A GUILTY SECRET

By Richard Banks

“Have you heard the news?” Mason speaks in a hoarse whisper that he don’t want anyone else to hear. He’s scared, no mistaking that, and for a few moments so am I. After all, when you’re locking-up at night, your back towards the street, the last thing you want is for someone to be creeping-up behind you, maybe gun in hand and about to demand everything you’ve just put in the safe.

         “Damn you Mase! What the heck are you doing? It’s 2am. You trying to give me a heart attack!”

         “It’s happened again.”

         In another place, another time I would be asking him what has, but it’s only too obvious.

         “Who is it this time?”

         “Lorna.”

         “Lorna Ruiz?”

         “Yes, of course I mean Lorna Ruiz. Who else do you know called Lorna?”

         He’s got a point. In a two bit town like Bylow, population 934, and decreasing, the only other Lorna would likely be her mother but she’s not around and maybe never was. For once in his life Mason’s right, that’s not what I should be saying.

         “Same as before?” I ask.

         Mason’s startled by the roar of a Chrysler 300 that’s speeding towards us before braking and turning left at the cross. He’s desperate not to be seen so we go around the corner. Into the side way that’s almost cellar black. What he’s got to tell me, he says, is for my ears only. He needs a favour and if he can ever do the same for me he’ll be glad to do it. After all, that’s what friends are for. Don’t I agree?

         I’m not sure I do but it seems I have no choice but to hear him out. At first he tells me nothing I won’t reading in the late edition of the Clarion. Lorna’s been found on waste land, ten miles out of town, throat cut ear to ear, just like numbers one to three. This he knows because he was pulled over by a cop he once knew in High School. Mase is only a hundred yards or so from where she was discovered and the cop’s asking him what he’s doing there and where he’s been.

         “And that’s when you told him you were with me.”

         “Sorry, Jimmy.”

         “So where were you? With a broad?”

         “Why a broad?”

         “Because that’s what you do on a Saturday night. For goodness sake, Mase, tell the cops her name and the motel you were at. Don’t even think of trying to protect her good name. Even assuming she has one, it’s not worth the two thousand volts that could be coming your way.”

         “Can’t do that man, it’s Carla.” 

         “You’re kidding! Mase, do you have a death wish? Whatever possessed you? She’s Tony Pescaro’s girl, big Tony, enforcer for the Bandini family, but then you already know that.”

         “Which is why I said I was with you. I’m sorry, Jimmy, I had to say something, couldn’t tell him I’ve been on my own all evening. How suspicious would that be? No, buddy, if you don’t back me up I’ll be chief suspect, I know it. I need an alibi, and one that sticks.”

         “Mase, this isn’t going to work. I was behind the bar. If I saw you so did a hundred other guys but none of them did. I’m sorry you’re in the shite but saying you were here isn’t going to work.”

         “No, Jimmy. Now listen to me, I’ve got it all figured out. I wasn’t in the bar. You took a break, went back for a smoke and saw me there trying to get cigarettes out of the machine, which as we know is broke, so you got some from the storeroom and I paid you in cash.”

         “And this was when?”

         “Eight pm. According to the cop, Lorna was found at nine, no more than an hour dead. If I was here at eight there’s no way I could have done it.”

         As alibi’s go it’s probably the worse I’ve ever heard. Also, he’s only got the cop’s word that she died around eight;  initial estimates of death, even by those qualified to give them, are often wide of the mark. But then it matters not. He’s not needing an alibi; there’s no evidence against him. Mase’s only problem is in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His fingerprints and DNA are not at the crime scene and once it’s established that he was in Houston when murder two  took place he will soon be well down their list of suspects. This I should be telling him but I don’t; he’s in a panic and listening to no one but himself. So, it’s agreed: I saw him at eight, an hour into my shift, sold him two packets of Ryman and he departed saying he was going to burn some gas before driving home.

