Riddles 08

 Riddles 08

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1. This can make you younger!  

 

No 2. Two men come to a river bank.  Both want to cross but there is only one boat and it can only carry one person.  Neither can swim and there are no ropes or bridges, so how can they both cross?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 4 & Last) 

 By Richard Banks

Some things are too good to miss and, why should I? Fidelia’s getting a sound grounding on the women’s game and in the company of the two gals is safe from unwanted male company. I leave in a hurry pleading a family bereavement and promising to be back by five, which is never going to happen, so it’s not until six that I return to find the beach almost deserted. They are still sunbathing, and to my surprise Fidelia is wearing rather less than she had on before. They’re getting on like a house on fire, and I’m wondering why Fidelia can’t do the same with Honora.    Needless to say, I’m not the most popular guy in Montura, but all is forgiven when I pay for a pony trap ride back to the hotel and Bacardi breezers at the bar. At 7.30 Fidelia and me are back in the conference room for a session on the Premier League, its star players, managers and owners. At ten we’re doing so well I move on to the intercity rivalry between Villa and Birmingham City, and how the only good City fan is one you’ve kneed in the groin. As for the team I tell her they’re rubbish and play their matches in the next division down. They wear blue shirts and this is the colour we despise above all others. I teach her our, ‘We Hate City’ song and we are singing it at the top of our voices when Asad arrives and takes her back to their hotel.

         It’s been a long day so I return to the bar for a nightcap to find, to my surprise, Irina there looking through her messages. “Thought I'd see you here,” she says. “How’s you’re little protégé shaping up?” This is not something I mentioned to her earlier in the day so I’m wondering how she’s found out, but found out she has.

         “There’s something you should know if you haven’t already sussed it.”

         “What’s that?” I ask.

         “Come upstairs, there’s something I need to tell you, and if you’re not too tired from your day’s work I might stay all night.”

         “Is this like a proper date?”

         “No, but it will be a very expensive one so just be glad you’re not picking-up the bill.” She laughs and gives my knee a playful tweak.  

         “OK, but let’s get the talking done now. What is it you want to tell me?”

         She pretends not to remember and then decides she does. She leans towards me and lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “I hear that wifely rivalry may not be Fidelia’s only problem. It is rumoured that not everything has been going well in the bedroom. Indeed, it has been observed that Fidelia is more at ease in the company of women, especially those as young and attractive as herself.”

         “You mean she’s a ..”

         “I mean that whilst she will never master the violin, she can still be taught to play a lively tune on the fiddle.”

         “And you’re prepared to give her a few pointers?”

         “Of course, a sisterly tete-a-tete. After all, it would be a shame if all your hard work was in vain. Who knows, between us we might produce the perfect wife.”

         This is too good an offer to refuse and I’m thinking that in addition to what Asad’s paying me, there may be more to come from a grateful Faisal.

         In the morning Irina departs, and after breakfast at eight I take charge of Fidelia. We begin with a revision session, in which Fidelia gets nine out of ten, and move on to the laws of football, tactical formations and the black arts of the game including ‘over the top’ tackles and simulation. In the afternoon I knock-up a side, including ourselves, Rita, Gemma and some of the waiters, and we take on a team from the hotel next door. All goes well. Fidelia rushes around like a good un and as well as scoring a goal stamps on the foot of their centre forward causing him to limp off the pitch. She’s taking to football like a duck to water and joins in all the goal celebrations, particularly those involving Rita and Gemma. We win 6-3 and do a lap of honour in front of the dozen or so people cheering us on. Then it’s back to the Presidente where I bring my masterclass to an end with some DVDs of Villa matches. We have dinner, and at eight Irina arrives and I let them into my room where Irina can impart her womanly advice without fear of being overheard. I go down to the bar and after a couple of hours they meet me there and we wile away the time until Asad arrives. Irina departs to who knows where and I opt for an early night.

 

         When I awake it’s with the sense of a job well done and the expectation of rewards to come that will set me up for life. The day is mine to do as I please and with Faisal and Honora not long off the plane, I’m guessing that feedback on my stirring efforts is not likely to surface until the following day. So, after a leisurely breakfast I’m down to the beach again and after the usual lazing try my hand at waterskiing and paragliding. I do well and the guys running the rides tell me I’m a natural. Is there anything I can’t do?

