The Moon Belt (2nd & Last)

 The Moon Belt (2^nd & Last) 

By Len Morgan 

They returned to the 29^th Precinct, booked both perps, and took the evidence and perps to the lockup. 

“We could be in for a hard time if they call a brief, where’s our proof Sarge?” Cheu asked. 

Mell held up Two Trump masks, and Sherry held up the belt over her shoulder. 

“This is a really weird device Sarge, almost out of this world…” 

“What, a crappy leather belt?  Bet there are dozens just like it on ebay,” Cheu snorted. 

“Can they do this Sarge?” she turned the half-moon on it, but nothing happened.

“Get it booked in as evidence, and get it and the masks checked for prints.” He shook his head; it’s gonna be one of those days… 

 “Let’s get them to interrogation,” said Mell “you can take the man Proby.”

.-…-. 

“Name?” the man didn’t reply. “Where did you stash the loot?” ~ no reply.  “Who are the other two and where are they?” ~ Silence.

“You do know they will be away with the loot, They’ll fence it, and be off, leaving you to carry the can, They’ll cut you out…” 

“This one’s not speaking sarge, not even to lawyer up.”

“Don’t feel so bad Reed. Mell didn’t fare any better with the dame…  Take em back to the cells, and keep them separated.  We will get to the bottom of this!”

The phone rang.  Sarge I have the manager of the store, he wants to speak to you.”

“Mr Zaglioni?  Sergeant Covax here, yes… yes… but that’s crazy, why would they plan and carry out a heist, and leave with nothing?  Is this a prank?  Don’t reopen the store yet, I’m sending two investigators to take your statement…”

“Another call on line three Sarge, they’ve found the car, with the guns in the boot…”

“Covax here…  What?  Bring em in…”

“What gives Sarge?” Amellio asked. 

“Listen up everyone!  It seems they were firing blanks, the store has done an inventory for insurance purposes and nothing is missing…”

“That’s ‘Looney Tunes’ Sarge, what was it all for, a publicity stunt?”

“Officer Reed, you and Mell go back to the store and do what your good at; investigate.”

.-…-. 

“Mr Zaglioni, we’d like to take another look around before you reopen, it’s not every day we attend a non~heist!” 

“Are all your staff here?” Mell asked.

“Yes officer, the thieves made a terrible mess, but when we did our check none of our stock was missing…” 

“Is that door behind the counter locked?” Sherry asked. 

“Yes, except when we accompany clients to their lockboxes or we need to go to the safe.” 

“It isn’t locked now,” Mell noted.  “Who are the key holders?” 

“That would be me, and my deputy Miss Hanson, and of course the security officer.” 

“What’s in there?” 

“Safety deposit boxes and our day safe, but we have a state of the art security system. None of the boxes or our safe could be opened without the alarm going off and the security firm being alerted.” 

 Sherry looked up at the ceiling “Mm no bullet holes and the scene of crime photos didn’t include that.  Have you opened any of the boxes, or the safe sir, to confirm they were not accessed?” 

“The boxes require two keys, mine and the one held by the leaser of the box. Miss Hanson and I both have a key to the safe, and the combination code which is changed monthly, in fact it was changed three days ago.” 

“Would you open it in our presence please sir?”

“Certainly officer,” he took out a bunch of keys and selected one…

“Show me the key,” said Sherry. She examined it and returned it. Miss Hanson, your keys please?” She examined them and showed them to Mell who nodded.  “Have you recently had a copy cut?” 

She looked surprised, “No?” 

Mell gave her a look of disbelief…  “Do you have a partner?” 

“Yes?” 

“A live in partner?” 

“Yes.”

“Name of?”

“Lance Frobishire, he’s a nice guy, we’ve been going out for about two months.”

“Would you unlock the safe please. Not you Miss Hanson.” 

Zaglioni opened the safe, it was empty!  Both their faces turned white… 

Zaglioni fell to the ground and lay still.  Sherry checked his pulse, then started compressions, “call an ambulance Mell, he’s having a heart attack.  She continued compressions until the emergency services arrived and hooked him up to a defibrillator.  On the stretcher, he began to slowly come around. 

“What was in there sir?”

“Three million in uncut stones Rubies, Emeralds, Sapphires & Diamonds. Plus a package of low grade, as yet unidentified, stones with a silica like luster, probably worthless, but could be of interest…  Our syndicate  can’t sustain a loss like this, we are ruined!” 

“Whose we sir?” 

Zaglioni relapsed into unconsciousness. 

She raised her cell phone, “Sarge, Their safe has been cleaned out.  It contained $3 mil in uncut stones now it’s empty!  We suspect Jane Hanson’s live in partner name of Lance Frobishire.  Miss Hanson is coming down to the 2-9, and the store premises have been secured by their own security firm.  We have the keys to Hanson’s apartment; So, we are on our way there.  I’m sending you the address, we may need assistance.” 

.-…-. 

Mell rapped on the door “Police; Open up!”  There was a faint scuffle from within. He rapped again, harder. 