         Alibi agreed, he heads back into the glow of the main street lights and, after furtive glances left and right, hurries off to wherever he’s left his car. I give it five before returning to mine. The next day it turns out that Lorna wasn’t murdered at eight but two hours earlier when Mase, pre date, was in a diner. He’s even found the receipt in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s in the clear and, with the cops tight lipped and short of anything resembling a lead, there’s nothing to be done but speculate which of our Southern belles will be next. But not for long. The good folk of Bylow have organised a meeting to which all the abled bodied men of the town have been invited.

         It’s a call to arms and within an hour the Bylow Defence League not only comes into being but is given its marching orders. We’re organised into eight platoons whose mission is to parade about the town after dark with all the firepower we can muster. As none of the murders have been in town it’s by no means clear what good this is going to do, but everyone feels better for making the effort. Four guys who haven’t volunteered are now under surveillance and followed everywhere they go by another four guys who wear camouflage jackets that don’t exactly blend in to the urban terrain. It’s a farce and when someone accidentality gets shot in the butt the cops impose a curfew that’s probably not legal but at least keeps the womenfolk indoors after dark.

         This is bad news for the bar I run for the Bandinis who use it to launder some of their ill-gotten gains. They aren’t best pleased that we have to close at seven each evening but, as I say, what can I do about it? They’re the ones with the power, and the ear of every crooked politician in the county. Why don’t they get the curfew lifted? It might take a bribe or two, but nothing that can’t be made good in a few weeks. But they have a better idea which is probably why Tony Pescaro is at the head of their delegation. He wastes no time in telling me what’s on his mind.

         “No murderer, no murders, no murders, no curfew,” he says with an indisputable logic that won’t have escaped everyone else in town. As to the how bit he hasn’t come here short of a plan, and whether I like it or not, I’m in it.

         “So, who do you think did it?” he asks.

         “How should I know?” I say, feeling like the room’s closing in on me.

         “Maybe you don’t,” says Tony, “but you will have a better idea than most. I mean you’re behind the bar serving guys booze until they can hardly stand up. When that happens they get indiscreet, let things slip they wish they hadn’t said, odd little things that a smart guy like you will pick-up on. OK, so no one’s going to confess all, but someone, sometime is going to say a little bit too much and this is the place where it will happen – maybe has happened. So, who’s your money on, Jimmy, give me a name, three names, more if you have them. I’m all ears.”

         “Tony, I hear what you’re saying, guys often bend my ear in the early hours. Sometimes their wife’s been giving them grief, sometimes it’s the boss, sometimes it’s about money. I don’t want to hear it, but I’m the barman, it’s my job to listen and let them get it off their chest. I’ve heard it all, ten times over, but no one, absolutely no one, has given me any reason to think they’re a killer.” 

         But Tony’s not taking no for an answer. If I don’t know who it is, and he never thought I would, I can, at least, point him in the direction of someone who fits the bill: someone with a grudge against women, a wife beater, some weirdo who don’t fit in and no one likes. All he needs are some names. His plan, such as it is, is to abduct whoever I say and beat them within an inch of their life. If they happen on the right guy it’s problem solved, he gets what’s coming to him and everything gets back to normal.

         “And if you don’t get the right man?”

         “Then we let him loose to tell everyone in town what these hooded men did to him, and why. The way I see it, by the time we’re down to number three on your list the real murderer, if we don’t have him, will be hot footing it out of town to some place far off where he’ll be safe from us and free to start again. But that’s not our problem. Ours is to get the curfew lifted, so let’s start with a few names.”

         “I’ll need to think about it,” I say. This is a chance to settle one or two scores but as Tony’s idea of a good beating sometimes winds up being a homicide this is something I don’t want to get involved in. But that’s supposing I have a choice?

         Tony senses I’m less than keen. “Tell you what, Jimmy, I’ve got a name of my own. We’ll put that top of the list which means that for now I’ll only be needing two names.”

         “Who’s your man?” I ask.

         “A guy called Mason Brady. Perhaps you know him, a friend perhaps?”

