The Blind Date.

By Len Morgan

It wasn't really a blind date, it wasn't even a date.  It was a targeted communication on line.  It would be the beginning of the biggest 'Blind Date' in the history of the World Wide Web!

Justine Drake was (or will be; depending on which end of the link you're on) an FTL physicist engaged in advanced space travel following in the footsteps of her father and grandfather who were both Astrophysicists.  Overnight she became the richest woman in the four inhabited systems. 

Naturally people were curious about the origins of her wealth.  One day she was a poor overworked scientist, then overnight she possessed the wealth of a small planet.  The questions had been asked, but only she, and her great-great-great-grandfather Kevin Drake who lived back in the 21st century could give an answer.  Kevin died 200 years ago, and Justine had no intention of revealing their secret.

Kevin was an unremarkable man a proficient financial accountant, without fire in his belly.  He would have lived out his humdrum life in virtual obscurity, had it not been for an email message he received from the future: from Justine.  He took it to be a hoax of course.  

 

Hi venerable ancestor,  

I am guessing this message will reach you sometime in the 2020's.  Attached is a list of dates and winning lottery numbers for rollover and double rollover weeks between 2015 and 2035.  I ask only that you Invest £5 and buy a ticket using the numbers I have provided.  This will bring you wealth beyond expectation but, if you follow my further requests you could be so much more fulfilled.  Let me explain: I would like you to open an account in my name and deposit half our joint winnings therein.  Additionally, I have attached a list of Companies that are small and struggling in your time, that will, with investment, become successful major companies in 2235, (my time).  There are others that do not as yet exist, that will require major investment to get them established.  I ask that you set up a legal trust device that will ensure they receive that finance. 

When you realise this is not a hoax, I know you will be prepared to invest with more confidence.  Also attached are the results of a number of sporting events.   You cannot claim in your own name, so please set up dummy recipient names.  Do not allow your son Charles to have access to this trust or your funds; he will put our plans in dire jeopardy!

In 2230, Faster than Light travel (FTL) will be sidelined by the Galactic Federation, as impractical.  It's true, to date no living creature has survived an FTL flight hence my need to self-fund the project.  Since Jump Space was opened, regular Jump Flights have taken place, but the technology is in the hands of the only other intelligent race in the Universe, the Zeelons, and is jealously guarded.  It is possible that sometime in the future they may decide to restrict our use of Jump Space.  We need an alternative means of inter galactic travel, and FTL is the best and only alternative available to us.  By following these instructions to the letter you would be the saviour of Earth and the Federation.  In addition, you will acquire personal wealth beyond your wildest dreams.  Your future would be assured simply by following the plan.

Regards,

Justine.

Kevin was sceptical, but what could he lose, he thought as he checked the numbers of past winners off on the list; they all panned out. 

"Hell!  It will cost me a fiver, who would miss it?  Certainly not me.  Now according to Justine, it's two weeks to the next triple rollover." 

He wrote the numbers on the form and paid over his cash.  The Grand National is on next week, he thought.  I'll spread a few thousand around on that if I win...  Ten years later he was a multi-billionaire, he had personally and on Justine's behalf, invested in all the companies she advised, and they all bore fruit...

Two hundred and ten years later, Justine and her team checked on the accounts. 

"Another one has just taken the bait, another 1,300 billion in funds have arrived.  You're a genius Justine, we are raking in fortunes and all it cost us was the price of an Inner Space Jump two hundred light-years away, an unmanned FTL vehicle and an old antique internet server to send out the 'blind dates' to your ancestor in the 21st century.  FTL may not be a practical means of travel but it's a perfect way to travel back in time, virtually!"

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

Day Trip                     

By Jane Scoggins

We came to Southend to walk on the pier,

We came for the seaside, that’s why we are here.

We came with our cossies and a flask of hot tea,

We came for a swim, but we can’t see the sea.

We are walking the pier, the 1.5 miles.

We are expecting a lot ‘cause we drove 40 miles!

                       

From the end of the pier we look back at the view.

The Three Shells Cafe, beach huts, and striped deckchairs too.

But where is the sea? It’s just mud all around.

We peer over the railings, but no waves can be found.

                       

Oh, why didn’t they tell me, why didn’t they say?

That Southend’s not on the sea, but the Thames estuary.