Sherry took up station at the rear door, it opened and a shadowy figure emerged. Sherry inverted the half-moon on the belt she was still wearing, and the man materialized. She drew her sidearm, “Lance Frobishire.  We have Jane Hanson in custody, don’t move.” 

He gazed at her, a look of disbelief on his face.  He bent down, picked up a rock and threw it at her.  She discharged her weapon, as she easily dodged his missile, both the rock and her bullet seemed to be moving in slo-mo.  She ran at him and forced him to the ground.  He fell heavily under their combined weight.  She cuffed him, turned him over and reversed the half-moon stud on his belt then her own, just as Mell rounded the corner. 

“I heard a shot, did you…” 

“He’s alive just winded.” 

“let’s get him back to the 2-9.”

She unhooked his moon belt and slung it over her shoulder, like a bandolier.  “Up you get Frobishire,” they led him to their patrol car and secured him in the rear.  They heard the siren from another unit, it stopped and an officer jumped out.

“What kept yuh!” said Mell, “We got the perp in custody, you guys check out the premises. Keys…” He held his hand out to Frobishire, who threw his keys to Sherry.

She caught them in one hand, gave them a cursory look.  Two newly cut keys plus an older but similar one caught her eye.  She removed the three from the ring and showed them to Mell, “These look familiar.”  

“That looks like a safe key, and at a guess, I’d say those are deposit box keys.” 

Sherry nodded and took a pic of Lance on her cell phone. “I’ll show this to Zaglioni, I’ll bet he’s a recent procurer of a safety deposit box.”

“Let’s get this one into custody first.”  Mell handed the keys, ‘minus the three’, to the patrol officer.  “Get forensics’ to check the place over officer.”  They left the scene at speed… 

.-…-. 

They handed over their prisoner at the precinct. Booked the moon belt in as evidence; Sherry retained hers (it could prove useful she reasoned, though strictly against protocol), breaking the chain of custody.  ‘But, there are three already in the custody room,’ she reasoned. 

.-…-.

 

“Do you recognise this man Mr Zaglioni?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?  Take a closer look…”

He shook his head, “but you said you have keys?  Let me see them.  Get me discharged from this hospital at once and take me to my store.” 

.-…-. 

They accompanied Zaglioni back to his premises.  They tried the larger key in the safe, and it opened.  They compared the other two keys with Zaglioni’s key, one was a match.  

The third key had an inscription around its rim, “This is one of ours; a client key.”

“Can you identify the client for us?” 

He unlocked his drawer and took out a journal, “It would be recent you say?”  He thumbed the pages and ran his finger down the entries, after the fourth page he look up.  I’ve gone back two years, but nothing matches.” 

“What about keys not yet issued?” 

“Excellent idea,” he went to a deposit box, put his key in, beside an existing key.  Turning both at once opened the box.  Inside was an array of keys and empty hooks.  “Ah!” He returned to his journal, “You’re key should open box 192, was the last one issued.” 

“193; can we open it?”

“Yes, my dear.” Sherry & Mell stood on either side of him as he put the keys into the keyholes.  He opened it, and began to cry!  “I’ll have to check the inventory but I think all the packets are here… 

.-…-.

Back at the precinct, they asked sergeant Covax if they could interrogate Miss Hanson.  She’d been housed in a waiting area but when they went to find her she was gone. 

“She wasn’t under guard sarge?” 

“She was helping us with our inquiries and was not considered to be a suspect.” 

“That may have been a miscalculation,” said Sherry. 

The desk phone wrung and an alarm sounded then all hell broke loose. 

“What’s happening!” Covax yelled down the phone. 

“The custody area has been breached and certain items of evidence have been removed.” 

“What’s missing?” 

“The three belts brought in earlier today.” 

“There’s going to be an attempt to break the prisoners out of the cells,” Sherry headed for the door with Mell close behind her. 

As she entered, a shadow moved beside one of the cells. The custody officer was down and his keys were missing.  The keys appeared dangling from an open cell door. The cell occupant was in the act of fastening a moon belt around his waist.  Sherry slammed the door shut and locked it. 

“They are secure, in a while Hanson will appear in that cell,” she said. 

“Hand over the belts Miss Hanson, you can’t get away.  The missing stones have been located they never left your employer's premises.” 

“How do you know all this Reed,” said Covax.

She opened her coat revealing her Moon belt.  “I’ll demonstrate how it works she said turning the stud, (She disappeared), she returned the half-moon stud to its original state and reappeared by the door twenty yards away. 

“That’s a helluva trick,” said Mell. 

“It’s a hell-of-a device!  Frobishire is the key, let’s get him to interrogation.” 

Tonni entered the Holding area, “Sarge two FBI agents want to speak with you in private…” 

Two men in slick black suits entered. “Thank you for your assistance in apprehending this gang, they are now under our protection.” 

“What?” Covax exploded, “They carried out a raid, took $3 million in uncut stones, and you want them to get away scot-free?  Not on my watch!” 