         It’s not until the afternoon that I get a text from Faisal saying they’re going to the casino and that I’m invited. See you at nine, he says, and, at five minutes to, I’m walking through the front door in my best suit and lucky tie. It’s the same old faces, and those belonging to Asad and Fidelia seem very happy with life. Things are looking good and it’s not long before Faisal singles me out and takes me over to the roulette table where he scatters chips in all directions while expressing his delight that Fidelia is now a fanatical supporter, of the team that will always be his first love. His eyes mist over and he looks almost overcome with emotion. As he loses yet another spin, he pulls himself together and hugs me about the shoulders.

         “Thank you, my friend. I know it was Asad’s idea, and I will forever be in his debt, but how could he have done it without you, my friend, thank you, thank you a thousand times! I am now the most favoured of men, with one wife for the night and another to speak football to throughout the day. Could any man ask for more?”

         It seems that Irina’s extra tuition was not needed after all, but if Fidelia ups her game in the bedroom a good result can only get better. After three straight wins on the red I’m definitely on a winning streak, but not so Faisal who’s the worst gambler I have ever seen. By the end of the evening, he has lost 100K. But no matter, says he, tomorrow he will buy the casino. It’s been a great evening, everyone’s happy and for the first time, Asad acknowledges the success of my efforts with a discreet thumbs up.

         So, it’s all worked out well, and the next morning the manager of the hotel confirmed that my stay there had been extended by another week. Irina’s due back in the evening and with my new job in London, I’m thinking I might just persuade her to settle down with me in the Knightsbridge apartment that apparently goes with my new job.                                                                  

        

                                                      ***

 

         I’m on the beach, happily contemplating my future prosperity, when my phone rings and instead of it being Faisal or Irina, like I’m expecting, it’s Asad and he’s shouting abuse at me so loud I’m having to turn down the volume. “Treachery!” he screams. “Betrayal! Defiler of womanhood!”

         “Calm down,” I say. “What’s the problem?” But he’s too worked up to calm down. Instead, he’s now on to his revenge, how he’s going to have me dismembered and thrown into a cesspit. He’s so angry now I can hardly make out what he’s saying. There’s a loud thud followed by a blast of static that sounds like he’s trashing his phone; then silence - call over.

         None of this is making sense, and if there’s any chance of sorting things out there’s only one person who makes it happen. I phoned Faisal. His voice is composed, but his effusive good humour has given way to an icy formality that tells me I am no longer his friend.

         “What’s going on?” I ask. “Asad’s just phoned, wants to kill me. What the heck have I done?”                                                                                                                   

         Faisal takes an audible intake of breath. “Have you no honour, Englishman? You take the gold of one man and betray him for the gold of his enemy. Did you think we would not find out? You really are a very stupid man. The photographs were taken in your hotel room, your jacket over the back of a chair, the bedside clock showing 9pm when Fidelia was in your charge. Don’t pretend it was not so, my wife cavorting with that whore on top of the bed, not even a sheet to hide them. Did you not think of me, who gave you my friendship and trust, and of her who must now be cruelly punished. Truly, Englishman the world will be a better place without you.”  

    

         I start to tell him that I know nothing about any photographs but he ends the call, and when I ring back I get no further than a recorded message saying he’s no longer taking my calls. My head’s in a spin. Only Irina can help me now, but, when I call her, the message on my phone says, ‘Number not recognised’. I try again, hoping against hope that I have misdialled, but the same words reappear.

         She’s gone, disappeared, and I’ve been left to take the blame, double-crossed and played for a fool. No one could have cared for me less. By now she will be in some far off place, lying low, waiting for the heat to die down, before resuming business under another name and possibly from behind another face. She will certainly be able to afford one; whoever paid for those photographs paid well, extremely well. Who they are I have no idea, maybe someone connected to Honora or one of her backers, maybe someone else, someone with a grudge, who knows.  For the moment it matters not. There are two guys on the prom in dark suits who look like off-duty bouncers, but when one of them starts scanning the beach through binoculars it’s more than obvious who they’re looking for. They won’t be the only ones after me. Can I trust the police? Not if Assad’s paying out backhanders. I need to get back to the hotel. Without my passport and some serious dosh, there’s no way I’m getting out of here alive.