                       Copyright Jane Scoggins 

 

The Dark Half Chapter 15

By Janet Baldey

In later years, whenever Anna thought about Romeo she made a point of remembering his kindness and after her father’s death, it was this kindness that gradually liberated her from the bleak depths of her misery. She would always be grateful for that.

         When she’d got back from the funeral, Lucy wasn’t home and Anna was glad. She didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. All she wanted to do was go to bed, fling the covers over her head and forget. But no matter how hard she tried, her brain couldn’t switch off the nasty, nagging little voice that haunted her with ‘if onlys.’ If only she had visited more often.  If only she’d known how ill he was.  If only she’d insisted he saw a doctor. Truly, she hadn’t realised that time was so short and the fact that her beloved dad had died just five days after her last visit stunned her. Tears of loss mixed with remorse soaked her pillow as she blamed herself over and over again. Why had she been so blind?  She thought about her childhood and how he’d protected her in times of trouble. Her chance to show him how much that had meant to her was gone forever now and a pain, feeling as solid and real as iron, pierced her heart as she buried herself in her bed.

         Eventually exhaustion took over and she drifted into something that was lighter than sleep but deeper than a doze; a merciful unconscious which gradually lightened as, at some unknown time later, she became aware that someone was hammering on the front door. She tried to ignore it, but the sound was insistent and slowly the thought came to her that it must be Lucy.  She had forgotten her key again, which wasn’t unusual. Anna dragged herself from her bed but when she eventually unlocked the door, it was suddenly wrenched away from her and she fell straight into the arms of Romeo.

         “Anna, my love, how are you? I’ve been trying to telephone but there was no reply.”

         “I took the ‘phone off the hook,” she mumbled, trying to hide her face from him. She’d never been able to cry prettily;  her eyes felt dry and swollen as if all their moisture had been wrung out and her hair was matted and clung to her head like a badly made wig. Then she remembered father and shame overwhelmed her.  How mindless to be worrying about her appearance at a time like this.

         “Where’s Lucy? Didn’t she go to the funeral with you?”

         “No. I don’t think she likes funerals.”

         “But didn’t she offer?”

         “No. Anyway, I would have refused. I don’t want my brother to know about her.”

         Romeo didn’t answer but hugged her closer and suddenly she was so glad to see him,

         “Come on,” he said. “You sit down and I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

         Gratefully, she did as she was told and was comforted by the ordinary sounds of water being boiled and the chink of china. Dimly, hope took shape. Perhaps, with Romeo’s help, she might survive.

         As they sipped their tea, they talked. Gently, Romeo probed. How was her mother, he asked?

         Anna took her time before she answered; partly because she was ashamed. She’d been so immersed in her own misery, she had barely noticed her mother’s. The reception, or wake as her mother had termed it, had been a blur.  She had only been dimly aware of people materialising before her, offering their condolences. She wondered if she had responded appropriately because all she had really wanted was for them to leave. Perhaps then she might have been able to persuade herself that it had all been a horrible dream.

         As it was, she could only shake her head helplessly.

         “I think you ought to pop round and see how she is. As soon as you feel up to it, of course.

         She’d nodded and in the days following tried to telephone several times but there was never any reply and it was two weeks before she gathered enough courage to visit the house in which her father no longer lived.

         Of course, fate decreed it was Alec who answered her knock. But it was an Alec she barely recognised. He almost looked normal. She’d bit her lip, that was spiteful, that was an Alec sort of thought and she was better than that. But, against her will she had to admit that the young man lounging in the doorway could almost be described as handsome. At first, she could almost swear he was wearing make-up but a second glance told her she was wrong. It was just that his teenage acne had cleared and now his skin looked smooth and more tanned than sallow. His hair had been cleverly cut and had been oiled and swept back from his face, while his obviously bespoke trousers had been tailored to hide his calliper. She stood goggling at him taking in his polished outfit.. She felt dowdy by comparison. He’s been busy since Dad died, she thought and wondered why she was surprised that any grieving on his part had taken second place to shopping; shopping on a grand style as well, because his outfit was obviously costly.

         The one thing that hadn’t changed was the glitter of malice in his eyes as he stood looking her up and down as if she was a bag lady.

         “Why, it’s Anna.” He drawled, “nice of you to turn up. I’m just off out, as you can see. I’ll let Ma know you’re here.”

