A Hard Life

By Janet Baldey

“Between Tesco’s and the station, that’s where you’ll find me. Riding the pavement from dawn till dusk.  It’s a good pitch, the best. You get a steady stream of shoppers raiding Tesco’s and later there’s party goers back from an evening in Town.  But it’s hard being me.  I thought of getting meself a dog, for company as well as the sympathy vote, but I wouldn’t wish my life on any animal. For starters, it’d have to put up with the verbal abuse. Not that it bothers me, I’m used to it.  It was my lullaby when I was a kid. There’s nothing folk can say to me that I haven’t heard before.

 Have you ever been lonely?   I don’t mean like if your family are away for a bit, or you’re on your tod in a strange town - I mean really lonely.  Like when you know no-one in this world gives a toss about you.  You could die in your sleep and no-one would care, or even notice, except they would because the pavements have to be kept clear of dead bodies, ‘cos it would never do to have commuters tripping over them. 

Sometimes I watch little kids going in and out of the supermarket, clutching their Mum’s hand or swaying on their Dad’s shoulders and feel I could kill for a childhood like that.  My mum never loved me. Not in the slightest.  I often wonder why she never got some pills and flushed me down the toilet when she first realised she was up the duff.   Too stoned, I suppose, or drunk, and eventually I popped out of her fanny. 

         My gran took care of me.   She loved me – when I was little she used to take me to the park to feed the ducks, only I didn’t understand and ate the bread meself.    

‘No, lovie, that’s for them fellas over there, the ones with the feathers.’   Then, she’d roar with laughter and give me a hug.

 Sometimes we made gingerbread together. I mixed the ginger in with the flour and when she’d rolled out the mixture, I cut out shapes of little men.  Lovely, they were. We ate them straight out of the oven, warm and crumbly they melted in yer mouth. I remember their taste and me mouth fills with water.  Yeah.   My gran loved me.   Although sometimes she’d cry and stroke my hair and call me her ‘poor little lamb’, but she’d never say why although, looking back, I think she knew. Then, she died and left me all alone.

 I lived with Mum afterwards.  At first, I didn’t understand why Gran wasn’t there and kept crying for her. Mum use to yell at me, said I was getting on her nerves.  She’d throw me in a bedroom and lock the door.

There was a constant stream of men coming in and out but I never knew their names.  I reckon Mum didn’t know either ‘cuz she told me to call them all ‘Uncle’.  When there was a special ‘Uncle’ expected, Mum didn’t want to let on she had a kid so she shut me in the cellar.  It was pitch black and I was terrified at first.  Later though, I got used to it, at least no-one screamed or hit me down there.

         I was always hungry but it was easy to scavenge in our house.  There was always bits of pizza lying around and occasionally an ‘Uncle’ would send me to the chippy.

         ‘Don’t bother hurrying back.’  He’d add.  So now I reckon I know every nook and cranny of this shitty town. That’s come in handy now.

         At school, no-one wanted to sit next to me.   ‘He smells, Miss….’    I reckon they’d smell if their Mum didn’t bother to wash them or change their clothes.  But I always wanted a friend.  I hated break times when I had to hang around alone and look as if I didn’t care.   Then I noticed that all the kids were on about their latest ‘designer’ trainers so I thought if I  got some then maybe I’d fit in.  That’s how I first learned to steal.  I’d tag onto a family in a shoe-shop, follow them around, then when no-one was looking, I’d sneak some trainers and scarper.   The trainers didn’t always fit and anyway, they didn’t make any difference - I still had no friends.   Later, I graduated to nicking jeans and that’s when I got caught.  From then on it was Remand Home, Children’s Home and now the streets.  Story of my life.  

         It was about a month ago, I first noticed her. A little girl of around five, standing looking at me.  Normally, I hate kids. They pinch my money, or kick my tin over. Others will cling onto their Mum’s arm and pretend to be frightened.  But this kid wasn’t like that and when I looked at her, I recognised the signs - fading bruises, stained, too-short dress and no coat.   She smiled, whispered ‘Hello’, then scuttled back to where her Mum was yakking on her mobile.  Sometimes she seemed to be completely on her own and she’d sit down beside me and we’d talk.  Not much, but enough to realise I’d found a friend.  She’d show me stones she’d found and I’d say they were pretty. Eventually, her Mum’d show up and yell at her.  It used to make me so sad to see the cowed way she’d slink back.