A police Captain entered, “afraid they can Sergeant, apparently it’s a matter of National Security.  And, since the stones never left the premises, their bullets were blanks; it seems that no crime has been committed. 

“What about the criminal damage charge?”

“The FBI will foot the bill for all damages.” 

“Wasting police time & resources?” 

“Think of it as a training exercise, sergeant.”

I understand your distaste, it rankles with me also but they have documents from the highest authority to back them up.”

“Turn off your belts,” said Sherry.  The four perps appeared and a squad of FBI agents came in and marched them away.

“Is that it?  Don’t we get an explanation?” 

“Apparently not Sergeant Covax.  This incident is covered by the official secrets act.  Nobody here can ever talk about this, a loose mouth could get you an indeterminate prison sentence.” 

“Thank you Captain,” said Covax, will we receive some sort of explanation for closure?” 

“Apparently, they wanted a packet of rare iridescent stones for a top-secret project.  Personally, I think they could simply have asked to purchase the stones but the FBI knows best…"

“Sherry rested her hand over her moon belt, ‘could prove useful’ she thought.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 PASSING ON

by Richard Banks 

       As he nervously walked up the Pearly Way Harry reflected with quiet satisfaction on the final scene of his life. It had been a traditional, old fashion death, well attended by his nearest and dearest.  He had gone out in style, consoling his wife and exhorting her to marry again should the opportunity arise. As she was nearly seventy-six he hardly expected that it would but Harry felt the occasion demanded a magnanimous gesture. He lectured his children telling them to live good lives, and forgave his sister and brother-in-law for misdemeanours committed so long ago he was at a loss to remember what they were. With his last words, he commended his soul to ‘his Maker’ and then, by some inexplicable process, found himself ascending this strange spiral stairway in his pyjamas. 

         It had been a long climb and Harry was beginning to despair of ever reaching the top when yet another loop in the stairway brought him abruptly onto a small, gloomy landing within four grey walls of unadorned concrete. A light bulb hung limply from the ceiling dimly illuminating two adjacent doors and an overflowing dustbin. 

         Harry took a deep intake of breath. He had never been very fortunate with doors. He remembered, with acute embarrassment, the occasion when he had inadvertently walked into the ladies loo at Geneva airport and been repulsed by a large German woman brandishing an umbrella. On that occasion there had been a sign that should have guided him, but now he was confronted by two almost identical doors. If he were dead, he thought, and that seemed a reasonable assumption, these might, perhaps, be the portals to heaven and hell. They seemed inauspicious portals but the thought carried just enough conviction to make Harry consider his next move very carefully. He sensed that once he opened one of the doors there would be no going back, that he would be drawn inexorably into whatever lay beyond. He remembered a medieval painting he had once seen in which tormented souls were being thrown into a fiery furnace by ape-like creatures wielding tripods; this was definitely something to be avoided. 

         He crept forward towards the left hand door half expecting it to fly open and for someone or thing to rush out at him. Dropping down onto both knees he peered short-sightedly into the narrow gap between door and floor. The impenetrable darkness behind the door was unbroken by demonic bonfires or celestial light. He listened for the singing of hymns or the cry of tormented souls but heard nothing but his own heavy breathing. Crawling across to the other door he made the same observations with the same outcome. For several minutes he remained on all fours, deep in thought and only vaguely aware of the numbing effect of the cold floor on stiff limbs. He struggled to his feet only to find that one of them was now devoid of sensation and unable to support his weight. He tottered drunkenly and with a great flapping of arms fell heavily against the right-hand door which flew open with a resounding bang. To his horror there was a startled exclamation from within and, after the briefest of pauses, the sound of approaching footsteps. A neon light flickered on and Harry found himself staring at two stockinged feet in a pair of open-toed sandals. A bespectacled face peered down at him with unconcealed suspicion. 

         “Can I help you?” she demanded in a tone of voice that suggested she would rather not.

         He sheepishly struggled to his feet. To his surprise the thin, sharp-featured woman of middle years who had towered over him was no taller than himself. While this was reassuring, her appearance, he decided, was less than angelic; he began to fear he might be in ‘the other place’ or at least in a place not much to his liking. “I’m not sure where I am,” he stammered. 

         “Well, where are you wanting to go?” 

         “I’m not altogether clear,” said Harry, the last thing he expected was to be offered a choice. “You see, I’ve only just arrived.” 

         “Oh, so you’re a new entrant then. Why didn’t you say?” Her expression melted to the approximation of a smile. “You had better come in. Take a seat over there;” she pointed to a wooden bench that reminded Harry of a church pew – his hopes were beginning to rise. 

         “There’s just a few formalities to take care of. First of all I need to see your AR1.”

         “My AR1?” he repeated. 

         “Yes, your AR1,” she insisted. “Didn’t they give you one at reception?” 

         Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. He recalled passing an unoccupied desk on a landing someway below; perhaps he should have waited, but then patience had never been one of his virtues. 

         “It’s the pink form,” the woman persisted, “the one headed ‘Application for Residence’. Surely you have one?”

         There was no need for words, the look on Harry’s face clearly indicating that the first link in the paper chain of post-life bureaucracy had been found wanting. 