         With a fluid grace that she didn’t know he was capable of, he swung round and shouted down the hall way.

         “Ma, Anna’s arrived at last.”

         As she watched him walk away from the house, she noticed only a slight limp. Against her will, she realised he looked the type of man that would attract a certain type of woman, romantic idiots who liked the darkly brooding sort that only they could tame. Well, good luck to them, she thought, give me funny any day.

         She walked down the hallway trying not to remember all the times she had done exactly the same in the past, pushing away memories as they crowded around her.  There was a time for reminiscence but not now, she had to get through this. Pushing open a door, her eyes automatically veered towards her mother’s favourite seat.  She knew she would find her there. The kitchen/diner was her mother’s domain and the rocking chair under the window, her throne. Dazzled by the light spilling into the room at first she saw only a dim, slumped shape. Then it spoke.

         “So, it’s you at last. Well, you took your time my girl.”

         “I know. I’m sorry Mum. I haven’t been well.” The white lie was justified, she thought, she couldn’t tell her mother the real reason. “Anyway, I’m here now, How are you?”

         Her mother grunted. “Well enough, I suppose. Alec’s been looking after me. It’s a good job I’ve got him.”

         Anna’s eyes were adjusting to the light now and her mother swam into view. She felt a thrill of shock run through her. She looked terrible. Dull eyes stared out of a pasty face and her clothes looked as if she’d slept in them; crumpled and food-stained, it was obvious they hadn’t been changed in days. Anna looked around the room. That, too, was filthy.  There were piles of unwashed dishes on the table and draining board and slices of mildewed bread were scattered over the worktop. Anna walked over to the frig and opened its door. It was completely empty apart from half a bottle of sour milk and a lump of hard cheese.

         “What have you been eating, Mum?”

         “Not really ‘ungry. ‘Ave a slice of toast now and then and Alec gives me a little something in the evening.”

         “What sort of ‘little something’.”

         Her mother shifted her gaze and didn’t answer. At last she mumbled, “this and that.”

         Anna walked back to the door. “Well, there’s nothing in the ‘frig. I’ll just pop down to the little shop and get a few things. Then, I’ll give this place a good clean.”

                                                        ***

         Anna, looked at her pasta and picked up her fork;  she put it down again and lifted her glass instead.  She gave the wine a swirl and looked at Romeo. “You were right. I should have gone before. The place was a filthy mess and Mum looked as if she hadn’t had a square meal since the funeral. I don’t know what that little rat has been doing, apart from tarting himself up of course, but he certainly hasn’t been looking after Mum.”

         Over the course of their meal, she’d told Romeo about Alec’s changed appearance and the state of the house but what she hadn’t told him was her growing suspicions about her brother. After she’d mopped and cleaned the kitchen, she’d run the vacuum down the hall and squirted it with air freshener to get rid of its sour smell.  She’d do Mum’s bedroom, she thought, but she certainly wasn’t doing anything for her brother. He could wallow in his own mess.

         As she heaved the cleaner up the stairs, at first she averted her eyes from her old room but, at last, curiosity overwhelmed her. Her mother had told her that Alec had taken it over and although she dreaded seeing his incursion into her childhood haven, she just couldn’t help herself. Her hand found the handle and gently pushed open the door.  At first glance, it seemed that nothing had changed. Familiar curtains shrouded the window, her rose-patterned bedspread was the same, even her old books and pictures looked untouched.  She looked closer and saw that the place was thick with dust and there was an odd aroma that caught in her throat, making her want to retch. Almost against her will, she took a step forward then froze as there was a crunch underneath her foot. She looked down and saw the floor was covered with narrow white stubs; she looked at the bed and clearly saw the imprint of a body. So, Alec had taken up cigarettes and was using her room as a sort of smoking den, She sniffed and changed her mind. That wasn’t the smell of cigarettes, it was too sweet and cloying and the butts were slim and looked as if they had been hand-rolled. With a shock of surprise, she realised what they were. They were spliffs. Alec was smoking Cannabis. Again, she wondered where he got the money from. 