         One day she turned up with a fresh bruise on her face.  

         ‘What’s that?’  I said.

         ‘I was naughty,’ she whispered, and that was when I made up my mind.

It’s nearly dark and the first stars are out.  In the surrounding fields, pinpricks of light jitter in mad circles and above the sky is full of the machine gun rattle of helicopter blades.  They’re searching hard but I grin, ‘cuz they’re way off course.   As I said, I know all the rat runs in this town and they’ll never guess where I’ve hidden her.  She’s mine now and I’ll never be lonely again.”

    Copyright Janet Baldey

 Riddles 21

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has three puzzles for us today:

No 1.  What can go all around the world but stay in the corner? 

No 2.  What can you not see, that never was, but always will be? 

No 3.  There was a girl half my age when I was 10.  I’m now 56.  How old is she?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

A NEW BEGINNING

 A NEW BEGINNING                                                                                                 

by Richard Banks

It was Sarah’s idea to buy the Old House. She had had enough of London. It was, she said, time to make a new start while we were still young enough. It would be our project, one we could do together. We would be a team again like we were before my job became more important to me than her. That is nonsense of course, and she knows it, but what I can’t deny is that my ascent up the corporate ladder had left us with little time to ourselves.

         It was, I told myself, the price to be paid for a salary that allowed us to reside in a part of London that would have seemed impossible when we were students living together in a scruffy bedsit above a burger bar. But like any upgrade there was a price to be paid. Was there ever a moment, day or night, when I wasn’t hard at work or half expecting the telephone to ring with problems that would have me rushing back to the office. Even the freebie tickets they gave me for big showbiz and sporting events were never free from the obligation to network and chase new business. Then there was the merger and that was when enough became more than enough. Time to leave. So, now my time is my own. I’m on a gap year. Well, if the kids can do it, so can I! Not that I’ll be short of things to do, Sarah will see to that, but this time it’s about us. She deserves that, and so do I.

         The Old House has definitely seen better days. Sarah says that when her grandmother was a girl it was the grandest house in the hundred, a mile out of town and with well tended gardens the size of three or four fields; but that was then, and many years of decline have reduced it to the near ruin it is today. The main advantage in buying a ruin, probably the only one, is that the asking price goes down rather than up. Already low enough to be within our price range I learned that the local council was considering compulsory purchase with a view to replacing the house with a housing estate. There was no time to lose, and when I offered a sum well below the advertised price, the owners - a distant offshoot of the minor nobility that once lived there - realised that a low offer was better than an even lower one they couldn’t say no to.

         On completion we put our furniture in storage and moved into a caravan in the front garden. From there we would sally out and do everything that was needed. At least that was the plan, but when it became obvious that the roof was letting in almost as much rain as it was keeping out we had no choice but to pay a roofer to replace it with a new one. Unsurprisingly our next discovery was wet rot, and another job for local industry. But after that it was us, all us, learning the skills that were needed to do everything else that had to be done.

         Even our slow start had not been time wasted. While the professionals were at work so were we, clearing the long neglected gardens of chest high brambles, nettles and every other weed known to man. We slew all before us, including a half dead birch tree which I felled within a foot of the spot I was aiming at.

         Sarah was nervous seeing me, axe in hand, but she had nothing to be concerned about. As I have told her, the destruction of my desk was a symbolic act of defiance, nothing more. No harm was meant, not even to that vulgar, little Yank who was taking my place. I couldn’t stop him taking my job but he wasn’t having the desk I had sat at for fifteen years. Some of the old guard cheered me. They stood well back when they saw what I was about to do, only the Yank came running over and tried to stop me. Did I mean to hit him when I swung the axe back over my head? Of course not. I was looking at the desk, not him.

         It was all hushed up, of course, for the sake of the firm, and I received the severance pay that had been agreed, but the Yank put it about that I was unfit for future employment, and that ended my career in financial services. But what do I care. Like every man worth his salt I won’t be kept down; I will come again, reinvent myself, find a new niche in life. Until then I will restore this house, make it better than ever, no effort spared, and with new hydraulics throughout the house we were now ready to install the new kitchen that Sarah had seen, and just couldn’t do without. Us, just us. Who would have thought it. Even the builder who came round touting for business could find no fault with what we had done.