         The woman frowned heavily. “Most irregular,” she muttered, “I suppose you are on the list? What’s your name? Mr?” 

         “Oldcastle, Harry Oldcastle,” replied Harry, grateful at last to be asked a question to which he knew the answer. 

         The woman disappeared into an adjoining room and re-emerged a few moments later with a clipboard to which was attached a list of some twenty names. With evident relief she discovered Harry’s name towards the bottom of the sheet. “Oh yes, here you are. According to this you should have been with us this morning. Your wife has been in the Reunion Room nearly all day.”  

         “My wife?” repeated Harry, “is she here too? 

         “Yes, of course. Doris has been with us for nearly four years. She’s really looking forward to seeing you again.”

         “But my wife’s name is Laura,” protested Harry 

         The woman’s expression changed to one of alarm. “You are Henry Oldcastle of Rochester Way, Bexley….  Aren’t you?”

         “No,” said Harry, “I live in Southend, at least I did until this afternoon.” 

         “Oh no!” she groaned through fingers that had suddenly enveloped her mouth and nose. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m afraid there’s been...how can I put it… an administrative error.”

         There was an uneasy silence. “What happens now?” asked Harry.

         “You will have to go back.”

         “Isn’t that going to be a little difficult?” 

         “Difficult yes, impossible no,” said the woman firmly. “Remember Lazarus?” 

                                                ***** 

         Harry opened both eyes and was immediately dazzled by a bright light from above. For a moment he wondered whether he had made it into Heaven; then he remembered the woman’s last words. He blinked several times dazzled by the translucent glow of the glass lampshade above the double bed on which he lay. At the same time he became aware of several conversations taking place about him. Through half open eyes he noted that most of the people who had been present at his ‘passing’ were still there. He wondered how they would react to his ‘passing back’. It was bound to be a shock, he thought. He considered how best to break the news. After a few minutes reflection he decided to make some small movement or sound that would allow someone to discover that he was not as dead as they thought he was. Then, as they hurried to his side seeking further signs of life, he would slowly ‘come to’ smiling benignly at their anxious faces and expressing his astonishment at his strange lapse into unbreathing inertia. Well, he could hardly tell them what had happened, no one would believe that!   

         He began by moving an arm slowly across the eiderdown towards the side of the bed. When this wasn’t noticed he affected a palsy-like tremor allowing the hand to drop over the side and swing back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. 

         The steady hum of conversation continued unabated. He raised his head slightly off the pillow and took stock of the dozen or so persons conversing in several small groups. To his surprise, none of the conversations taking place seemed to be about him. Young Matt was regaling one group with an animated account of Tottenham Hotspur’s last home game, while cousin George was telling an inappropriate joke about a travelling salesman and his involvement with a young woman of inconspicuous virtue. Occasionally the shrill tones of Vicky, Laura’s older sister, could be heard relating the details of her recent operation to the vicar who was looking wistfully towards the door. 

         Abandoning his previous attempts at subtlety Harry emitted a loud groan just as a collective guffaw greeted the punch line of George’s joke. For a moment he thought they were laughing at him and he indignantly sat up only to realise that they were blissfully unaware of his reanimated presence. It occurred to him that his short excursion into the after-life had rendered him invisible and mute. The thought of being relegated to observer status in some kind of fourth dimension threw him into a sudden panic. “Can nobody hear me!” he bellowed in a voice that was heard halfway down the street. “Can you….?” He stopped in mid-sentence as twelve horrified faces stared back at him in disbelief.

         A loud thud greeted Vicky’s sudden descent onto the floor. Almost immediately she was trampled underfoot by Matt whose attempt to flee the room coincided with Laura’s coming in with a tray of teas. The tray flew upwards almost hitting the ceiling before a mixture of broken crockery and hot tea ricocheted, like shrapnel, onto the heads of those below. Vicky leapt back to her feet with remarkable agility for someone of her age and cannoned into George who, for reasons he is still unable to explain, aimed a punch at the vicar who staggered back against the light switch plunging the room into darkness.

         At this point, Harry reached the unlikely conclusion that his intervention in the melee was needed to restore order. Attempting to step out of bed his feet became entangled in the sheets and he too collapsed, head first onto the floor. Someone screamed, “he’s coming!” and there was a panic-stricken rush to exit the room. Pursuing them down the stairs he arrived at the front door just in time to see Vicky abandon her Zimmer frame for the back seat of Matt’s motor bike.

         “Come back,” he shouted, as the bike careened wildly down the middle of the road, narrowly missing George. “You don’t understand, I’m not really dead. It was an administrative error!”

 

The End

Copyright Richard Banks

 

The Moon Belt (Part 1 of 2)

 The Moon Belt (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

“Sarge, look at this!”

“What is it, Proby?” 

Sherry was just three months out of the police academy; the new girl(a probationer).  She gestured urgently so Cheu looked over her shoulder at the tapes of the Jewel Heist that went down the previous evening…

“So what, it’s the heist, we’ve all seen it!”  Several colleagues sensed a putdown, so gathered behind him to share in the joke. 