         I retreat into the shadow of my umbrella and watch my pursuers pass, then I’m up, shirt and shoes on, and walking back along the beach towards a flight of steps that surface on the prom opposite the Presidente. My plan, such as it is, is to slip in unnoticed through the staff door at the side but there’s no chance of that; the pavement outside the hotel is heaving with people. I push through to the front to find three policemen manning a Don’t Cross line. Beyond them, I see what everyone else has come to see, the lifeless body of Miguel, the hotel porter who carried my bags on that first day. It lies on the hotel patio in a pool of blood, amidst the wreckage of a table and umbrella.

         “He fell from a balcony,” someone says. “Feet first,” says another. “He was screaming, even before he fell he was screaming.”

 

         Was it him who took the photographs? Someone did. I’m cold with fear, but as another police car arrives I realise that for now the hotel is probably the safest place in town. There’s a service road at the back where deliveries are made. It won’t be long, I’m thinking, before that too is taped off but when I find a way round to it, there’s no one to be seen. The gate in the back wall is locked but I’m over it and up a fire escape that gets me into a corridor on the first floor. From there I take the stairs to the sixth floor before gently easing open the swing door that’s only a few yards from my room. I stop and listen, but hear only the commotion from outside. Is it safe? There’s only one way to find out. I push through and along to my room, key card at the ready, but there’s no need, the door’s wide open. Something within moves. I recoil, nearly take flight, but it’s only the balcony curtain swaying in the breeze. I’m on my own, but someone’s not long been here, that’s for sure. The room’s a wreck, like the aftermath of a burglary, but the blood stains on the wall and floor tell a different story. Miguel took one hell of a beating before he was thrown to his death. 

 

         I change into my travelling clothes, open the safe and take out my passport, cards and all the cash inside. Everything else I abandon. I leave the same way I came in, but instead of turning back to the prom keep walking along the service road until I come to a main road and wave down the first cab I see. “Take me to the airport,” I say and then think better of it. Almost certainly Asad’s men will be there waiting for me. I have to find another way out of the country, and then I remember the railway station I saw in the countryside whilst hunting pigs. The driver speaks little or no English but eventually gets my drift, and sensing that I’m a man in a hurry wastes no time in getting me there. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the station I saw, it’s still a station, and from there I chop and change trains until I cross the border into France. The next day I’m in Boulogne, and then onto a ferry bound for Folkestone.

         Will I be safe back home? Not if they find out where I live, but maybe they won’t. To Asad and Faisal I’m Ollie from Birmingham, but there’s over one million people in Brum and Drislow’s five miles to the west. Without my name and address it will be like finding a pin in a haystack. Maybe I’ll grow a beard and shave my head. At the end of the day my house, job, everything I own is in Drislow; how can I not go back. So, it’s two more trains to Hislop and finally a bus into town.

 

         Do I shut my eyes as we pass the derelict mills? There seems little point; what’s to come is almost as bad. I get off the bus in the High Street outside the bank which, as Ross foretold, is now closed; one of its windows broken, another scratched. A few doors along, on the boarded-up window of what was a grocer’s shop, some freshly sprayed graffiti proclaims that ‘Bassa is a wanker’. Me too, I’m thinking and everyone else who chooses to live in this God-forsaken place. Only a few days ago I was having the best holiday ever in an upmarket resort, rubbing elbows with a Prince and his entourage, head over heels in love. I should still be there and looking forward to a life of luxury in London. But, here I am, back in town, and everything that was bad before seems ten times worse today. No angel fallen from heaven into hell could be more wretched, be more drained of hope than me. And that’s why the best few days of my life are now my worst holiday ever.

         Can things get worse? Indeed they can. I turn the corner into my street to find an unfamiliar car parked a few doors away from my bedsit. It may not be a Mercedes, but it’s too new and shiny to belong to anyone around here. I should be legging it back the way I’ve come, but I’m still walking and too down and out to stop.