         “Yeah, I know him. Wouldn’t call him a friend. Just a guy who does odd jobs about the bar. Why do you think it’s him?”

         “Information from someone who knows. Something of a ladies man is our Mr Brady. Tries it on when the girls don’t want it and then cuts up rough.”

         I want to tell him that Mason isn’t like that. He wouldn’t swot a fly, but if I make too much of it that won’t go well, either for him or me. But why do they think it’s Mase? It don’t take long to figure. He’s broken-up with Carla like I told him to and now she’s getting back at him like the viper she is. If I’m to keep Mason safe I need to give Tony exactly what he wants, three prime suspects, all of them far more likely to be their man. So, that’s what I do: two ex-cons with a history of violence and a bar room brawler who’s crazy on coke. I write down their names and say where they can be found. Tony smiles and shows his appreciation by thumping me on the back in a way that makes me think that sometimes he does this with a butcher’s knife.

         Have I done enough to protect a friend? I’m not sure, but most of all I need to look after myself. It’s time to empty the safe, pack a suitcase and drive far, far away to a place where I’m not known and won’t be found. Perhaps this time I’ll be a George or Henry, a good fit for a guy coming up to forty. Jimmy was good while it lasted, a likeable sort of name for a regular guy that no one had a bad word for; a better name than the two before, but they all served their purpose.

         Tony never spoke a truer word when he said his crew would scare-off the murderer, but even he will be surprised how soon this is going to happen. So, it’s goodbye Bylow and hello some place else.

         Maybe I’ll wind-up somewhere near you. But don’t worry, America’s a big place and I’ll be holding off for a while. Will you see me coming? I doubt it, no one else has and no one ever will. It’s a whole new canvas and I’ll be colouring it red. Ready or not I’m on my way!                                                  

           Copywrite Richard Banks                    

PICASSO (ACROSTIC)

 PICASSO

(ACROSTIC)

Peter Woodgate

 

Concluding that the world of art

Used naturalistic images

Because the masters showed him so,

Irregular lines and shapes and colours

Surged from his mind and onto canvas,

Modern art had left the womb.

 

Riding on a wave of eccentricity

Unparalleled in critic’s eyes,

Lay the product of an inchoate vision

Expressing abstract thoughts

Symbolic of the man.

 

Oh, that we could understand

Kinetic brainwaves on the move.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

Bitter Sweet Revenge

Bitter Sweet Revenge 

By Sis Unsworth

Valerie stood motionless in the doorway. A deep black cloud seemed to slowly devour her, like an early morning mist that appears from nowhere.

 She had been in a good mood when she arrived that morning. She loved her job as a carer at the Bluebell nursing home. The handover from the night shift had gone smoothly, all had gone well overnight.

The staff nurse had informed them of a new arrival, a Mr's Benson who had arrived the previous evening. She was in room 36, and would they all make themselves known to her. 

Valerie had been quite busy that morning, so it was just before lunch when she arrived at room 36. There she stood when a strange shiver went down her spine, as Mrs Benson looked up and smiled.

Something about her looked familiar, she looked just like a little old lady with a friendly smile on her face. Why then was she feeling this way about her? Trying to pull herself together, Valerie smiled, introduced herself, and welcomed Mrs Benson to the Bluebell nursing home. It was when she turned to leave, that something caught her eye. It was a photo on the bookshelf.

With a deep feeling of foreboding Valerie picked it up. “Who is the lady in this photo?” She enquired.

“Why that’s me!” Mrs Benson replied. “That was me when I was young, I haven’t always looked like this,” she laughed.

Valerie recognised the woman in the photo, it was her old school teacher, known then as Miss Hayden, or ‘the dark witch’ as they all called her. Slowly she replaced the photo, so the dark witch must have been married, who ever would have married her, Valerie pondered. She caught her breath muttered a few words and retreated from the room. 