“Don’t you see Sarge, there were four of them, not three…” 

“Run it from the start Proby.”

  They watched as the robbery took place.  Three Perps in Trump masks burst in through the main door, with automatic weapons, one fired in the air to get everyone’s attention.  They disarmed the security guard, took his keys, and locked the doors.

“Everybody down on the floor, NOW!” The five customers present did as asked.

“Hands on your heads, don’t make no rash moves!”

“He’s the leader,” Mell commented.

“Ya don’t say,” Amellio replied. 

They watched the tape from start to finish, “So, what did you see?” Cheu asked.

“Well,” Sherry rewound it two-thirds, and stopped it.  “You can see a man's arm and shoulders far right, he rolls over and turns a half-moon stud on his belt upside down,” she advanced the tape one frame at a time… and the man was there then he was gone… “How do you like them apples?” she rewound and played the tape again and again.  “One more thing, there’s a door at the rear behind the display counter, it was closed when they entered, now it’s open…

“Tapes been doctored, stans to reason,” Mell said, “she’s pullin your chain Sarge.” 

“Mell, shut it!  You and what’s your name Proby?”

“Reed sir, Sherry Reed.” 

“You and Reed. Check outside camera’s in the area, I want chapter and verse on their getaway, see if any cameras got the license plate on that blue Toyota or sight of the driver.”

“On it Sarge!” 

“Tonni get forensics to re-check that tape.” 

.-…-. 

They checked on all the nearby stores, no joy. As they returned to their patrol car something caught her eye, a glint of light from a fifth floor window in the tenements opposite. 

“We should check out the apartments in that high-rise Mell, just saw a flash in a fifth floor window, could be a camera up there.”

They canvassed the facing apartments on the fifth floor.  She showed her badge to a woman in 116.  There was something about her; she acted furtive as if she couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. 

 “Can I use your rest room please?” Sherry asked.

The woman hesitated then nodded, “Second left.” 

Sherry gazed at the thin-faced young redhead returning her gaze from the medicine cabinet.  She would not go far with her ‘plain Jane looks’.  She smiled as she recalled her mother's rhyme ‘A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes the girl look exactly what she aint,’ must get me some lippy she thought.  Nothing suspicious in the cabinets. 

Her Mum had arrived in New York, aged 20, in the 1980’s, as a reporter for the London Times, she’d retired to New Hampshire three years ago. 

As she closed the cabinet Sherry saw the reflection of a heavy belt hanging on a hook behind the door.  It had the metallic half-moon adornment on it, she recognised immediately.  It was heavy so she fastened it around her waist as evidence; easier to carry she thought.  She came out of the rest room, and gave Mell a warning nod. 

“Is there anybody else on the premises,” Mell asked, pointing to the door of a  second room; “bedroom?” 

“No!  Don’t go in there,” the woman became alarmed. 

Mell drew his gun, “Don’t move!”

Sherry opened the door, and lying on the bed fully clothed was the disappearing suit, still wearing the twin of the belt she was wearing; ’two’ she thought.  His hand went to the belt; she thought he had a gun, so she grabbed him.

“Get off me bitch!” she clung on; she saw Mell and the woman now still like statues. 

The man struggled hard and wrestled himself free, but she had already cuffed him.  His struggles were incredibly fast, he looked like a shadow.  She knew he couldn’t get away, but he hit her with a heavy blow that sent her to her knees.  She pulled out her stick and struck at where he appeared to be suddenly he reappeared, clutching at his leg.  She struck him again, hard, and he lay still.  She removed his belt and turned the half-moon tag to upright and clipped it around her shoulder… 

Mell and the woman were now moving at normal speed, “Cuff her Mell! They took part in the robbery.”

“How do you know,” he said.

 “Call it in Mell!”

(To be continued)

 Copyright Len Morgan

Billy’s extra Christmas Beer

 Billy’s extra Christmas Beer

By Sis Unsworth 

Billy was a happy soul, so full of Christmas cheer,

he came back from his local, where he’d had an extra beer.

He slowly found his door key, and turned it in the lock,

when he entered his front room, what he saw gave him a shock.

a vision from a fairytale, right before his eyes,

sat Santa Clause in his armchair! It was a great surprise.

Then Santa started talking, and asked him ‘where he’d been?’

He wasn’t going to answer, which did seem rather mean.

“I’ve been down to my local,” Billy then did say,

“I don’t suppose you know it, as you live so far away."

“I do come back quite often,” said Santa quite sincere,

“In fact my job description, brings me back here every year.”

“Why have you come to my house, is what I’d like to know?”

“I’ve come so I can help you,” he answered soft and low.

“I heard that you’re unhappy, at this time of year,

and it is a time for happiness, and jolly Christmas cheer

Celebrating Christmas, you don’t do that for sure.”

Billy laughed, “why that’s not me, you want old Fred next door.”

Santa looked embarrassed, and apologised to Billy

He felt sorry for old Santa, as he did look rather silly.

