THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks

When I first heard the news about uncle George I was sad. Not that I was ever close to the old boy, only met him three or four times, but he was family, Dad’s brother, the last of his generation. Then I got the letter from his solicitor and I felt a whole lot better. Turns out I was his nearest living relative and sole beneficiary. Thought I had won the lottery without buying a ticket. How big the jackpot was I didn’t know, but as Uncle George lived in a three storey house on the Caledonian Road I figured it was the nearest thing to a fortune I would ever see. 

After three years in Pentonville, and one on the dole, my lucky star was shining like never before. Then the clouds started rolling in and not even the sun was getting through. Should have known it was too good to be true. Uncle George hadn’t left me the house, it wasn’t his to leave; he only lived on the ground floor and that was rented. All I had was the stuff inside it and a bill for last month’s rent. Decided that the best thing to do was clear the flat before another month's rent was due and sell anything likely to fetch a price. With a bit of luck I could pay off his debts and still make a few quid. 

Wasn’t thinking that for long. One look around his pad was enough to tell me that there was better stuff on the local tip. Even then I thought there might be some money hidden away. Old people do that, especially when they don’t have bank accounts - whole wads of notes at the back of drawers or on top of cupboards. That’s when I found the shilling piece, and an old book of spells. At least I think that’s what it was. The old time writing didn’t make much sense, but the pictures were clear enough. It wasn’t no bible book, that’s for sure. 

I remember Mum saying that uncle George had a dark side, now I knew what it was. In the same cupboard I found his ceremonial robe and a certificate saying that he was member one hundred and thirty four of the Anointed Order of Gehenna. It didn’t seem right to take them down to the tip where they might get noticed, so I burned them in the back garden. Almost burned the book too, then thought better of it. Why not take it to that second hand bookshop in Camden Town, I thought; anything that old must surely be worth a fiver, so that’s what I did. 

As soon as I walk through the door I know I'm in the right place. This isn’t any old book shop, it's the Psychic Antiquarian Resource Gallery; the resource being books and magazines on every weird notion and religion that’s ever been invented. The guy behind the counter looks surprisingly sane. If he has a ceremonial robe at least he isn't wearing it. In fact he's better turned out than uncle George’s solicitor. What’s more he’s a real charmer. This is a man who can really close a deal, a born salesman, but I'm not buying, and at first neither is he.

He takes one look at the split in the binding and almost pushes the book back at me across the counter. Then something gets his attention and he opens it up. The guy would make a good poker player, but for a split second he lets down his guard and I can see he’s interested, really interested. Then he’s back to his poker face, sighs, says what a pity it isn’t in better condition, points out a creased page and a dark stain on another. Sighs again. I’m thinking that he’s going to offer me a fiver when it’s worth a pony or maybe fifty quid. Instead, he quotes me the full fifty. So how much is it really worth? I don’t trust him, so I say I’m not sure, that I think it might be worth more. He shakes his head, almost winces as he finds another stain in the margin of a picture; then his attention switches to the picture itself. It’s Old Nick himself, eyes glowing like they’re going to jump off the page. The guy can’t help himself, he’s almost drawling. Ups his offer to eighty quid, but by now he knows I’m on to him, that I’m going to say no and move on to other book shops.

When I do say no, he shrugs his shoulders like he’s none too bothered, but he knows a private collector who might pay more. If I leave my card maybe he will get in touch. I don’t have a card, so I write down my address and telephone number on a piece of paper he gives me. He smiles, wishes me luck and we say goodbye.

It’s 4:30, too late to find another book shop, so I head home. Figure if this book is as hot as I think it is then the collector will be on the phone before morning. I’m not disappointed, except that it’s not the telephone that rings, it’s the door bell. I open up to find this guy on the doorstep. His name is Mackenzie. He says he’s come about the book. I invite him in. This is dangerous, but he looks okay so I take a chance. It’s a chance too many. 

Not sure when he hit me, probably the first time I turned my back on him. All I know is that when I come round I’m lying on the parlour floor, staring up at Mrs B from the next door flat. Turns out that when I hit the deck, the old dear hears the bang and starts hammering on the wall like she does when she wants me to turn down the radio. Except that this time I don’t shout back, so she comes out her front door and finds mine open. 