         The driver’s door opens and a guy I saw at Roscoe's steps out and saunters towards me as a second man exits from the other side. If they have guns they could be shooting me now, but maybe they want to talk first, find out what I know about Irina. Maybe that’s how it started with Miguel, threats followed by a beating, and when he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know bloody execution. What can I say that will convince them that it wasn’t me, that I’ve been duped, set up - that it’s Irina they should be looking for. Only she can save me now, and she’s not here.

 

         It’s done, all but over. Bring it on! 

 

The End

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

Haibun from Rob

 Haibun from Rob

 

Gone fishing 

 

By Robert Kingston

 

I could swear that pockets of dust exist in our minds. How else can it be explained when something that’s been missing for so long reappears. Of course, I’m aware of the term lockers and keys, and that generally it will be someone else or something that will illuminate the way in.

 

art club

I fill the missing gaps

in my still life

 

 

 

 

Worst Holiday Ever (Part 3 of 4)

Richard Banks

 

I hire the conference room in the hotel and, on our first morning, give her a potted history of the club: how it was formed in 1874 by cricketers from a Methodist church; how they were founder members of the football league; and all their major honours since then, concluding with their recent friendly win over AC Milan. Then there’s past and present players and a review of English football, from the mixed fortunes of the national team to the recent and much-lamented introduction of VAR. At 12.00 we take a working lunch, and then we’re off to a little used beach at the far end of the bay where, with the help of a beach ball and several small boys, I teach her the off-side rule and the tactical formations likely to be used in the forthcoming season by Villa and their main rivals for the league.

         We are on to Villa songs and chants when who should I spot but our honeymooners, Rita and Gemma, emerging from the sea and running back to their beach towels which are drawn up close together beneath a large umbrella. They’re not, I’m thinking, be wanting to be bothered with us but being in clear sight and singing ‘Villa Through and Through’ we’re too conspicuous to ignore. They’re wearing nothing but their briefs and I’m fearing that Fidelia will be shocked out of remembering everything I have taught her but, to my surprise, she’s all smiles and taking it all in her stride. We sit down beside them, intending only to stay a few minutes, when Gemma lets on that she’s a keen supporter of the Lionesses. This is like manna from heaven, and not only is she a font of knowledge on the subject but Fidelia is clearly taking in every word. The conversation has moved on to the 2023 World Cup when my mobile rings and I have a text from Irina saying that she can’t make it this evening but will, if I’m free, drop by my hotel at 3.30.

 

.-…-.

 

Some things are too good to miss and, why should I? Fidelia’s getting a sound grounding on the women’s game and in the company of the two gals is safe from unwanted male company. I leave in a hurry pleading a family bereavement and promising to be back by five, which is never going to happen, so it’s not until six that I return to find the beach almost deserted. They are still sunbathing, and to my surprise, Fidelia is wearing rather less than she had on before. They’re getting on like a house on fire, and I’m wondering why Fidelia can’t do the same with Honora.

         Needless to say I’m not the most popular guy in Montura, but all is forgiven when I pay for a pony trap ride back to the hotel and Bacardi breezers at the bar. At 7.30 Fidelia and me are back in the conference room for a session on the Premier League, its star players, managers and owners. At ten we’re doing so well I move on to the intercity rivalry between Villa and Birmingham City, and how the only good City fan is one you’re kneed in the groin. As for the team I tell her they’re rubbish and play their matches in the next division down. They wear blue shirts and this is the colour we despise above all others. I teach her our, ‘We Hate City’ song and we are singing it at the top of our voices when Asad arrives and takes her back to their hotel.

         It’s been a long day so I return to the bar for a nightcap to find, to my surprise, Irina there looking through her messages. “Thought I see you here,” she says. “How’s you’re little protege shaping up?” This is not something I mentioned to her earlier in the day so I’m wondering how she’s found out, but found out she has.

         “There’s something you should know if you haven’t already sussed it.”

         “What’s that?” I ask.

         “Come upstairs, there’s something I need to tell you, and if you’re not too tired from your day’s work I might stay all night.”

         “Is this like a proper date?”

         “No, but it will be a very expensive one so just be glad you’re not picking-up the bill.” She laughs and gives my knee a playful tweak.  

         “OK, but let’s get the talking done now. What is it you want to tell me?”