         It was on returning from Wickes one afternoon that we came across the new Volvo of my former employer parked at the top of the driveway outside the conservatory. Any thoughts I had that he had come with a job offer were soon put to rest. This was a social visit; he was in the area and thought he would drop by to see if I was, “all right”. Better than him, I was tempted to say, but didn’t. Even he could see how fit I was, how I had shed the corporate flab for a leaner, more active me. Sir, or JT as he likes to be called by senior management, once had a brief fling with my wife. At least that’s what he thinks happened. The truth is somewhat different.

         I first noticed he was attracted to Sarah at the firm’s annual dinner and dance. It was while I was dancing with his wife, Lady Yiewsley – surely a sign that I was under serious consideration to replace my old boss in accounts – that they discovered a mutual interest in the opera. He had a pair of tickets for Figaro at Covent Garden, and as his dear wife was out of town that evening and unable to attend, he wondered whether Sarah would like to fill a seat that otherwise would be unused. Knowing his reputation Sarah played for time. She would, she told him, have to check her diary and promised to get back to him on the mobile number he gave her.

         Having reported all this to me we thought a night at the opera was not an unreasonable price to pay for what would hopefully be another step up the greasy pole. With the promotion still not decided the opera was followed by dinner at the Ritz when Lady Yiewsley was again out of town and I was in Switzerland on company business. I arrived back ahead of schedule the next morning to find Sarah not at home. When she returned an hour later in her fur and evening dress it was only too obvious what had happened. To her credit she made no attempt to deny it. Indeed she could not have been more forthcoming on what she regarded as an experience akin to being smothered by a dead sheep. The good news, however, was that she had taken every opportunity to stress my suitability for said promotion and that Sir had agreed I was the best man for the job. When this was confirmed a week later I wrote an unsigned letter to Lady Yiewsley informing her that her husband had been seen leaving the Savoy with a woman, somewhat younger than himself, at 7am in the morning. With JT brought back to the straight and narrow and on the tightest of leashes his texts and phone calls to Sarah ceased and, to the best of my knowledge, they only saw each other at corporate events where Lady Yiewsley was always at his side.

         So, what is he doing here unchaperoned - not to see me I wager? Does he really think that after all these years he can rekindle their imagined affair? What a pathetic, deluded little bore he is and yet Sarah’s surprise at seeing him has no trace of the deep distain she should be feeling. Indeed she appears perfectly at ease in his company. Has she forgotten all that happened; how when the merger was agreed he abandoned me, cast me aside like I was of no value or use, while he stayed on as Chairman. Betrayal it was, brutal betrayal!

         Sarah casts an anxious glance in my direction. This is dragging me back when I was doing so well. I take a deep breath. Sarah slips a pill into my hand and suggests that I show JT the garden. She knows I’m better outside. More deep breaths. It’s going to be OK I tell myself. Inadvertently I say this out loud. He thinks I’m referring to the garden. He raises an eyebrow at the pyramid of wood and other combustibles towering over what was once the bowling green. Finding nothing, OK or otherwise, to say about it he turns his gaze towards the shed I have constructed from flatpack. He makes an idiot remark about it being my hideaway from the ‘trouble and strife’ who will always have something for us to do. How dare he be so slighting to the woman I love, the woman he would take from me, just like he took my job!

         The door is open and I invite him in for a glass of the double malt I say is inside. There is no malt, nothing inside but my garden tools and the axe.

                                                                          

                                                  *****

         Sarah says that I must steady myself, that it wasn’t my fault. He had no right to be here. What has happened is unfortunate, a setback, but nothing that need do us any harm. No one heard him scream and, more than likely, no one saw him turn into the driveway. It will be our secret and, if we don’t panic, no one will ever know but ourselves.

         She has already moved his car into the garage where it can’t be seen and checked his mobile to make sure there’s nothing on it about us. With luck he will have told no one of his intention to visit. If the police should come we will say that JT paid us a courtesy call and departed within an hour. If they don’t, we do nothing, nothing at all but enjoy our new life. Anyway, what can they do without a body?