All Morning she reflected on her discovery, ‘the dark witch’ had ruined her last year at school. All the girls had hated her, she seemed to love to humiliate them, especially in front of the boys. The cane was still in use in schools at that time, and the dark witch did not hold back from using it. Valerie decided not to tell the other carers, if they knew how she felt about Mrs Benson they might report her. However, she was burning inside for revenge which she was finding difficult to control. What made her more angry, was all the other carers thought well of Mrs Benson, saying what a kind old lady she was. This really infuriated her. Somehow she would make the dark witch show her true colours. She began by making Mrs Benson wait for everything when she was on duty. Valerie made sure she was always last to get her tea or receive her mail. Always last to get her meals or last being put to bed.

However, nothing seemed to annoy her, and the more Mrs Benson smiled and thanked her, the angrier she became.

It all came to a head one afternoon. Staff nurse was sorting out the medication, when she was suddenly distracted. Valerie took advantage of the situation; she took some tablets and slipped them into her pocket. Later, she dissolved them in Mrs Benson's tea before she left to go home. 

Valerie didn’t sleep too well, realising what she had done. She hurried to work the next day, and was first of her shift to arrive. The staff nurse was waiting for her. “Mrs Benson has had a bad night, she was quite sick,” she explained. “We have sent for the Doctor, and informed her next of kin who is her brother. He is waiting in the lounge. Would you go and keep him company? We have given him a cup of tea.” 

Valerie obeyed in silence realising the consequences of her actions. Reaching the lounge she found an elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Mr Hayden. “I am Mary’s Brother,” he explained.

“Sorry to hear your sister is poorly, she seemed alright when I left yesterday,” Valerie felt a wave of guilt pass through her. 

“I’m worried about her,” he said. “She moved here to be near me when her husband passed away. She is such a lovely girl, we get on so well, unlike her twin sister, we don’t get on at all!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

  

IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

 IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

(ACROSTIC)

By Peter Woodgate

Lonely shadows shift and merge

Enhancing comfort to our souls,

Grey is white amidst the dreams

And we have reached those distant goals.

Loosen up you hypocrites

Inhibitions thrown away,

Show the world that we mean business,

Eventually we’ll have our say.

 

Can you keep ignoring facts?

Ask yourself “can it get worse?”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

Needlessly we face the curse,

All our lives are touched with sorrow

Bearing scars formed by the lie,

In medio tutissimus ibis

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

MOVING ON

 MOVING ON

By Peter Woodgate 

Glad we were

To leave behind

Those dingy rooms,

The peeling paint

And musty smells.

 

The old, cracked mirror

On the wall,

A picture of the king

And another that was made

From cockle shells.

 

The stairs,

That echoed daily,

With the thunder of our feet,

Would fall silent

With perhaps a creak or two.

 

And the mice,

Unwanted company,

Would be free to roam the rooms,

Undisturbed

And admiring the view.

 

Our brand new flat of concrete,

Had everything,

Three bedrooms and a bath

And balconies, with views

Out front and back.

 

Electric lights,

It smelt pristine,

Fresh painted walls,

Nice shiny floors,

Oh, what then did it lack?

 

Alas;

Our spirits lingered

Where bygone friends

Trod one by one,

Apprehension in that promised land

For we were moving on.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Box 666

By Jane Goodhew

The trees were rapidly changing colour, the verdant greens of spring and summer had been turned into burnished gold and lost their leaves completely autumn had come with a rush.  The warm winds that had crossed the Atlantic had fooled people into thinking it was still summer but they only had to look out of their windows to see winter was fast approaching and the next strong winds would remove the remaining leaves and all colour would be gone.  Winter can be such a gloomy time; nature might be busy beneath the ground but up above all appears worn and dreary.  In the early hours of the morning the bare trees look like a silhouette against the sky, filigree lace sketched in charcoal.  The birds still fly overhead and then swoop if they see something move in the fields but there is little around at this time of year and most have found somewhere warm and safe to live out the winter.