         She pretends not to remember and then decides she does. She leans towards me and lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “I hear that wifely rivalry may not be Fidelia’s only problem. It is rumoured that not everything has been going well in the bedroom. Indeed, it has been observed that Fidelia is more at ease in the company of women, especially those as young and attractive as herself.”

         “You mean she’s a ..”

         “I mean that whilst she will never master the violin, she can still be taught to play a lively tune on the fiddle.”

         “And you’re prepared to give her a few pointers?”

         “Of course, a sisterly tete-a-tete. After all it would be a shame if all your hard work was in vain. Who knows, between us we might produce the perfect wife.”

         This is too good an offer to refuse and I’m thinking that in addition to what Asad’s paying me there may be more to come from a grateful Faisal.

         In the morning Irina departs, and after breakfast at eight I take charge of Fidelia. We begin with a revision session, in which Fidelia gets nine out of ten, and move on to the laws of football, tactical formations and the black arts of the game including ‘over the top’ tackles and simulation. In the afternoon I knock-up a side, including ourselves, Rita, Gemma and some of the waiters, and we take on a team from the hotel next door. All goes well. Fidelia rushes around like a good un and as well as scoring a goal stamps on the foot of their centre forward causing him to limp off the pitch. She’s taking to football like a duck to water and joins in all the goal celebrations, particularly those involving Rita and Gemma. We win 6-3 and do a lap of honour in front of the dozen or so people cheering us on. Then it’s back to the Presidente where I bring my masterclass to an end with some DVDs of Villa matches. We have dinner, and at eight Irina arrives and I let them into my room where Irina can impart her womanly advice without fear of being overheard. I go down to the bar and after a couple of hours they meet me there and we wile away the time until Asad arrives. Irina departs to who knows where and I opt for an early night.

         When I awake it’s with the sense of a job well done and the expectation of rewards to come that will set me up for life. The day is mine to do as I please and with Faisal and Honora not long  off the plane I’m guessing that feedback on my stirring efforts is not likely to surface until the following day. So, after a leisurely breakfast I’m down to the beach again and after the usual lazing try my hand at waterskiing and paragliding. I do well and the guys running the rides tell me I’m a natural. Is there anything I can’t do?

         It’s not until the afternoon that I get a text from Faisal saying they’re going to the casino and that I’m invited. See you at nine, he says, and, at five minutes to, I’m walking through the front door in my best suit and lucky tie. It’s the same old faces, and those belonging to Asad and Fidelia seem very happy with life. Things are looking good and it’s not long before Faisal singles me out and takes me over to the roulette table where he scatters chips in all directions while expressing his delight that Fidelia is now a fanatical supporter, of the team that will always be his first love. His eyes mist over and he looks almost overcome with emotion. As he loses yet another spin, he pulls himself together and hugs me about the shoulders.

         “Thank you, my friend. I know it was Asad’s idea, and I will forever be in his debt, but how could he have done it without you, my friend, thank you, thank you a thousand times! I am now the most favoured of men, with one wife for the night and another to speak football to throughout the day. Could any man ask for more?”

         It seems that Irina’s extra tuition was not needed after all, but if Fidelia ups her game in the bedroom a good result can only get better. After three straight wins on the red, I’m definitely on a winning streak, but not so Faisal was the worst gambler I have ever seen. By the end of the evening he has lost 100K. But no matter, says he, tomorrow he will buy the casino. It’s been a great evening, everyone’s happy and for the first time, Asad acknowledges the success of my efforts with a discreet thumbs up.

         So, it all worked out well, and the next morning the manager of the hotel confirmed that my stay there had been extended by another week. Irina’s due back in the evening and with my new job in London, I’m thinking I might just persuade her to settle down with me in the Knightsbridge apartment that apparently goes with my new job.                                                                     

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Wrong House

By Jane Goodhew

As she approached her home, she knew intuitively that there was something amiss.  She went to put the key in the door but there was no point as the door was already open but that would never happen because she suffered from OCD and had not just checked and double-checked so many times that the door was locked.  What should she do next, go in or first call the police and tell them there had been a break-in?  She decided against the latter as if she did not go in, she could not be certain that there had been anything stolen and perhaps she had checked it so many times she had in fact unlocked it?  That was a possibility.