Luckily for her, my visitor has grabbed what he came for and legged it out of the building. She wants to call the police, but the police and me don’t get along, so I say I’ll do it when I know what’s missing. What’s missing, of course, is the book, nothing else, just the book, and now I’m certain it’s worth serious money. I want it back and my devious little friend in the bookshop is just the man to help me find it. 

Next morning I’m there bright and early, half expecting the shop to be shut, but the sign in the window says ‘Open’, so I go in. It’s quiet, even quieter than a bookshop ought to be. Right away I’m smelling trouble and it ain’t long in coming. The door into the office is open and there’s books and magazines all over the floor. I ring the bell on the counter and, when no one comes out, I go in. 

At first I don’t see him, then I look behind his desk and there he is, flat out, with his head bashed in. He’s not breathing, and, unless his name is Lazarus, he won’t be getting up again. Cut and run, I’m thinking. You’re an ex-con with form for GBH. If the police find you here they won’t be looking for anyone else. Then I see this poster in his hand. It’s like he’s trying to give it to me; it’s stupid, but it makes sense. He’s holding the poster because it’s important, because it has something to do with the man who killed him - the same man who, but for Mrs B, would have done the same to me. This is all about the book and if I want to see it again the poster is my only chance. I take it from him and go back into the shop. There’s nobody there, or in the street outside. I slip out of the front door and walk back to my car several streets away. I mustn’t do anything to attract attention, and I don’t. 

By the time I get back home I’m thinking that the book is the least of my problems. I might have got out of the shop without anyone seeing me but my fingerprints are all over the counter and maybe some in the office. It won’t be long before the police find them and make the match with the ones I gave them four years ago. It’s not enough for a conviction, but if I’ve also been seen on CCTV then I’m definitely in the shit. What’s more the poster I took from the book guy also connects me to the shop and who’s to say his DNA isn’t all over it. Whatever else I do today, I need to burn it before the police find it. 

I take it out of my jacket pocket and go into the kitchen, intending to incinerate it in a saucepan. Then I think, no, slow down, if the book guy thought this important then it’s important enough to read. So I do. It’s about some sort of hippy gathering that’s taking place in Cornwall, 'The Festival of Gehenna and the Awakening Lights'.

Straightaway my mind goes back to Uncle George and the Anointed Order of Gehenna. Are they connected, I’m thinking, and sure enough they are; in the small print there’s an address, the same one that was on uncle George’s certificate. My mind’s working overtime and everything’s making sense. By holding on to the poster, the book guy was saying that his killer and the festival are connected, ‘go to the festival and there you will find him, book and all.’

And do I want to go? You bet I do. This guy is my get out of jail card. If I can find him, get his name and address, I might just be able to convince the police that it’s him, not me they should be looking for. But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now I’m wanting to avoid the police, and a festival campsite, in the middle of nowhere, seems like the perfect spot. 

There’s no time to lose. I change the plates on my car and get money from the bank. I also need a change of image. Appearances are important and I don’t want to be recognised, so I shave my head, wear a new age shirt I should have thrown out years ago and put on a big pair of shades. 

 (To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

Franks Tyres

 Franks Tyres 

By Barbara Thomas 

7.30am The day has started well

8.00am had breakfast said my goodbye's then went to my car.

8.10am Driving off to work, roads clear for a change.

8.55am Driving steady down the road, traffic building up.

9.00am going towards Blackwall tunnel traffic has eased with a bit of luck I should be at my meeting in good time.

9.05am Suddenly there was something wrong as I was getting nearer the tunnel the steering wasn't right luckily there was a layby.

9.10am I got out of the car traffic whizzing past not to sure what the problem was, I walked round the car problem solved two tyres had burst.

9.20am I phoned the breakdown who said due to traffic they couldn't come for at least an hour thats when I was thankful my wife and children were not in the car, that's when it would become a priority. 

9.30am the sky opened up then there was an almighty flash. The rain became a deluge and there was I stranded! So I pulled up my coat collar and sat in the car at a loss.

9.45am the rain stopped, I was soaked through. I checked my watch thinking it must be time for the breakdown lorry to finally arrive. I pulled my mobile out.