 

She had hoped to have gone away, overseas, anywhere it did not matter just as long as she did not spend another winter of doom and gloom here looking at him across the table and wishing upon wish that she had the courage to leave him but he had been clever and tied the business up so she could not easily sell her share.  No money, no travel, no escape. Then she had an idea, how about if she took a job out of the Lady, someone was always advertising for a companion for an elderly aunt of lonely widower.  He would wonder what she was up to if she went to the shops at this time of day so she looked it up on her computer.  Classified adds and there it was just what she was looking for.

 

Elderly lady requires travel companion for 3 months.  All expenses paid.  Up to date passport required and cheerful personality.  Box666

Well she was not too keen on the box number as it had a ring of the devil about it but the rest was just the answer to her problems so she composed a well thought out but witty reply and pressed send. 

 

A few days later came the response she had hoped for but had not dared to dream of.  You sound just the person I am looking for so meet me at Southampton Departures at 10am Saturday 22^nd November.  The tickets are booked and you will have your own adjoining cabin.  Send me your dress and shoe size and I will arrange for your clothes to be there so no need to pack, just bring yourself and your passport.

 

This all sounded too good to be true but she had to get away from her life here before she did something she would live to regret.  She had got to the stage where she could not bear to be in the same room as him, even eating was, what, exactly what, there are no words that can adequately describe how she resented every little move he made, every scratch of the plate, every time he lifted his fork to his mouth she cringed just waiting for the noise of his chomping.  No, whatever was ahead of her had got to be better than this; she would tell no-one not even her best friend.  She would send a letter after the ship had sailed.

 

The days seemed to drag, she could barely contain the excitement that was welling up inside of her and she could not believe that this was really happening nothing like this ever happened to someone like her.  She almost had to pinch herself to see if she were awake and not dreaming but no, she was awake and she re-read the new email to make sure there was no mistaking what she had read. It still said for her to get herself ready as the day of departure was this weekend and a car would pick her up at 7am outside St Marys Church Hall.  A car was coming to get her, clothes were being provided and oh how she had believed in fairies at the bottom of the garden, Santa at Christmas, if there was something to believe in then she would.  She longed to talk to her friend about it but she thought if she did she would somehow jinx it, break the spell after all it did appear that magic had played a part in this, she had made a wish and hey presto it was coming true.

 

The day of departure had finally arrive, her husband had gone out early that morning and he would not be back until late by which time she would be miles out to sea and for the first time in decades he would have to cook his own tea!  Her cooking was about all he would miss about her as they no longer had anything pleasant to say to one another.  She wondered how people could end up like this but many do.  Thankfully she had an escape route and she was going to take it.  The sky was brilliant blue but the air was crisp with low temperatures that were only to be expected at this time of year.  She pulled her hat down low over her ears and her scarf up until the ends joined, and she felt snug as a bug in a rug.  Her passport was in her handbag and a packet of paper tissues and wipes and a tooth brush and that was it, she turned and shut the front door and not once did she look back as she walked out of the life she had known and grown to detest. With a determined step she went forth to an unknown adventure that was about to begin.

 

The car was already waiting for her as she got to the church hall, the driver was smartly dressed, suit, tie, and yes he even had a cap, she thought she was about to faint, this was all too much for her to comprehend.  Life was looking good, what was she thinking, good, it was brilliant and she was intent on making the most of every minute.  She climbed into the back as he placed a blanket over her legs even though the car was warm, he said it was going to be a few hours before they got there and she may as well take a nap so that she would be fresh for the voyage.  This suited her as she was not up to making small talk and had had very little sleep for some time. She was too excited to thinking about what lay ahead of her and surprisingly enough she felt guilty.  She had not expected that, after all their relationship had not been loving for many years. Although he knew she was not happy remaining in the wilderness for the rest of her life he made no plans to move.  His life continued and she knew it would without her there, he would barely notice her missing apart from when it came to the evening and there was no meal on the table but he would survive and soon find someone to replace her, if it were only to employ a housekeeper.