She took out her personal alarm and went inside.  What she saw was not what she had been expecting; it had not been a burglary in fact far from it as nothing was the same as when she had gone away.  Absolutely nothing!   She went from room to room and not one was even to her taste or even from the 21^st Century but more from an age long gone.

Thick or floral floor-length curtains hung from each window, lamps were strategically placed on highly polished half-moon wooden tables, and wall holders held candles some by the doors so they could easily be reached in case the gas was cut off?  What was she thinking, gas light, she had electricity!    The carpets which were in the centre of a parquet floor were also heavily patterned the type she would never be seen dead with in her ultra-modern home.  There were also ceiling-to-wall bookcases, numerous hard-backed and very dull looking not quite the Mills & Boon or Agatha Christie that she was used to reading.  She kept pinching herself thinking it must be a dream and eventually she would wake up in the shower like Bobby in Dallas.  No, she was already awake, and nothing was making the slightest sense to her what could she do, phone the police, and say what.

“Well officer my house has either been taken over by the disgusting taste brigade or has become a stage set for the latest film.”    She would solve this mystery herself, she had yet to fathom it, but she would.  It was then that she remembered she had given permission for her house to be used for the remake of yet another Dickens novel as she had been away for some time.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

                                                             

WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 2 of 4)

  

 WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 2 of 4) 

By Richard Banks       

Faisal drops me off at the Presidente and, hey presto, on the stroke of ten next day one of the Mercedes pulls up outside the hotel and off we go to the marina. Faisal’s yacht is the biggest one to be seen. There’s not a sail in sight. This is an ocean-going motorboat wider and longer than a bus. I’m the first one on board, apart from the crew, but ten minutes later Faisal arrives with the same company as the night before.

         The Captain who’s welcomed me onboard evidently feels I need to be told about my new friends. Faisal, he says, is first in line to the throne presently occupied by his father, King Abdul; Asad and Karif are close family and Government Ministers, while Princesses Fidelia and Honora are Faisal’s wives. He advises me not to talk to them unless the Prince indicates that I may do so. The men, I may speak to, and will, while the Prince wishes it, treat me as an honoured guest. “You’re one lucky bastard,” he whispers, “play your cards well and you’ll be made for life.”

         I can’t help thinking that there must be a downside to all this but as the day unfolds things only get better. We’re off to Gibraltar, through the Straits and then back again, and when we’re not shooting through the waves we swim, or eat and drink at a buffet that never closes.

         The guys are in vests and shorts while the women, who the previous evening were modestly attired in dresses that covered their shoulders and legs, are now sunbathing in one piece swimming costumes on loungers at the rear of the boat. When they join the men out front they have on opaque, silk shifts that somehow make them more alluring than the scantily clad girls on the beach. There’s plenty of talk about the Villa, of course, and after another bottle of champagne Faisal and myself are more than convinced that they will finish the season in the top four. When he is King, Faisal says, he will buy the club and install me on the Board of Directors. The day ends only too soon and we’re back in Montura.

         The fun’s over I’m thinking, but no, it’s just begun. Tomorrow they’re going on safari to hunt wild pigs and sample the local wine, and Faisal insists I come too. This is better than great, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m not paying my way, so the next day I take along my Ollie Wilson shirt and present it to Faisal. He couldn’t be more pleased because he thinks it’s a shirt that Ollie actually wore in a match, which is pretty much what I led him to believe. He whips off his own shirt and replaces it with the one I bought in the club shop.

         “How can I ever thank you, my friend, this is too much, how can you bear to part with something so precious.” He’s almost overcome with emotion.

         “No worries,” I say, “it’s the least I can do after all your hospitality.”

         “Nonsense, nonsense, that is my pleasure, my duty as a host, it is nothing compared to this. No, my friend, you must allow me to show my appreciation by giving you something. Now, what can it be? No, don’t say a word, I know just the thing, it will be a surprise, something you will really like, but today we go hunting.”

         It’s the usual crowd. We pile onto a people carrier and off we go to this swanky place in the country that calls itself a ranch. The pig hunting’s done with rifles and we bag a dozen or so before going riding. We return, early evening, to find the pigs we shot roasting on spits above a log fire. Any sympathy I had for them evaporates as I devour the meat and vegetables in front of me. There’s wine, Bacardi and the obligatory champagne and after that, there’s singers and dancers to entertain us. In the early hours of the morning, we get back on the people carrier and return to Montura where we bid each other good night and stagger off to our hotels.

