his property Miss, and they believed him and took me off to prison. It broke my Mam’s heart it did. I had to go to court. There had been a few arsons about that time what with all the dissatisfaction with farm worker's conditions. Everyone working on the land was frustrated. They had taken our contracts away and we only got what we worked for, so during the winter if there was nothing much to do ‘cept feed the animal no one got paid until planting time in Spring. It was hard to survive, and some didn't. I was 15 at the time and although headstrong didn't have any evidence, so it was my word against Mr Green’s. He didn't like me one bit. He had a nasty temper and worked me to the bone. He beat me once too. He was a horrible man. His wife was scared of him. When his daughter Molly even dared look in my direction he would shout and ball at me and reduce my dinner ration. I would of left if I could but my Mum was a widow and couldn't really afford to keep me in food. In fact I used to scrump apples and plums for her and a handful of corn for her 3 chickens now and again to help her out. It was the only way. But I did hate him and he knew it. I don't know who did torch his barn, he was not liked by anyone, but it weren't me. But he was determined to punish me for anything he could and apart from being asleep in another barn, I had no alibi. He was an influential man was farmer Green. I stood no chance. I'm sure my Ma believed me but what good was that to her. I couldn't help her out anymore.  I never thought  for me it would come to the gallows, but with all the unrest with farm workers and labourers and the arson attacks the judges were coming down hard to try and frighten folk and stop it happening.’ 

There was a pause while I digested this information as best as my fuddled brain could. He carried on with what sounded like a little sob in his voice.

 I was shocked to hear the judge say ‘The sentence of the court upon you, is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul’

‘Where you are standing now Miss, is where the gallows stood, and where I was hanged. Walking up those steps with townsfolk standing watching was horrible. I dared look up at them standing there. I told my Mother not to come and I was glad not to see her face. But I did see my brother. He was crying so pitifully I had to look away. I never knew who burnt down farmer Green’s barn. It could have been anyone with a grudge or it could have been an accident. But I was blamed and had my life ended cruelly and wrongly. I was barely 16 years of age. I can never settle. I am troubled and restless. Tonight is Halloween when many spirits are abroad. Most living folks do not have the spiritual power to believe in the spirit world so do not hear or see us. You have heard me though and it has helped me that you have listened. Do you believe me?’ 

‘ Yes, I do,’ I heard myself say almost in a whisper. 

Just then I am alerted to Tony’s car lights as he swings into the pub car park.

 He stops the car and leans over to open the passenger car door. Before I get in I look all around me in a slow 360-degree movement. Nothing to see or hear. Tony calls me to get in. Giving me a peck on the cheek as a welcome he says laughing.

‘ Good Lord love. Good night with the girls then? You look like you are three sheets to the wind, or have you just seen a ghost? Well, it is Halloween. Let's get you home, you definitely don’t look quite right.

I am silent as we drive home. Was that real or just my imagination?.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Concrete Haiku

Two Pictographs:  Concrete Haiku

By Robert Kingston