         She took a closer look around the room and a line appeared between her brows;  standing out in shining contrast to the dark oak wood of her wardrobe, was a large metal padlock fastening its doors. She walked over and gave it an experimental tug but it held firm. Her worry lines deepened. Why would Alec lock her wardrobe?  She wandered around the perimeter of her room, picking up knickknacks at random, each one bringing back a childhood memory.  There was her collection of seashells on her windowsill, periwinkles, whelks, mussels, cockles.  All seemingly intact, apart from a grey patina of dust that dulled their delicate colours.  An old menu from Planet Hollywood; a birthday treat from their parents. They never had a party that included other children because Alec always spoiled it, but that day had been special and she had never forgotten it.  For the first time in days, she felt her lips curving into a smile. She moved on to her school photographs; for some reason her mother hadn’t wanted them downstairs, so her Dad had suggested tacking them on a wall in her bedroom. They were still there, all of them, not one had been moved but as her eyes roved over them she noticed something odd. She looked closer and a chill flooded through her.  In every photograph, her face had been burned out, obviously with the live end of a cigarette or even spliff.  She shivered and her legs weakened as she sat down suddenly on the bed.  She hadn’t just been disfigured, she had been obliterated and suddenly the air seemed to thicken as she sensed the depth of Alec’s hatred. Wildly, she looked around the room, expecting other horrors but her wits had scattered and if there were any she didn’t see them.

         At last strength returned to her legs. She couldn’t wait to get out and the stairs barely managing enough breath to shout goodbye to her mother. Then she was out in the street, gulping down deep draughts of cool air, perspiration drying on her forehead.

***

         Now, as she sat staring at her untasted meal, she couldn’t bear to think about it, let alone form the words to tell Romeo. There was also the fear that as kind as he was, he might wonder what sort of person could incur such venom..     

 Copyright Janet Baldey          

 

 

HER SACRIFICE.

 

By Sis Unsworth

 

She knew she must give up the house, and all its contents too.

The furniture she'd grown to love and bought when they were new.

The settee by the window, opposite the door,

The chandeliers reflecting light, made shadows on the floor.

A stylish table looking chic, refined and debonair,

Complements the features, of the comfy fireside chair.

All those happy memories so clearly did appear,

As she straightened up a cushion and wiped away a tear.

You never can stop progress this she now did know,

So to make room for the laptop, the dolls house had to go.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Mind Slip

By Len Morgan

  It was just an absent minded slip, that’s what it was!   Instead of turning right out of the car park, and heading into the centre of Lakeside, I drove straight on past the neon shop signs, into an area I had not visited before.

  I glanced at my watch, it was 17:15hrs.  I was almost an hour early for my appointment and didn't want to appear too eager, so I decided to look around.   Ahead of me, I saw a tall innocuous grey granite building faced with two high smoked glass windows taller and wider than two men standing on the shoulders of a third - at least twenty feet by twenty – how could curved glass be moulded and transported in such dimensions I wondered?   Between them a matching pair of sliding glass doors of similar dimensions waited, closed but inviting, and to the left hung a small sign.   Since I had come so far out of my way I thought I might as well take advantage of the slip, and investigate.

So, I parked my car and headed towards the building.   Closer in I saw the sign read ‘TERMINUS2010’ a few steps further, and I could see shadows moving beyond the smoked glass.   Closer still I could distinctly see groups of people all moving with purpose.

One group dressed in sombre serviceable garb rose, as one, when I entered through the doorway.   Other figures reposed in easy chairs, singly, in two’s and three’s.   Then I saw a larger group moving away from me wearing pale pastel linen clothing.   A third group adorned with studded leather and furs, shod in high laced leather sandals, appearing to be conversing but all I heard were clicks, pops, and whistles, accompanied by highly demonstrative wide arm movements. 

At my approach, all talk ceased, as if somebody had hit a mute button.   None glanced at me directly, but I had the distinct impression I was being observed; an object of silent contemplation. 

At the far end of the high ceilinged hallway, one of a row of ten oversized black gunmetal lift doors opened.   A group of very tall impossibly thin beings, in long black hooded robes, entered the hall through the portal.   Their faces were veiled against casual inspection.  Their guttural speech was alien to me, a language I had never heard before and doubt I shall ever hear again.   Their faces may have been covered but their eyes were florescent violet with flashes of lavender, blues and greens.   Wisps of red yellow and orange Medusan hair peeked out, from beneath their hoods with sensuous serpentine undulations.  I averted my gaze at the thought...  All talk ceased as if someone had called a telepathic command.