         I’m hoping Faisal will invite me to somewhere else the next day, but nothing’s said, so after breakfast, I sun myself on the beach in the company of Sharon from Basildon who’s an eight out of ten in the looks department but talks like Katie Price on helium. She’s in need of someone to spread sun cream on her back; her friend’s gone off with this guy called Santi and left her, “all alone.” This is my cue to invite her out, but after the last few days, a date with her is less appealing than the prospect of a third place play-off in the Euros.

         I return to the hotel for lunch and treat myself to the most expensive bottle of wine they have followed by drinks at the bar. Suddenly I’m like Bambi on ice and any thoughts I had of returning to the beach are shelved for another day. I pull myself together and get back to my room where I lie down on the bed and fall asleep.                                                                                                      

***

 

         I wake up to find the day fading and someone knocking on my door. When I open it there was a girl there who says she had a present for me from a Mr Aziz.

         “Mr Aziz?” I ask.

         “Mr Faisal Aziz,” she says.

         “Oh him, sure, come in.”

         She does and, instead of handing me something from out of her shoulder bag, unbuttons the denim jacket she’s wearing and hangs it over the back of a chair on which she has already placed her bag. This is rather odd coming from someone who’s only here to deliver a present but all comes clear when she kicks-off her shoes and invites me to unzip the black cocktail dress she’s wearing. “Lucky boy,” she purrs, and indeed I am.

         It’s not until later, when we’re in the jacuzzi, that we get round to introductions. Her name is Irina. This is not the name her parents gave her, she says, but it’s easily remembered and pronounced which is more than can be said for her real name; everyone should have at least one secret, she tells me, and this is one of hers. She comes from an impoverished region of Dalgaria and one day when she is very rich she will return there and become its Mayor. No one, she says, will starve when she’s in charge. Everyone will be happy. Her eyes sparkle and I get the feeling that for her this is more than another day at the office. She likes me, of that I’m sure, which is just as well because I’m head over heels, and trying not to show it.

         She departs just after mid-night but not before giving me some good news, in fact two pieces of good news, one, that Faisal has invited me to go deep water fishing with him the next day, and, two, that she will be returning the following evening and any other evening that I’m wanting her company. “You have a very generous friend,” she says. “What a pity you’re not here for the season.” She smiles and pecks me on the cheek, and a minute or two later I look down from my balcony as she steps into the taxi she has ordered. Can life be more perfect? No way.

         Next morning the Mercedes arrives on the stroke of ten and we’re off to the marina again. It’s another wonderful day and Faisal is still hungry for news about the Villa. Fortunately there’s been talk on Sky about them signing Jervinho from Barcelona. It’s rubbish, of course, as is most transfer speculation, but I relay it to Faisal as though it’s a serious runner.

         “But where will he fit in?” exclaims Faisal, “surely not in place of Ollie?”

         I reassure him that this is most unlikely and that they will almost certainly play as twin strikers in an attacking 3-5-2 formation. “Won’t that leave us light at the back?” he says, his genial expression giving way to thoughtful concern.

         I tell him no, and that with the emphasis on attack we will have little need for defenders. I sense that I may just have blown my credibility as a football pundit, but after a few seconds of reflection Faisal nods his head in agreement. As the boat heads out into open sea we are happily contemplating the many goals to come. With a good day’s fishing also in prospect our mood couldn’t be better.

         The same, however, cannot be said for Faisal’s first wife, Fidelia, who’s got a face as long as a kite. And, as the day unfolds, it’s only too obvious why. Faisal is favouring his second wife above her. Another person less than happy about this is Asad, who, nevertheless, is managing to force a smile. When Faisal and Honora step down into the private quarters below he wastes no time in sidling over to number one wife and muttering fiercely in her ear. What he says I don’t hear but with Faisal and Honora back on deck Fidelia puts on the widest and most unconvincing smile I have ever seen.     

         However, that’s her problem, not mine, and when I catch a large carp the only problem I have is that I can’t bring myself to touch it. I have an allergy to fish which causes me to break out in a rash, and, when I explain this, even Fidelia can’t help laughing.