But one thing he’d learned today, though full of Christmas cheer,

When he goes down to the pub again, he'll avoid that extra beer!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Two Haiku

 Two Haiku

From Robert Kingston

(Published this month, in ‘Blythe Spirit’)

London boat race

pulling the oars

from another cloud

 

feeling the chill

around my stomach

horizon moon

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

RATS

 RATS

By Len Morgan 

I line up my sights and take careful aim, above its head on the metal post behind.  It would be a warning shot, not a kill shot.  My wife thinks I aim to kill but miss because I’m a bad shot.  But, I have a deep-felt belief that every living thing has a right to live on, even when we humans consider them to be vermin. 

 

The rats like grey squirrels go to incredible lengths to steal from our bird table.  I allow them just enough to feed their family.  So, the clang of the pellet on steel sees them off for a few days maybe a week.

 

Like it or not every living thing is here for a reason filling a niche in the ecosystem.  For now, the world continues to exist, but not every creature, insect, or microbe can be held accountable for the current plight of the world.  Only Homo Sapiens are contributing positively to its demise, and though we can’t say conclusively that we are wholly responsible; it’s likely that if we had never existed global warming would still be happening. 

 

The world began with an atmosphere that we couldn’t breathe constant eruptions and constant bombardment by meteors, for billions of years.  Not all meteors were bad news.  Many brought water, yet still, there was no life on earth…  But this is not meant to be a lecture about the past 5.5 billion years.  There have been umpteen extinction events, and ice ages, none of which happened in living memory so we assume change doesn’t happen.  Yet 99.9% of species that lived on earth have become extinct.  Not our fault!

 

I do believe we may also die out by plague, wars, pestilence, crass stupidity, earthquakes, meteor strikes so many possible endings… 

 

Who or what will then inherit the earth I wonder?  My money is on communal creatures like mice, rats, squirrels, and baboons all resourceful survivors.  However, I do have a soft spot for the Meerkats ~ a safe bet since nobody will be around to collect… Rats are possibly the most numerous, so just in case, I’ll continue hedging my bets by just scaring them off.

 

Copyright Len Morgan 

 MOVING ON

by Richard Banks             
                                                                                             

For Ronnie Harper, Christmas Day was a pleasure confined to its anticipation. He enjoyed the warm glow of Christmas lights on bleak winter evenings, the contagious excitement of his children, the office parties, the evening get-to-gethers with friends, but Christmas Day was never more than a tantalising glimpse of a greater happiness unfulfilled by the event itself. He wished it was different, sensed it could be, but something within him would never let it happen.

     The solution, although unappealing, was well within his reach. He could have stayed home on Christmas Eve, spent time with Laura and the kids, but the necessity of taking a day’s holiday when he would only be required to work until midday persuaded him that work was the better option. 

      In truth, he needed little persuading. Of all his working days Christmas Eve was the one he liked most. It was special; it started with the train journey into London. People who never talked to each other not only talked they laughed, told jokes, discovered that the familiar faces sharing their carriage were just like themselves, 'real people' with personalities never warmer than on the 7.34 to Liverpool Street. If on the completion of the journey he had stayed on the train and let it take him back to Rayleigh, Christmas Day would have been safe, but the idea of doing so was absurd and the lure of pleasures yet to come irresistible. 

      On arrival at the office he would switch-on his terminal and sift through his in-tray prioritising what needed to be done that morning and what could be left until after the holiday. His colleagues were doing likewise and for a while the familiar routine of the office was little different from any other morning. 

      At 10.30 Sharon was dispatched to the café for sandwiches. On her return, workstations were abandoned and an unhurried queue formed at the coffee machine. An hour later the girls disappeared into the toilets reappearing in high heels and party dresses. Terminals were being switched off and everyone was looking towards the floor manager who appeared unaware that his charges were ready to vacate the office for the public house on the ground floor. At 12.30 he would glance at his watch and, with a smile seldom seen on other days, wish them a merry Christmas. Having observed their rapid departure he too deserted his post for a gathering of senior management in the boardroom. 

      Such was the unchanging ritual of office life on Christmas Eve. It was a ritual too good to miss and at 1pm on yet another Christmas Eve Ronnie was not surprised to find himself in the saloon bar of the City Exchange buying a round of drinks for the dozen or so people who worked directly for him. He had, however, decided that this year one thing would be different, that at 4pm he would buy another round and then leave. At 3pm this was still his intention, even at 3.45, but at five minutes to four it happened, the moment when he realised that life had never been better, could never be better, and that this moment might continue, if only he stayed. 

      Had this moment occurred in the same way as before he would have had warning, would have known what to do when to leave, but the interactions that constructed the moment could never be predicted. While Ronnie was only too aware that alcohol would be a factor, other things were also needed and at five minutes to four they duly arrived. He was reaching for his wallet, about to buy the round of drinks that would precede his departure when Darren placed a restraining hand on his arm. It was, he said, his shout, he hadn’t brought a round yet and no one was going to say that he was a mean bastard who didn’t pay his way. After five pints, Darren was not a man to argue with, anyway who wanted to get into a row on Christmas Eve. Best to let him have his way, drink-up quickly and then leave.