  Though I saw nothing untoward in their demeanour, it changed subtly.   I had the strangest precognition of hostility.  Of not being welcome.  As if I’d entered a Freemasons meeting uninvited.  I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck, I sensed fear and panic welling up inside me, coupled with an irresistible urge to be gone.  I was fighting to stay calm when the aroma assailed my olfactory senses, a foetid scent accompanied by a malevolent buzzing that seemed to emanate from inside my skull, its intensity increased by the moment.  I turned and fled without looking back.

My car was in gear and moving before I realised the buzzing had stopped.   Only then did I venture a furtive glance over my shoulder.   Everything seemed normal, nobody was following me, and I began to feel a little foolish about the whole incident.  All the neon signs were now switched off.  

I glanced at the clock in my car.  I really didn’t have time for exploration anyway, it was 18:40hrs, and I was late for my appointment!  All because of that stupid mind slip.

.-…-.

Saturday morning I sat down to watch the Arsenal v Chelsea match.

"Don't get too engrossed in that, you can watch the highlights at ten-thirty tonight," my wife said.  "I want to see the fashion show in aid of the ‘TERMINUS2010 charity’ being held at Lakeside this afternoon." She switched channels...

We watched eight minutes of adverts, then an announcer appeared:

"We regret to announce The Terminus2010 Fashion extravaganza scheduled for this afternoon has been postponed because of an electrical malfunction yesterday evening.   Sound equipment overloaded shorting out the lighting system and caused damage to a vital control console.  Replacement units are on their way from Paris and will arrive later today.   The show has been rescheduled for ten-thirty tonight, in place of the football highlights..."

"Well," I said, switching the channel, "2 : 0?   We've scored two and I missed it because of a bloody postponed fashion show, and I won't even get to see the highlights.   I could have gone down to the pub and watched it on the big screen..."  I looked closer at the time clock on the TV, seventy-five minutes played, I looked at my watch, 3:15hrs.   "Did they start early?"

June looked at my watch, "You daft bugger, the clocks went forward an hour last Sunday (BST) daylight saving!   It's 4:15hrs now."

"Just a minute," I said.   "the clock in the car is showing the correct time, I listened to the 9 o'clock news on my way home last night."

"I updated the car clock on Sunday when I went shopping." Junes smile was a bit too wide for my liking.

 'So, I ran away from a fashion show rehearsal...' I thought.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

SEEING THE LIGHT 

By Peter Woodgate 

Brad opened the gate to the chicken enclosure and gasped in despair, there were feathers everywhere. He immediately had a headcount, “one missing, now that’s odd” Brad thought. “Can’t be a fox, they normally slaughter everything in sight even though they don’t take them.”

    Brad’s mind was working overtime as he let the remaining chickens out into the field and began to search for the entry point. He found it almost at once. A narrow funnel had been scooped out under the wire in the right-hand corner, reminiscent of a POW break-out in reverse.

    “I thought I’d buried the wire deeper than that,” he mumbled to himself, as he studied the size and shape of the funnel that had breached his defence's.

    After concluding that it must have been a fox, Brad began collecting the eggs from the boxes noting fewer than normal had been laid and, guessing that the night’s disturbance was the reason, made his way back to the cottage.

 

    He swung open the door and entered the kitchen, “bloody fox got one of the hens last night Kate.” Brad was about to expand on the situation but was stopped by the aroma and sound of breakfast sizzling in the pan.

    Brad and Kate had retired to their cottage two years previously and began living the life of their dreams. They had moved away from the hustle and bustle of town life buying the charming two-bedroom cottage which was sited in one and a half acres.

    A small area had been laid to garden the remainder consisting of, a large field, where the chickens roamed freely, a small, wooded area which, Brad knew, contained a badger sett and a pond with resident wild water birds. As well as the chicken's Brad and Kate kept two cats and a dog. The cats had moved with them from the townhouse but the dog, Butch, had only been acquired after they retired.

Brad had always insisted that a dog, like children, needed constant attention and Butch was now “one pampered pooch.”

    Brad sat down at the table and Kate brought over his breakfast. He knew that it wasn’t particularly healthy, but Brad loved his “full English.” They were few and far between when he was working but now he had plenty of time and as he looked at the plate containing, eggs, sausage, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and fried bread the morning’s disappointment faded away.

    “You will just have to make it stronger darling,” Kate suggested as she handed Brad a steaming cup of tea. “I’m sure you will find a way of keeping the foxes out,” she added supportively.