9.50am  I phoned the building where my meeting was and spoke to receptionist explain I could be a little late  as I was having trouble with my car she said she would pass on the message and I thanked her hoping as I put my mobile away then low and behold the breakdown lorry arrived. 

10.00am I put my hands together looked up to the sky and thanked God.

10.10am the driver got out of the cab and we exchanged pleasantries, then he had a look at the problem.

10.15am The mans name was Dave. He scratched his head and said he was sorry but he didn't have that size tyre so unfortunately he couldn't help but he was willing to phone up for another breakdown lorry that would have the right equipment. Words failed me Dave apologised again before he set off into the heavy traffic.

10.35am once again I was stranded and the day has started so we'll.

10.50am I looked down the road and at last I saw the flashing lights of the second breakdown lorry the driver pulls in, gets out of the lorry.

“Hello mate my name is Frank. Now let me see what the trouble is.” after checking all my tyres he walked back to the lorry and, pulled out 2 tyres. Within 20 mins, the job was done.

I shook his hand and thanked him.

"That's alright mate only to pleased to be of service."

11.20am I sat in the car, turned the key. Watched the traffic, waiting for an opening then creped out into the flow.

11.30am I reached the tunnel now at least 2 hours late for my meeting I could only hope the people were still there, quietly thanking our lord for Frank. And his efficient tyre change.  

Driving along I wondered what the rest of the day would throw at me. Oh it had started so well 10 minutes to the meeting I must look a sight still soaked through, what a way to go to an important meeting. 

I arrive, I park the car rush into the toilet wash my face check my suit put my hands through my hair this is it I have arrived.  I went up to the receptionist and asked if she could tell me what room my meeting was being held in?  She looked up her appointment book asked me my name and after 5 minutes said she was very sorry but my meeting was tomorrow. 

Yes you guessed it I was a day early I walked out of the building got into my car and thought to myself that really takes the ticket let's hope tomorrow will be better. 

When I finally got home I checked all my tyres as I had been advised by Frank.  I couldn't go through that again.

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

Riddles 24

 Riddles 24

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has more puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  1326 5210 4208 416?  (what is the missing No?)

 

No 2. Surveyed/Merchandise/Diagnoses/Vermouth

 

Which of the following belongs to the above group?

 

Cheery ~ Precocious ~ Charming ~ Heathens ?

 

 

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Life

 Life

By Len Morgan

  Life is all around us and, beneath each patch of ground we step on.  Insects butterflies moths and bugs inhabit the earth, air, and sky. 

Molds mosses grass and trees are inhabited by life.  Every time you place a foot on the ground you cover a microcosm of life far outnumbering the human inhabitants of the earth. 

Each breath you take contains more microbial life than there are grains of sand on South End beach.  

A disinfectant that kills 99 per cent of all known germs when used on your hands will leave more germs, outnumbering the population of the UK, and what of all the unknown germs?  We also have to realise that they were here first! 

We have always thrived living side by side with them.  The children we seek to protect from them are fast losing their natural immunity.  Asthma and other common allergies were rare when I was a child.  We played in the streets, amongst the dirt.  We swam in the local duck pond, climbed trees, picked mushrooms.  Accidentally dropping a jam sandwich on the floor, we blew off the dirt and ate it.

There were no sell-by dates on the produce we bought; yet we survived! 

The human body is host to trillions of inhabitants, ‘plant & animal’ alike; without them we’d be extremely ill.  They live inside our gut, helping us breaking down the food we eat killing off harmful germs that gain entry to our body. They coexist, and we live in harmony!

If we eradicate all the insects and micro-organisms (our allies), the world would be six feet deep in excrement.  Other living things are mostly our friends, and not to be eradicated! 

Everything dies, naturally, it is the order of things.  Death is a blessed release from pain anguish & confusion, it is a gift from Gaia.  Not to be spurned or feared, rather to be embraced as your reward for a life well lived…

Copyright Len Morgan

Shahai

 

 Shahai - Brandy hole, taken from SWF side of the river.

The pond surrounded Wollemi pines at Markshall estate in Coggleshall. (a species from when dinosaurs roamed the earth). The estate holds the biggest collection of these pines outside of their native Australia. 