      Ronnie checked the timetable he always carried and saw that there was a train at 4.45. Providing he was away by 4.30 he would still be home in time to put the kids to bed. Then Darren returned from the bar and the 4.45 train became an irrelevant number on an irrelevant piece of paper. Instead of another pint Darren had brought him a whisky, an Ardmore malt. He put the glass to his lips, breathed in the scents of liquorice and aniseed, and allowed a few drops of the precious liquid to fall down onto his tongue. The moment expanded and engaged his other senses. His favourite song was on the jukebox, a joke was being told, people were laughing anticipating the punch line, and Julie was smiling, making eye contact in a way that seemed to be saying that she fancied him almost as much as he fancied her. In that moment, in that long sweet moment, he knew that 'now' was a pleasure he could not bear to end.            

                                            **********      

At seven o’clock, only the die hards were left, mainly single guys living close by in rented flats. They decided to end the evening with a curry in a Bethnal Green tandoori where Ronnie was sick in the toilets. He tried to read the time on his watch but could make no sense of it. A sudden fear gripped him that he had missed the last train home. He returned to the table where the guys had been sitting, to find that only Darren and Urzil were left. The bill had been paid, they said, it was time to go, the restaurant was closing. They left him in Bishopsgate in sight of Liverpool Street station and watched him totter towards it until an icy wind persuaded them to begin their own journeys home. 

      On reaching the station, Ronnie discovered not only that the trains were still running but that the next one to Southend was about to depart from platform eleven. He scrambled on board and sat down beside a young woman who immediately changed seats. Further down the carriage two youths and a girl were singing ‘White Christmas’. It was snowing in Chelmsford they said, by morning the whole country would be covered. The train started and slowly pulled out of the station. In forty minutes he would be in Rayleigh. Whatever else happened he must not fall asleep. He had done that once before and ended up in Southend. On that occasion, he had got a cab home but tonight was different, it was Christmas Eve. Would there still be taxis at the station? 

      He watched a snowflake hit the window and slowly dissolve. Another followed, then three more, then too many to count. The train gathered speed, passing over the dark shapes of streets and buildings that seemed bleak and unfamiliar. He fixed his attention on a long line of street lights until the condensation misting the window transformed them into a single orange streak. He wiped the window with the palm of his hand and the image of his face and shoulders appeared. He stared back at himself through eyes half shut.                                                      

                                         **********

      He had, he thought, only closed his eyes for a few moments when he felt a rough shaking of his shoulder. He looked up to find a burly man in a peak cap towering over him. For a few seconds he didn’t understand what was happening, then the words ‘power off’ jolted him back to consciousness. He asked where he was and was told Wickford and, that the train was stopped, terminated. An emergency bus service was about to leave. If Ronnie wanted to be on it he would have to hurry.  

      He stumbled onto the platform just in time to see another straggler pass through an open gate towards the taxi rank where the bus was waiting. He wanted to hurry, tried hard to hurry, but the snow on the platform and the unwillingness of his legs to respond to the signalling of his brain reduced his progress to a haltering jog.

      Outside the station the bus was being readied to depart, engine revving, doors opening and shutting, an impatient voice wanting to be off, more revving of the engine, then another voice giving the command to go. The driver beeped his horn and the bus was off. Its departure from the car park coincided with Ronnie’s arrival at the gate. He shouted and waved his arms but to no avail; the bus continued on until only its rear lights were visible. His scrambled brain struggled to take in what had happened, what he should do next, then he remembered the 25 bus – that went to Rayleigh; he would catch that. He hurried down to the High Street, to the bus stop outside Costas. The street was ankle-deep in snow, silent, deserted, sharp gusts of wind chasing down even more snow.

      His certainty that the 25 would still be running was shattered by the realisation that it was a quarter to twelve. Of course, there were no buses, the last one had long gone. He decided to phone for a taxi but the pocket in which he kept his mobile was empty; he searched through his other pockets without finding it. Had he left it in the tandoori? He wasn't sure. His only certainty was that to get home he would have to walk. He knew the road; it was long and straight. It went up the hill towards the church, then on to the Shotgate, and beyond that to the Carpenters Arms. From there Rayleigh was just down the road. He remembered making the journey by car two years before. If he walked hard he would be home in an hour, ninety minutes at most. There might still be a car or two about. If he saw one he would flag it down and hitch a lift.

       He started off in determined fashion. He told himself that as long as he kept moving he would be okay, it was just a matter of time, time and effort, that’s all that was needed. The worst part of the journey would be the first, that was uphill, the rest was mainly on the flat. It would be a doddle, he had gloves, a thick overcoat, this was no more than a tiresome delay at the end of an overlong day. 