    Brad had almost finished his breakfast when he felt his knee being nudged. He looked down to see Butch staring up at him waiting patiently for a morsel of sausage or bacon. “You don’t deserve this,” Brad spoke begrudgingly as he slipped him his last piece of sausage, “you're supposed to be a guard dog letting me know of any disturbances.” Butch gave his master a quizzical look as Kate spoke in his defence.

    “If you hadn’t been snoring so loudly you may well have heard him, he did bark in the night, but I did not wake you up because you get so grumpy. I guessed it was some creature or another and didn’t think it that important, so blame me if you have to.”

    Brad gave Butch a pat on the head, “come on mate we have work to do, sorry I doubted you.”

After loading his wheelbarrow with some tools, wood and a roll of wire Brad, with Butch in tow, made his way to the chicken enclosure. Some two hours later he sat down and mopped his brow.

“ Well, Butch, me old mate let’s see if the buggers can get through that!” Brad felt rather pleased with himself as he made his way back to the cottage.

“Must be time for lunch soon,” he patted Butch on the head as he spoke, “don’t know about you but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

    The following morning Brad made his way to the chicken enclosure expecting to find everything in order. He swore in disbelief as he again found scattered feathers and, on a quick count, found that another chicken was missing. On this occasion, however, the point of entry was not difficult to find. He had made sure that the base of the perimeter fence was buried deep but forgot about the wooden entrance gate. The thief had literally walked through, well tunnelled under, the front door.

    Brad was furious, the fox, assuming it was a fox, was making him look silly and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

That evening Brad went down to the pub, it wasn’t so much the beer he needed as the advice he knew he could get from the locals. It was not a place he visited often but he had made some good friends there even though they referred to Brad as “The Townie.”

    It was still early as Brad entered the “Dog and Partridge” but he knew that Tom would be there. Tom was always there, early or late, Monday to Sunday, “I have nothing to go home for,” he would say.

Since the death of his wife, Tom had made the Dog and Partridge, his extended home and spent most of the pub’s opening hours sitting at the bar. The landlord was quite happy that Tom spent a lot of time there as he never drank to excess and merely socialised, drinking little but talking a lot.

    Brad got on well with Tom and knew he would help in a crisis, and this was getting into crisis proportions.            

“Evening Brad,” Tom looked up as he entered. “Haven’t seen you for days, would you like a pint?”

“No let me buy you one,” Brad replied, “need a bit of advice, got a small problem.”

“Well I’m all for helping out when I can,” Tom got up from his seat at the bar, “fire away Brad.”

Brad felt a bit awkward as he started to explain the problem he had with something killing his chickens. 

“I think it’s a fox but can’t be sure, I’ve been told that foxes always kill more than they eat. What’s more,” Brad continued, “how do I stop the buggers getting in?”

Tom laughed as he replied. “Stopping them is easy Brad, you just bloody shoot them, locating em, well that requires a bit of patience.” 

Tom then began explaining to Brad how he would need to lay in wait for whatever was pilfering his poultry.

“You will need to make sure you are down-wind, do you know from which direction the bleeder comes?”

“Not sure,” Brad replied, “but it’s probably from the wooded area.”

“OK,” Tom was getting excited, “Why don’t I come over tomorrow night and give you a hand, don’t worry about the gun I’ll bring that, just make sure you have a decent torch, wouldn’t want to shoot a poacher now would we.”

Brad laughed, “Thanks Tom see you tomorrow night.” He turned to leave but had a sudden thought, “Tell you what, why don’t you come over earlier and have a bite to eat before we tackle the situation.”

“Now that sounds like a good idea,” Tom had a broad grin on his face, “make sure you tell your misses though.”

    It was about 6pm when Tom walked up the neat path leading to Brad’s cottage. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and Brad stood there smiling.

“Saw you coming mate,” Brad ushered Tom inside where the smell of roast chicken greeted his arrival

 “Not one of yours is it?” Tom had a concerned look on his face.

“No Tom, we couldn’t do that, all our birds are extended family, you can tuck in assured that it is one we bought from the supermarket.”

Tom laughed as he walked into the kitchen where the table had been laid ready.

“Evening Tom,” Kate greeted him as he came in, “would you like a drink with your dinner?” 