         Already we have doused it with petrol and pushed it into the mounting tip of rubbish that will be his funeral pyre. Tomorrow we will set it on fire and reduce everything to dust and ashes. It will be yet another step in our new beginning. In death, as in life, we triumph yet again. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 AND A BLOODY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL.

By Bob French

Robert Henderson clenched his fists in anger as Geoffry Smitherton, the CEO of Hamilton and Buckfast, the firm where he had worked for the past 9 years, cleared his throat.

          “You leave me no choice Henderson.  You oversaw the security and delivery of the gold bullion, its route, and timings.  You even chose the security men to ensure that it reached the bank on time and intact.”

Robert knew it was a stitch-up.  Jess, an old navy friend who worked in the security business had tipped him off that some one was going to steal the year’s gold deposits.  He also knew that, according to Heidi, his girlfriend, and the assistant accountant of the firm, that when she checked the findings of the November audit, the books didn’t balance and there was a deficit of several million pounds.   He had to say something, but he knew that if he did, innocent people would lose their jobs, so he stood there and took it.

“Please report to the head porter, who will accompany you to your office where you will clear out your desk and hand over any security access cards you have.  I want you out of this building by mid-day, now get out of my sight!”   As he made his way out of the building, he thought it strange that if they were sure he was responsible for the crime, why weren’t the police being involved?

It was two weeks later that he had a call from Jenny, a close friend to say that Heidi had been involved in a hit and run and was in hospital.  He was beside her bed within the hour, and as he held her hand, he whispered that he loved her and that she must get better so they could get married.  He felt her hand gently squeeze his as she whispered something that brought tears to his eyes. As he clung onto her hand, he could feel her slowly slipping away. When the monitor stopped recording her heart beat, he looked up at the nurse and questioned her with his eyes. The nurse slowly shook her head, then quietly left the room to seek assistance. Robert gently kissed her and spoke quietly that he would avenge her death.

Robert retired to his cottage where he found solace in the silence of the snow-covered countryside.    Each day he would slowly trudge through the winter landscape as snow fell softly around him, blanketing the world in a muted hush. Each step crunched beneath his boots, a sound that felt alien in the vast silence around him.  He used to love walks like these with Heidi, her laughter dancing on the crisp air, her breath visible in frosty puffs. Now, each footfall felt like a reminder of her absence and it tore at the muscles of his heart.

It had been eight months since the day everything changed. When the future he expected with his Heidi had flickered and then dimmed.  He recalled the way Heidi held his hand in those last dying minutes of her life, her fingers entwined with his, whispering that she would always be with him,

“Just look for me in the small things,” she had said, her voice barely above a whisper.  And yet he found himself lost in a world that felt impossibly large without her.

The trees loomed tall and bare, their branches heavy with snow, creating a fragile canopy above him.  He paused for a moment, allowing the chilly air to fill his lungs, letting it clear the fog in his mind.  He remembered how they used to walk this very path, hand in hand, sharing dreams and secrets beneath the shelter of the pines.

Robert shook his head, trying to dispel the sorrow that clung to him like the falling snow. He continued, his breath coming in steady puffs as he moved deeper into the woods.  The world was a tapestry of white and gray, and he felt as if he were wandering through a dream, disconnected from reality.

As he rounded a bend, he spotted the small clearing where sunlight used to break-through the clouds of falling snow, illuminating a lone bench dusted with snow. It had been their favorite spot – a place to pause, to breathe, and to watch the world go by.  He approached the bench, his heart heavy with memories, as he sat down, allowing the cold to seep through his coat, feeling the weight of solitude settle in beside him.

A gust of wind stirred the snowflakes, swirling them like tiny dancers in the air.  In that moment, he thought he heard her voice, soft and melodic, beckoning him to remember the beauty around him. 

“Look for me in the small things,” it echoed.  He closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him; a gentle warmth seeping through his body. Robert sat silently for a while, then opened his eyes at the sight of a small bird flitting from branch to branch, its vibrant plumage standing out against the winter backdrop.  He smiled as the little bird seem to look at him before vanishing into the depth of the forest.  May be Heidi was right.  In the stillness of the snow-clad forest, in the life that persisted, even in the cold, she was there-embedded in the beauty of the moment.