 

 

By Robert Kingston

Cheap Lives

 Cheap Lives

By Jane Goodhew

If you are reading this then you have either purchased or picked up a copy of the magazine which contains the sort of stories that you would expect to find in an X rated movie or cheap novel but never to have been written by yourself.

Yet, this is my story; it may sound familiar to some of you who are reading this in the hope of finding inspiration and I do not mean to write for a group that you are in but the motivation to move out of the situation.  The one that so far you have not had the power to leave or anywhere to go that you will not be found and returned to the hell you were living in and continue to live and will do until you decide enough is enough.

There will be others of you who have such boring, mundane lives that this is how you get your cheap adrenaline rush, reading other people’s sordid, sad lives of sex, depravity, violence or even murder. You may think that this could never happen to your or any member of your family, but it can and does even to those who you think are in a happy and stable relationship they too can have their secrets.

Those who have high-powered and highly paid jobs, they are not exempt they can just disguise it more by sending you to a health spa until you have recovered or if really serious to a plastic surgeon to fix that broken nose or displaced jaw or to remove the scars from your wrists where you tried to kill yourself or just to replace one pain with another.

I can almost feel you cringe and blush as you realise, I am talking about you, and you wonder how many more are sitting at home thinking ‘Oh my god that is me! Yet you do not like to see yourself as a pathetic victim, so you allow such demeaning, despicable behaviour to continue and you continue to make excuse after excuse.

So, what do you intend to do? Continue reading in the hope I will save you from this hell by giving you permission or the method to leave. There is no magic answer, no fairy wand to wave away your misery, no wishing will make it happen, it must come from you. You could stop now and go upstairs and pack a bag, get your passport and any small treasured items you can carry and just leave but no you continue to sit there and imagine it will all go away so make more excuses such as it is coming up for Christmas and you don’t have relatives to take you in, you are not yet at the stage of desperation where a doorstep is preferable to being in your comfortable home so you continue to sit and sip your tea and read on until it is time to pick the children up from school. 

For others of you the children are all grown and moved on and have jobs and family of their own. They no longer bother to visit very often as their lives are too busy and anyway, Australia, the USA and any other far flung country is about as far from you and your situation that they could go as they knew no matter what they said you would not leave.   You had dedicated your life to being a martyr as you believed in the sanctimony of marriage and the vows you had taken. Harsh you may think, who is this person to say such things. But are your vows the real reason you stay?

Well, I cannot share my sordid pathetic life with you so pick up the phone and ask for help, find that refuge, I don’t say women’s because there are many men out there who are physically and mentally abused by the woman in their lives but are too ashamed to admit it.  They consider it a failure, that it would not be manly to admit that a woman hit them, or ridiculed them until they lacked self-esteem and believed that no one else would want them or love them as she did when she was not tormenting or goading or proving he was not a man as he cowered in the doorway as she moved towards him with that smile that meant she was about to strike.

The night before I had been prepared to leave, he came home struck for the final time. The police are here now and are about to take his body away. I had just the strength to type this concluding chapter and press send to wish you all a Merry Christmas and may your New Year be without fear, filled with love, health, and happiness even if it means alone. I am going to be at peace for the first time in years, for an eternity because they will find a second body and it is mine.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 

 PAMELA’S LAST DAY.

By Bob French

Jill Burnham sat looking out over Huntington Beach just west of the small town of Costa Mesta in California.  It was turning seven on a Friday evening, one of the best times of the day; the groaning sound of traffic on Highway 55, replaced by the gentle sound of the waves as they gently crept up the sandy beach, and the exotic birds that came out to serenade the beach lovers and tourists.  If the air was clear, you could see all the way out to Cataline Island.  Jill was at the top of her game in the high-end sales department of Partridge and Partridge, the estate agents to the movie-stars.

Bartram McKensie worked up state Los Angelese, in the blue-chip market place of fast-moving stocks and shares, futures, bonds, and foreign banking, which Jill found thoroughly boring. Their relationship was an unspoken arrangement, woven into the fabric of their busy lives.  Neither of them had time for romantic entanglements, but when a rare free evening presented itself, they would meet up and dine at Mario’s over at Long Beach or some of the other renown restaurants in LA.  Indulging in fleeting moments of companionship before returning to their respective financial empires.