         We return to the marina late afternoon and arrange to meet up next evening at nine. This leaves me free to sun myself all day on the beach and, after dinner, make out with Irina until she leaves me for her nine o’clock. When I get to Roscoe's two things are immediately obvious, one, that Faisal and Honora aren’t there and, two, that Asad has just become my new best friend. He takes me to one side. An unfortunate situation has arisen which he hopes I can help resolve. If I can, he will be most grateful. How grateful I’m thinking? He must be reading my thoughts for the next moment he’s telling me about this lucrative post at their Embassy in London that would only require my attendance several days a week. This sounds like a better option than Fareland so I’m all ears.

         “How can I help?”

         He’s not slow in telling me. Fidelia has displeased Faisal by falling out with Honora. “It’s the usual thing, he says, first wife syndrome. They always resent number two and, indeed, all the numbers that follow. They should be like sisters, but they seldom are.” He shakes his head at this sad reality and consoles himself by taking a swig of the lager he’s drinking. Faisal, he continues, has taken Honora to Barcelona to see their opening match of the season. When they return he will likely banish Fidelia to a remote part of the country where she will play no further part in his life.

         “Poor gal,” I say, but I’m thinking it might also be a case of poor Asad. What does he have to lose? He’s not keen on telling me, but when I ask the question he decides to open up. Fidelia is his niece and whilst she is in the good books of her husband, so is he, and likely to become one of the richest and most powerful men in the Kingdom. If this is to happen Fidelia must not only avoid banishment but, again find that special place in her husband’s heart.

         I’m about to tell him that marriage guidance is not my specialist subject when he reminds me of what is. More than anything else, he says, Faisal loves football, nothing would he like better than to make love to a woman who can simultaneously engage him in conversation about his favourite team. My task, if I choose to accept it - and there’s money, as well as the job if I do - is to turn Fidelia into a walking encyclopedia of all things Villa. I have two days in which to do this and Fidelia, who is only too aware of her options, will he assures me, be a most willing pupil. My tuition is to begin the following morning and conclude in the evening of the following day when Faisal and Honora are expected back. There is, he sternly says, to be no hanky-panky. He will, on both days deliver her to me at 8am and escort her back to her hotel room in the evening at eleven.

         This is two days out of my holiday, but if I’m successful Asad assures me he will extend my stay at the Presidente by another week. Well, how can I refuse, especially as Faisal can surely have no objection to a football savvy wife.

         I hire the conference room in the hotel and, on our first morning, give her a potted history of the club: how it was formed in 1874 by cricketers from a Methodist church; how they were founder members of the football league; and all their major honours since then, concluding with their recent friendly win over AC Milan. Then there’s past and present players and a review of English football, from the mixed fortunes of the national team to the recent and much lamented introduction of VAR. At 12.00 we take a working lunch, and then we’re off to a little used beach at the far end of the bay where, with the help of a beach ball and several small boys, I teach her the off-side rule and the tactical formations likely to be used in the forthcoming season by Villa and their main rivals for the league.

         We are on to Villa songs and chants when who should I spot but our honeymooners, Rita and Gemma, emerging from the sea and running back to their beach towels which are drawn up close together beneath a large umbrella. They’re not, I’m thinking, be wanting to be bothered with us but being in clear sight and singing ‘Villa Through and Through’ we’re too conspicuous to ignore. They’re wearing nothing but their briefs and I’m fearing that Fidelia will be shocked out of remembering everything I have taught her but, to my surprise, she’s all smiles and taking it all in her stride. We sit down beside them, intending only to stay a few minutes, when Gemma lets on that she’s a keen supporter of the Lionesses. This is like manna from heaven, and not only is she a font of knowledge on the subject but Fidelia is clearly taking in every word. The conversation has moved on to the 2023 World Cup when my mobile rings and I have a text from Irina saying that she can’t make it this evening but will, if I’m free, drop by my hotel at 3.30.

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 Riddles 07

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

No 1. What is taken before you can get it?  

 

No 2.  You enter a room.  Two dogs, four horses, one giraffe and a duck are lying on the bed.  Pigeons are flying over a chair. 

How many legs are on the floor?   

 

Keep em coming Riddler