 

She saw the sign for Departures or was it Embarkation after all it was a cruise ship and not a plane that she was about to spend the next three months on.  She suddenly began to feel a bit nervous and why not for she had no idea who she was meeting, where she was going, would it be 3 months at sea or would some of the time be spent on land and if so which country?  Too late now she had gone too far to change her mind or to let the old lady down, she just hoped it would all turn out okay and they would get along with each other.  The car had stopped and the driver opened the door and smiled as he could see the mixture of fear and excitement in her eyes and he wished she could tell her that it was going to be fine, that she had nothing to worry about, life was about to become everything she would ever have dreamed and more.

 

She stepped through the door and someone with a board with her name on it was standing just inside so she walked over to him and he took her into another area which was obviously for those who were travelling deluxe class.  There on a sofa which was far to large for her was a petite lady, elegantly dressed in a lilac silk trouser suit and a smile that lit up the room.  She introduced herself and at once she was able to relax as she just knew that everything would be fine, that she could get on with Eleanor and wherever they ended up would be more than acceptable for her.  They chatted as if they had known each other their whole lifes, they could so easily have been sisters or perhaps because of their age difference Aunt and niece.  It did not matter they were going to be friends of this she was sure.  After all the procedures had been followed, passport checks and tickets being given with cards that had your photo included on them, this would open your cabin and also allow you to have as much food and drink as you wished to indulge in throughout the voyage as well as other extras too many to mention.  It was not a large ship of which she was glad as she did not like to think of some of the cruise ships that sailed the seas these days. They were as big as a small town if not bigger as some could hold over 5,000 passengers, far more people than lived in her village and even those for miles around.  This could take only 500 and that was more than enough for her especially as this was her first cruise and what a first it would be.

 

They entered on level 3 but they were shown to a lift and taken to Deck 5 which was often referred to as the pay and sway as the higher you went the more it would move if the sea was rough or the winds strong.  She did not care, she did not get travel sick and the higher she was the further she would be able to see in the distance as they crossed the Atlantic and made their way up the might Amazon and then onto the Caribbean.  Finally she knew where they were going and she could not believe it, the Amazon then Barbados, Grenada, and St Lucia the names went on until she could not take in more names.  Her cabin was 6b and Eleanors 6a, there was only one other and that was 6c.  It seemed quite spooky that the Box number was 666 and not the cabin numbers read 666 if you missed out a, b and c.  She wondered if the Captain would be called De’vile.  She laughed out loud as she thought of someone having that name and then she saw the photo on the wall and it was of the Captain and his crew and his name was none other than D’Eville.   This was just too coincidental for words and she began to feel very uneasy about the whole situation she found herself in.  She gave herself a long and hard talking to, when she realised how ridiculous her thinking was becoming. The Devil? Was she going to find that the ship was call Hell?  No, it was in fact called D’Angelo.  That was just as bad; since now she was on an Angel with the Devil at the Helm…

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

                                     

                                    

 Limpet - between the tides

                                  By Christopher Mathews

 

Oblivious of men, she keeps her small safe world, locked away from crashing waves, but she never makes a pearl.

 

No precious jewels are secure and safe inside her secret cave. She has no time between the waves to be a human’s slave.

 

Record of the years, the cycles of the moon, marked in calcium layers, she paints her little room, now dark now light, now blue now white, the health of the sea is held in each, the container of her life.

 

The ebb and flow of tide, are her night and day, now wet now dry now hot now cool, deep beneath the waves.

 

Slowly graze the limestone crags, the gravestones of the ships of men. Hold fast, be strong, all winter long, when storms must always come.

 

Hold tight, hold tight, with all you might, when the pecking seagull comes. be tough, survive and live your life, my armour plated one.

 

Like the grooves of a record or the rings of a tree, she marks the years of famine or of plenty. First he then she, then young now old, the solitary life of the limpet is seldom ever told.

© Christopher Mathews