      Halfway up the hill, he could see the silhouette of the church spire against the dark sky. First base he thought. He leaned forward, elbows bent, arms swinging back and forth like the long distance walkers he had seen in the Olympics. Five minutes later he was past the church and at the top of the hill. It had been an effort, but he had made it. He pressed on buoyed by the thought that he would soon be at the Shotgate. From there he would be able to see Rayleigh on the high ground to the east. 

      Ronnie paused at a bus shelter to recover his breath and without thinking sat down on the bench within. He peered back along the road hoping but not expecting to see the headlights of a car. Instead, he saw a single disc of light that was the church clock. He checked its time against that on his watch. It was Christmas Day. 

      Ronnie recalled the last time it had snowed at Christmas. He and Laura were on holiday in Switzerland on the ski slopes near Lausanne. They had been happy then, free spirits, doing what they wanted, when they wanted. They lived in London, a twenty-minute commute to the office where they both worked. It was after they married that they moved out into Essex. Laura stopped working and they started a family just like they planned. For a while family life seemed okay, a natural almost inevitable progression in his life, but was it better than what he had before? Somehow it was not enough, a step too far, too soon. For Laura, there was no choice. She had two children to bring up, one at school, one not yet out of nappies. Jason was playing football, Tanya nearly walking. He knew this because Laura told him. When she did there was a harshness in her voice that sounded like a reproach. She had adapted to the changes in her life, accepted them, and was moving on. With or without him she was moving on. The thought chilled him, seemed colder than the snow.

       

      It was time to get walking again. His legs were stiff and unresponsive, but he forced them back into action. On either side of him the houses were in darkness. He imagined the occupants in their beds, warm, sheltered, ready for the day ahead. For the first time in a long time, he yearned to be home. The journey to the Shotgate was taking longer than he had anticipated. Either it was further than he thought or he was slowing down; he wasn’t sure which. He passed another bus stop and realised that the next one would be at the Shotgate itself. Ten minutes later he was there.  

      For the next half mile, there were no houses just fields and a recently constructed dual carriageway. In the last remaining house, he saw a light. A voice in his head urged him to seek shelter there. Who would refuse him on Christmas Day? The light flickered off and he continued on, down the road that had no footpath, where pedestrians seldom ventured. But who needed a footpath when there was no traffic? For now, only the weather was of concern. 

      The road before him slanted gently downwards towards a long stilted bridge under which it passed. Two years earlier he had driven down it in a red Lamborghini, taking advantage of a clear road to press down hard on the accelerator. It had taken him only a few seconds to reach the end of the slope and a few more to rise up to level ground. The exhilaration of the experience had deceived him into thinking that the road was shorter than it was. Through the snow he could see the bridge and calculated that it was three hundred yards away. From there it would be a mile, maybe less, to the Carpenters Arms. When he reached the pub he would bang on the door and demand to be let in. He had often drunk there, played darts in the local league. The landlord would not turn away a regular customer.

      He walked in the centre of the road where the snow was less deep, counting each step, knowing that nothing less than six hundred would be needed to get him to the bridge. He was halfway there when he slipped and fell. For a few moments, he lay on his back waiting for his body to tell him if he could continue. His fall had been a heavy one but cushioned by the thick covering of snow. He felt no pain and although this might be due to the numbness of his limbs and body he reasoned that in all probability he was uninjured. Slowly he rolled over onto his chest and pushed his body up onto his knees. Still no pain. His legs and arms were working, doing what his brain was telling them to do. He was okay, normal, nothing changed.

 

      Back on his feet, he continued walking towards the bridge grimly aware that if he fell again and was unable to continue his cries for help would probably go unheard. The wind was stronger now, gusting, unimpeded by the line of houses that had previously protected him from its full force.  He was walking more slowly than before, carefully planting each foot flat into the snow so that the soles of his shoes were making maximum contact with the ground. For the first time, he felt the odds were against him. Could he make it to the pub? Even to the bridge could he make it?

 

     Another gust of wind caused him to stop, stagger back and throw out his arms in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Then he was down, tumbled over three, four times until he was at the side of the road, within touching distance of an embankment that in Spring would be covered in daffodils. His hands and arms were uninjured and he was again able to sit up. A sensation that on another day would have been pain told him that this time there was no getting up. Through a gash, in his trouser leg, he could see the jagged end of a bone. He needed help. Even now there was hope. He called out but the cold air in his chest and throat reduced his voice to little more than a whisper. He tried again and saw a thin stream of vapour melt silently in the wind.

 

      In the distance, he could see Rayleigh, the ridge on which it stood, dark shapes of buildings, the floodlit church and the windmill. He thought of his wife whom he had loved but not loved enough, of his children, of Christmas Days when he was too tired and hung-over to play with them. At daybreak they would be up opening their stockings, Jason climbing onto the windowsill, sweeping aside the curtains, and on seeing the snow, shrieking with excitement. He imagined Laura waking, finding herself alone in their bed, her going downstairs half expecting to see him on the settee beneath his overcoat. 

      By then, long before then, he would be invisible, a small white mound in a far greater whiteness. He wanted to say a prayer but knew none. His last thoughts were of Laura.  

                                                        The End.                                                                    

 

Copyright Richard Banks