    Tom asked for a small glass of wine as he sat down opposite Brad. Kate served the meal and they chatted merrily as the food was consumed with relish. When they had finished Tom thanked Kate making her blush as he complimented her on an excellent dinner,

    “Oh get away,” Kate felt embarrassed as she started to clear the table, “you know you are always welcome, besides you have work to do don’t you.”

    Brad and Tom made their way to the chicken enclosure where, after assessing the wind’s direction, made themselves comfortable behind a clump of bushes some fifty yards from the edge of the wood. It was September and the light was beginning to fade, it was getting a mite chilly too but they had made provision for this by way of overcoats. Brad had also slipped a hip flask, full of whisky, into his pocket. Tom had brought his shotgun, as promised, and Brad had sought out the most powerful torch he could lay his hands on. He had also brought some night vision binoculars and they were ready, it would seem, to tackle the unknown night visitor. 

    The wood was now barely visible as Brad, thinking he saw some movement, grabbed the binoculars and peered through the lenses. He was not mistaken; a shadowy form moved cautiously from the trees its eyes being lit, briefly, by a shaft of moonlight that had escaped via a chink in the clouds.

Brad nudged Tom and handed him the binoculars pointing towards the woods as he did so. Tom looked briefly then gave Brad the thumbs up handing him the gun.

It had been agreed that Brad would be the one to pull the trigger; after all, they were his chickens. He took the gun from Tom handing him the torch in return, both, then waited with bated breath.  

    Tom was holding the binoculars to his eyes in one hand whilst holding the torch in the other knowing that the intruder would have to pass within about thirty feet of where they lay hidden, both were ready to spring into action. 

    At first, the intruder stood there nervously, turning its head from side to side.

Suddenly it was on the move treading carefully en route to the chicken coup. Brad stiffened as the creature reached the point closest to where they lay hidden. A beam of light enveloped the chicken thief, sure enough, there it was, a beautiful fox.

    It looked back in the direction where Brad was hiding, showing its large gleaming eyes. It just stood there staring at Brad who had the gun ready to fire. Brad froze, the eyes of the fox seeming to pull him into a vortex of doubt. 

Did he really want to kill this beautiful creature? It was only trying to live. 

Did he have the right to decide who would live or die? What if there were cubs in the Den.

Was there someone out there ready to kill him?  He had eaten chicken that evening too. 

His head was spinning as the eyes of the fox became galaxies in the universe of despair that now enveloped his conscience. “Stop it,” he shouted, as he threw down the gun clasping his hands to his head, “stop it.” 

   Suddenly, Brad was aware of someone shaking him by the shoulders. “Are you OK mate?” He looked round to see Tom staring at him. “It wasn’t my fault,” Tom sounded frustrated, “the bloody torch didn’t come on, must be a dodgy connection, never mind we will get the bugger next time.” 

    Brad stared out to where the fox had stood. Darkness now enveloped the area. Further out beyond the darkness a shadow loped back to the woods, stood on two legs, then disappeared in a flash of light. 

    Tom pulled Brad to his feet, “let’s go for a pint,” he said wearily, “I’m cold and thirsty.” 

    As they made their way to the Dog And Partridge, Brad knew, somehow, that his life had changed forever.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

THE END OF HOPE

The End of Hope 

by Richard Banks

Carla stared intently at the two young housemen preparing to give Geoff another injection. She could see in their faces that something was wrong.

         “I can’t raise a vein,” the younger one whispered. The other man took over, rubbing and prodding Geoff’s arm, tensely aware that his patient was shaking with pain. Geoff regarded the housemen with suspicion bordering on hostility. His comprehension was clouded by drugs and lack of sleep. He knew not what they were doing, he only wanted them to stop. “Leave me!” he shouted. “I don’t want to go on like this. Let me die.”      

      She tried to find the words that would calm him, convince him that despite the months of pain there was still hope. Hang on there, she thought, but the expression sounded trite, like something out of a TV drama. This was real life and nothing she could say seemed adequate or useful. The younger houseman and a nurse held Geoff steady on the bed while the older man continued to search for a usable vein. There had been many injections, too many. He was quiet now, acquiescent, grimly aware that they weren’t going to stop, and that he couldn’t make them.

      “Got it.” The older houseman inserted the syringe and attempted to say something reassuring, something that suggested that this was mere routine, that he was calm, in control. A trickle of perspiration fell from his forehead onto the pillow below.