Jill felt mentally and physically drained.  It had been an extremely busy fortnight, ending at lunch on, with her closing a multimillion-dollar deal with one of the stars who’d chose to remain anonymous. There had been much drinking to her success, and as the sun gradually faded behind the western horizon, Jill closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, oblivious of the prearranged dinner date with Bartram at Santa Monaca’s best fish restaurant at eight.

Monday morning Jill was up early and was in work by half Seven.  Met by her dizzy secretary, Pamela, she settled in to studying the markets, whilst Pamela supplied her with copious cups of double latte with three brown sugars and a Danish.

Jill always held her meetings with her staff at mid-day on Monday’s, to go over the properties that had been flagged up earlier.   Jill felt uncomfortable.  So far Pamela had not made any blunders which disturbed her, then realized as she glanced around the room that she’d forgotten to circulate the agenda for the meeting. As Jill and her area managers were still on a high from last Friday’s drinks, everyone seemed to grin and get on with the meeting.

It was coming to the end of the meeting when Jill suddenly sat up, as though someone had just slapped her across the back of the head.  She had just remembered that she was supposed to have met Bartram in Santa Monica last Friday evening.  She knew that sometime today she would have to apologize to him; something she hated doing.  Ignoring the winding up briefings from the various area managers, Jill decided that she had had enough of this pretend affair with Bartrum. she wanted something with a little more zing, something that would make her feel good inside, relaxed and carefree. Bill from down Santa Anna way popped his head in to Jill’s office. 

“I have had a good look at the French chateau in Le Bouscit near Bourdeaux Jill. Very promising.  I visited it last week and the owner of the Chateau is a chap call Maurice du Champion.  Speaks good English. He is also the bank manager of the town. I‘ve left a report with Pam.”

It was just past two in the afternoon and Jill had been trying to convince herself that this casual affaire with Bartram wasn’t what she wanted, but each time she tried to come to a decision, her mind told her to just wait a little longer.  Then the door to her office burst open. Pamela rush in, note pad at the high port, and in a complete flummox.

“Jill, it’s him, on the phone!”

Jill staired at Pamela, and slowly stood.  “Who is it on the phone Pam?”

“Its him, the bank man, you know.”  Jill froze.  She had made her mind up to dump Bertrum once and for all, but she felt unsure of herself.  Could she do it?  They have been friends for nearly six years.

“Thank you, Pam, put him through on my private line then switch off your line, No interruptions until I tell you, understand?”

Jill sat there in silence, staring at the little red winking light on her telephone. Her thoughts going over and over in her head. She knew He was going to call her and rebuke her for missing Friday’s date and she dreaded it. God! it was only a dinner date.  She spoke out loud  “I shall take command of the situation and tell him straight how she felt about him, and more to the point, that she didn’t want to see him again. Don’t let him get control of the conversation, just tell him what you expect in a relationship. Then she took a deep breath.

“Before I explain, I want to get something off my chest.  I’m sorry but what I want in a relationship is something you don’t seem capable of providing, I want to meet you at my front door after a busy day, slowly remove your clothes, item by item, smother you in kisses, as you devour me.  Then have slow and crazy sex with me on the sitting room floor, before you pick me up and take me gently to my double bed where I want you to explore every part of my body until I drift off into oblivion.  After that I want to sit naked in bed with you, drinking iced champaign and eating lobster sandwiches and watching Fifty Shades of Grey. Then, as mid-night chimes, I want you to take me down town to Saint Philippes, on fifty first and second and dance exotically like those young Latin kids until I wet my pants.” 

She heard him try to but in, but she was having none of it.

“Don’t interrupt me, just listen!  After leaving Saint Philippes, I want you to take me down to Emerald Bay and swim naked and dance in the sand as the tide gently come in.”  Jill took a deep breath, then eased herself back into her plush office chair. 

“Well what have you got to say?”

There was a short pause. Then she heard a voice that she didn’t recognize.

 “Well I can certainly fulfil your desires up until I take you dancing down at Saint Phillips, then I think you lost me.”

Jill suddenly sat forward. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Maurice du Champion.  I hope I am speaking to Ms Jill Burnham?”

Jill stood up, pushing her chair back and screamed at the top of her voice. “Pamela, get your sorry backside in here!”

Copyright Bob French