With a deep breath, Robert stood up, brushed the snow from his coat, and took one last look around the clearing, a quiet farewell mingling with the gentle falling of snow.  As he walked back along the path, he felt a little lighter, as if the memories, though bittersweet, could also be a balm.  The snow continued to fall, but now, it felt like a blanket of hope, wrapping around him, inviting him to carry on.

          After a week of contemplation, he called Jenny and asked if she would meet him for coffee, but not in town.  She agreed, understanding his reluctance to be seen together particularly as the theft of the gold was still fresh in some people’s minds. Robert played rugby for Brightlingsea and often used The Queen’s Head pub, secluded on the outskirts of Tolleshunt D'arcy, where he used to entertain Heidi.

 

          He also invited Jess and as they sat down with a drink, Robert spoke.

“Listen I know the robbery was a stitch-up, but what was the scam and who was involved?”

 

          Jess spoke first. “I’ve been doing a little bit of digging in prep for this meeting and I can tell you that the mob who did the job came from Nottingham; four of them.”

 

          Jenny quickly looked over her shoulder, checking that no one was listening, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Heidi told me that she worked it out, which is why they killed her, I think. The gold, which was insured, would be stolen and the firm would receive a huge payout, which would cover the loss and sort out the debt.”

 

“What debt?

 

“Heidi had discovered that Smitherton had racked up a huge gambling debt in two of the big casinos in London and each month he discreetly filtering off thousands to keep one step ahead of the mobs.  Then he personally authorised the investment for a project in South Africa which went sour.  He was well in over his head.”

 

Robert whistled to himself. “And no one spotted it?”

         

Jenny leant forward. “Yes, old man Hamilton picked it up during the autumn audit and spoke to Smitherton.  According to Nancy, his PA, he was given six months to sort it all out or he would report the matter to the police.”

 

“Who else knew about this?”

“Pritty well all the executive team, including that slimy git Frampton the Accountant and before you ask, he was the one who suggested the way to recoup the loss to the board.”

 

They all sat there in silence for a while, then Jess spoke. “I can take care of the four from Nottingham, but what have you in mind for the rest?”

 

Jenny said. “If we are now thinking of revenge and that you want to take down the whole Board of Directors, including Frampton and his hangers on, then I suggest you do it on the 23^rd of December.”

 

“What’s the significance of the 23^rd?”

 

“It’s the afternoon Hamilton and Buckfast hold their directors Christmas Party.  They normally hold it around 4:30 on the fourth floor. It's invitation only.”

 

Jess put down his pint. “We don’t want to take out those who are innocent, not before Christmas.”

 

“Good point.  I can get hold of the invite list and discretely warn off those not involved in the scam.”

 

“Thank you Jenny.  Now the question is how do we do it?”

Jess grinned. “Just so happens I still have some contacts with my old mates in the bomb disposal team, but I would need to recce the room first.”

 

          Robert sat by the burning fireplace drinking a nice 25-year-old whiskey when he heard on the six o’clock news that there had been an explosion at the firm of Hamilton and Buckfast.  According to the Fire Chief at the scene, there were no survivors.

 

          He grinned, raised his glass and toasted them, and a bloody merry Christmas to you all.”

 

Copyright Bob French Nov24

 

Riddles 20

 Riddles 20

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has three puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  I’m a colour, but you can eat me!  What am I?

 

No 2.  You’re my brother but I am not your brother! Who am I?

 

No 3.  I’m unstoppable, but easy to waste!  What am I?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

Ancestry

By Barbara Thomas 

The study of your Ancestors and where it can lead you, if you are lucky, or in several places unlucky… 

It all began when a man turned up at a pub in the South of London claiming that it was his belief that the elderly man sitting there was his father: George William Glenham.

Hereby lies a tale:

So where do I start? 

Let’s begin here:

1 marriage 2 bigamist marriages to two sisters, 8 years apart.

2 children from a legitimate marriage 10 years apart after leaving and then returning years later. 

1 child by 1st bigamist marriage both mother and child died within a year of each other sadly.  Seven children from 2nd bigamist marriage then lived happily with that person until he died after years of “marriage bliss” 

As mentioned above this was a very complex case which included

change of names from George William Glenham to Samuel George Thomas illegally.

He married both sisters in church under the aka name of Samuel George Thomas, who had falsified Marriage certificates. 