      Geoff groaned but began to breath more easily. For an hour, maybe two, he would be free of pain; a chance to sleep, to dream that he was somewhere else: at home, the office, anywhere but here. His eyes closed and he began to sleep. 

     The houseman signed for the morphine used and added a few more lines to the patient record. He glanced towards Carla, anxiously anticipating the questions she would ask, sharp, perceptive questions that cut through his equivocation, questions impatient of uncertainty and ambiguity. What would he say if she asked, as she did, about the odds, “50/50 doctor, more, or less?” 

     He was not a betting man, but he knew that the odds on Geoff surviving were considerably less than even. Despite the chemotherapy, the tumour was growing, out of control. Carla was silent, staring grim-faced at Geoff sleeping. Poor woman, he thought, she looks exhausted.

     “Have you any questions?” he heard himself asking. She seemed lost in thought. He asked the question again, half hoping that if she said nothing he would be able to leave the bad news to another day. He was about to go when Carla redirected her gaze towards him.

     “It’s not good, doctor, is it?”

     “No, Mrs Cole, I’m afraid it’s not.” He showed her the x-ray that had been taken that day. “There were,” he said, “certain negative developments.”

     She asked to see the x-ray taken the previous week and compared the two. “So, it’s less than 50/50 doctor?”

    The houseman hesitated. It was late in the evening. Everyone was tired. It wasn’t a good time, but there was never going to be a good time. He had to say something. “I’m afraid it’s less than 50/50.”

     “40/60?” she asked.

     He tried to explain, as gently as he could, that he was a doctor, not a bookmaker and that medicine was not an exact science.

      “Just tell me, doctor. I need to know.”  

      He took a deep breath and considered what he should say. He would need the right words, but he didn’t have them. Cut to the chase, he thought, she’s seen the x-rays. Cut to the chase. Tell her the cancer has spread, that there’s no hope of recovery.

      She took the news calmly, without obvious emotion. With every reverse, she had dared to keep hoping, finding positives in every negative development, but she wasn’t silly or blind; she knew the look of a dying man, she had seen it before. “How long?” she asked.

      “Difficult to say, It could be days, maybe weeks. We will keep him as pain free as we can. Otherwise, there is nothing more we can do. I’m sorry.”

      She said, “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure why she said thank you. Thank you for what? For trying? She couldn’t fault them for that.

     The houseman asked if she had any further questions. She said no, she just wanted some time alone with Geoff, the questions could wait until tomorrow.

     The housemen and the nurse withdrew. There was a whispered conversation outside the door of the small room. The nurse reappeared briefly to ask Carla if she wanted to see the hospital counsellor. She replied that she had seen him once and that once was enough. She preferred a cup of tea and would make it herself. The nurse rejoined the housemen in the corridor. A few moments later they could be heard departing for the staff room. A door opened and shut, and there was silence.         

      Carla closed her eyes and tried to clear her head of all the redundant arguments she had previously considered and dismissed. This was not a time for thinking. She had done that, so had Geoff. All that remained was for her to do what they had agreed; this was no time for tears and strong emotions, she must be strong. For the next few minutes, she must think only of the plan. First, she must secure the door with the chair she was sitting on. She carried it across the floor and carefully wedged it between floor and door handle. That done, she drew the curtain over the adjacent window, re-crossed the room towards her handbag and took out Geoff’s revolver. She remembered his instructions, take off the safety catch, use both hands, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it, fire at point-blank range. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and then with a groan lowered the gun to her side. She must be mad, she thought. Either that or stupid. What was the use of a gun without bullets?

      She reached for her bag and extracted the box within. She inserted the first bullet, dropped the next and watched it roll off the bed onto the floor. Her hands were trembling now. Outside, in the corridor, she could hear a trolley being wheeled along. As it passed, she pushed a second bullet into the gun and then another. Three more and it was done. She told herself to be calm, that it would soon be over. She pushed the muzzle gently against his head, whispered she loved him and squeezed the trigger. Two doors down the corridor the nurse screamed and a male voice shouted an obscenity. In a few seconds, they would be at the door. Her only regret was for them, for what they would find. For her, the worst was over. She levelled the gun against her own head, knowing that she must not miss, that she could not miss.

Copyright Richard Banks