Two birth certificates, 1 legal and 1 illegal.

Legal  ~ George William Glenham born Dec 1905.

Illegal ~ Samuel George Thomas  born Jan 1906.

Big mistake was putting different parents on each of the certificate’s. 

Though I found out that both George William Thomas parents were actually born in the East end of London

Samuel George Thomas’s falsified certificate of Parents supposedly born in Scotland.

What a pickle, one of the first things my husband asked me to solve when we met; knowing my hobby was (and still is) Genealogy. 

I stared confidently following all the clues of my husband’s dad’s certificates, as I thought they contained correct information.

When I came across a problem Tom my husband pointed out that he had vivid memories of his grandmother living in Bow in London

Where as I had his grandparents living in Scotland.

I did a U turn then, and back tracked with the new information he had given me. 

What a hornets nest I discovered, or should I say can of worms I opened. 

As mentioned before I found a marriage but no divorce papers then two more marriages in a different name from his birth name plus both fathers names and trades on all certificates were different 

What a malarkey as my Irish grandmother would have said.

The deeper I went the more I discovered… 

George William Glenham had a best friend George Clifton they had known each other since childhood. This friend had been the best man to all 3 marriages knowing that two were illegitimate.

I don’t know for sure but I have reason to think when Glenham, under the name of Thomas, married both sisters Rebecca and Alice neither had any idea that he was a married man as by then he had changed his name to Samuel George Thomas. 

George William Thomas and George Clifton both had joined the army before WWII but had deserted their posts and were court marshalled and told that if that had happened in WWI both would have been shot!

Later during WWII both men were conscripted into Churchill’s Home guard based in Wales at the Royal fusiliers’ camp. 

George Clifton lodged at George William Glenham’s parents home but in 1941 both George William Glenham’s. mother and best friend Clifton went away together and moved to Essex.

George William Glenham’s father William James Glenham was suffering from depression at the time and finding out what his wife had done he sadly took his own life drinking a whole bottle of Jeyes fluid…

William James Glenham had had a distinguished army career both in the boar war and WWI and had been mentioned in dispatches 

It all began to unravel as right in the beginning the man that had gone looking for his father was George William Glenham jnr. and apparently according to eye witnesses George William Glenham aka Samuel George Thomas, after being confronted said “I’ve been a naughty boy.”

When asked why the son after all these years wanted from his father. George William Jnr’s reply was now he had eventually met his father his only ambition was to have a drink with him, afterwards they shook hands and he walked, never to be heard from again.

Stranger still George William Glenham worked at the same place in South London all his working life where his lawful wife would take their son as a baby in a pram to wait at the firm’s gates on payday to collect her wages.

I kept finding more info, and again years later when my husband had his pub on the Harold Hill estate Essex. There was a terrible accident just down the road an elderly man was knocked down and killed outright by a lorry. 

That’s when I discovered the man’s name was George Clifton, George William Glenham’s friend who years before had moved in with his mother and set up home in Essex. 

Also strangely enough my husband told me that at his marriage to wife Sheila the sisters of George William Glenham’s were invited, but he told me he had no recollection even seeing them before or who had invited them. This was only discovered when I found a wedding photo of all 3.

Sheila sadly died as did my husband Alfie so as a widower I would be able to marry again. 

First meeting with the family was fun; I think not!!

I had discovered this huge skeleton in their families’ cupboard and it was my first time meeting them all, funnily enough at a family wedding.

Another tragic coincidence within the last 3 years that happened to both my husband and myself was that both our eldest son’s Stephen Gary Thomas and Daniel Patrick Quinlan from our 1st marriages died. Both Steve and Danny as they were known in the family will always hold a special place in our hearts. 

Whilst finding out about my husband’s late family I was contacted through Ancestry by cousins, nieces, and nephew’s all trying to collate George William Glenham’s chequered families past.

Again strangely all the male children of Samuel George Thomas have William as their second name.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

The Zombie Drug…

 The Zombie Drug… 

By Len Morgan 

   Marcus was smooth, suave, and sophisticated. He liked drinking in different bars, as the mood took him; he had an ulterior motive. He had a host of clever chat up lines that he used to good effect to lure young women into his influence.  If one line doesn’t pique a woman’s interest he would try another.  But, if there were other equally desirable young women in the bar he would simply change his tack and hit on them, in the certain knowledge that his good looks and fake charm would grab their attention.  His method was to treat a young woman as if she was the only girl in the room, offer to buy her a drink, then another and another.  Eventually she would have to visit the ladies room.  That is when he would slip a roofie into her drink... 

Veronica, Cloe, and Crystal were young women on a mission, trolling the bars looking for their mark.  Cloe checked out the bar, “He’s in here,” she told the others, “Far end, propping up the bar.”

Veronica entered the bar and in a short while Marcus sidled up beside her. 

  “Hi I’m Marcus; it seems I’ve been stood up by my date.” 

  “That’s a shame, maybe we can talk while we wait, I’m also alone, a friend was supposed to meet me here but she hasn’t arrived yet.” 

  “That’s my good fortune,” he smiled, disarmingly “What’s your poison?” 

  “Oh that’s kind of you; I’ll have a gin & tonic.” 

  “I like this bar, it has a nice atmosphere, and the music is background; not too ‘in your face’,” he said. 

  “I’m Ronnie,” she said, “Oh look, there’s an empty table over there, why don’t we sit and chat.” 

  “A good idea, let me take the drinks over,” he smiled again.

‘Maybe he wasn’t the mark they were looking for,’ she thought looking towards Crystal and Cloe. Cloe nodded to confirm he was the one they were looking for. 

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to visit the ladies,” she smiled and headed across the room.  She visited a cubicle to relieve herself. Leaving the cubicle she freshened up her lippy, whilst waiting for Crystal to arrive.    

  “He did it Ron, Cloe confirms he’s the one!” 

  “Are the rest of the girls outside?” 

  “Ready and waiting,” said Crystal taking a small vial from her purse and handing it to Ronnie.  

“Are you sure this will work?” Ronnie asked as she unscrewed the lid and applied a little of the green fluid to her lips, “here goes nothing…” she said. 

Ronnie gave him a pleasant smile as she sat at the table. “I noticed there are nuts on the bar, drinking always makes me hungry, would you mind asking if they can spare some?” 

  “I’ll find out,” he said and went over to the bar. While he was out of sight she poured her drink into a nearby potted plant and refilled the glass with water. 

He returned triumphant with a small dish of nuts, “you haven’t touched your drink, is something wrong with it?” he asked. 

  “It’s fine,” she assured him, and emptied the glass in one. 

“Let me get you another,” he said, taking their glasses back to the bar. 

When he returned she leaned across the table and, spontaneously kissed him full on the lips, “you’re Angel,” she said, before drinking it down. Then, she took a napkin from her bag and wiped her lips. 

  Crystal joined them at the table, and said “stand up.” Marcus obeyed. 

  Ronnie took out her phone and dialled. “Hi girls, the fish is in the net, come and join us!” 

Two ladies entered and headed for their table. 

  “He’s the one,” Cloe said, preparing to attack him. 

  “Shhh,” Crystal soothed her.  “He’s completely under our control.  My grand mother was a voodoo priestess, and we used one of her potions to turn him into a zombie it will only last for 24 hours.  So let’s take full advantage of that time; unleash a little girl power.” “We’re taking him back to your apartment.” Ronnie said.  “We’ll humiliate him like he did to you, and heaven knows how many others.”

“Great idea! Let get out of here,” Cloe said. 

”Follow me!” Crystal commanded, Ronnie, and Marcus headed for the door, the others followed them.   

“Don’t feel sorry for him Cloe, his bottle of tablets is less than half full so you were not his only victim,” said Ronnie. 

Back at Cloe’s apartment they stripped him, dressed him in ladies underwear and wrote abusive words on his chest with waterproof lipstick. 

“Do you have your tattooing kit ready Ronnie?” 

“I have luminous red ink and a special stencil prepared,” she said.

“When you’re done, we can take him to the park and leave him on the ‘roundabout’, leave his clothes in a neat pile beside him. 

Two young constables took one look at the ‘RAPIST’ tattoo on his forehead, found the bottle of roofies in his jacket pocket and called for a car to take him to the station.

Two weeks later, the girls saw his picture in the local paper and read the story ‘6 month for possession and use of ‘rohypnol’, the banned rape drug.’

 

Copyright Len Morgan