SHORT STORIES • POETRY & RHYME • LINKS TO NOVELS
A veritable mixed bag
Sometimes my writing expands a little from where I started and ends up in a short story, a children's story for one or more of the extended family, a longer poem or just because the words keep flowing.
The selection here is thoroughly mixed, hopefully entertaining, though the casual reader may not always appreciate all of the nuances adopted for the family inspired pieces.
Just click on a title to read the story.
The thought of killing his own mother abhorred him.
The desire to overwhelmed him.
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Llandegley Diversion (Very Short Story – March 2019)
I had arrived at Llandegley International Airport to board a Lanfihangel Airways flight to Sables-d'Olonne-Talmont. I was pushing it for time, having left home late, as usual, and then been stuck behind a huge hay lorry for countless miles down the A44 – which itself had got temporarily stuck, sidling past a heavily laden Gore Quarry truck, easing its way through the narrow Pembridge High Street, by the New Inn. I’d just missed the shuttle bus from the car park and had to trot down to the check-in bay at Terminal 3, towing one large case and carrying a cabin bag; and nearly tripping over the feet of a horde of arrivals heading for their own cars, cars picking them up or queuing for the line of taxis. Why did I pick to go on a Bank Holiday weekend?
One thing about being late, the check-in queue had shrunk to a half-dozen or so impatient looking travellers, all looking lost. Not surprising in this little Welsh stronghold, with its predominantly blue-grey slate décor, relieved only by a few large yellow and green daffodil and bright red dragon wall sculptures. Even the check-in desks had counter tops in solid Welsh slate and the mood music was either Katherine Jenkins or male voice choirs. Signs stood out proud in white welsh script, with English translations subdued to a barely legible light grey.
I looked nervously at my watch. Lanfihangel Airways were known for punctuality and that included closing its check-in dead on time, waiting queue or not – and I was apparently last in line, with an excitable Italian in front of me, gesticulating and shouting: and only two minutes to go. As he finally moved away, I slapped down my passport and ticket, to receive a stern glare from the girl in green uniform, with white piping and red collar, who then glanced at the clock. I held my breath and pleaded with my eyes as she looked back and took pity on me. I then prayed I reached security in time and audibly sighed with relief as I was eventually waved down to boarding.
Once in my seat I was ready to relax and dream ahead of those long stretches of egg-timer sand along the Atlantic coast, at Les Sables-d'Olonne. Days of sunshine, of lazing, of browsing the books at the Librairie Les Fables d’Ollonne (not that my French was up to much actual reading) and sauntering around narrow streets and alleyways, away from the main tourist spots. But that was not to be.
Waiting for take-off, I was reading a leaflet thrust at me as I hurried into Terminal 3 and pushed into the open side pocket of my jacket. It was a protest against the new Terminal 5 and runway extension planned for British Airways expansion, at the expense of acres of productive farmland and noise pollution over the Llandrindod Wells to Knighton flight path. Just not on, according to the local opposition, who were now beginning to rue their earlier political persistence to bring extra commercialism to this rural spot in central Wales. They had enjoyed the sight of Terminal 1 being opened by the Prince of Wales, but Terminal 3 had been seen as the end point. What’s more, the increased passenger footfall would mean widening the meandering A44 into a fast, dual carriageway, feeder-road – with even a section of A44(M) motorway on the plans. I signed the petition slip ready to post when I got back. Which nearly proved to be the same day.
No sooner had we taken to the air, and I was looking down over the sparkling waters overflowing the dams of the Elan Valley and heading towards Llyn Brianne, than we started to circle back. The pilot announced, in a somewhat despondent tone, that there had been a wildcat strike of French Air Traffic Controllers and our flight was duly cancelled. We were on our way back down to the land of our fathers. And that wasn’t the end of our troubles.
We had had been stacked waiting for a slot in the busy air traffic, I presumed, as the plane circled the same scenery for the fifth time. I asked one of the cabin crew what was happening and she smiled her don’t worry sir smile, and whispered that she shouldn’t really tell me, but the pilot can’t find the airport again. I looked out the window by my seat and peered down. All I could see were a couple or so farm buildings and a long, straight, strip of dark ploughed earth, where Dai Evans had been practising for a ploughing competition.
Our flight was diverted, which is how I ended up sitting in a comfortable lounge at Cardiff Airport, at Rhoose, having rebooked on a flight to Reus in Spain. That flight went OK, but when I got back, I couldn’t find a Lanfihangel Airways desk to ask about flights back to Llandegley, so I asked around. Well, a couple had heard of the town, but did not know of even a strip of land flat enough for a plane to land. No one else seemed to have heard of it, at all.
Except, that is, for a youngish chap from New Radnor, who’d been on the same flight. He said he could offer me a lift. He had his own small plane parked at Cardiff and said he’d be flying it back there the next day. That suited me. It is a difficult place to find, he told me, though it’s well signposted from Crossgates, and even some of the airline pilots get confused. You’ve got to be in the right frame of mind, when you’re landing, it’s not that clearly visible from the air and there’s not a very long runway, so you could easily end up in a field of sheep, if you lose concentration.
I don’t know why that is. I can picture it clearly in my mind and I’ve still got the protest leaflet about Terminal 5 in my pocket. Just seems there’s no address for where to send the petition slip.
Anyway, I did get safely home.
NB: Note to sceptics. Some say that Llandegley International Airport started as a political comment, others just as a spoof road sign on the A44 east of Crossgates, Powys, and it’s true a lot of folk never find it. But let your inner mind take you there and you can catch a flight to anywhere in the world. I know. I’ve been.
Donna's Mom is laughing now (Short Story – January 2019)
Donna's Mom is laughing now
Donna McDonough was a wreck. A rebellious parental nightmare at fourteen, beyond redemption at sixteen and, having gone through the whole gamut of sex, booze, drugs and tattoos by eighteen, she was washed out and jobless, at twenty. Then her Dad died.
Dad. The one anchor in her life. Gone. Sure, they had fights. Sure, they swore at each other. But after all that, her dad loved her: and she loved him. He would always listen to her, be there for her, whenever she fell out with the latest lover: even though he mostly disagreed with her views, her lifestyle and, definitely, her tattoos. He was her voice of reason, even if she rarely took heed of it.
Now, instead of leaving home, as she’d planned, she was tied to her scrawny, wispy haired, old Mom, who insisted on calling her Emily. Which was, after all, her name – but Donna just hated it. She had her own moniker, now, adopted from half her last name. Emily didn’t exist, anymore.
But her Mom existed. Every wrinkled line on her face, her bony elbows and knees, her rag-bag of dresses that went out of fashion a decade ago: they all summed up the despair of another loss, another step backwards down the social scale. And the worry of her hopeless, hapless, only daughter, trapped by life’s uglier side. The side of depravity and loathsome exploitation. For Donna’s Mom believed she had been robbed of the daughter she bore, by the purveyors of evil who thrive on downtrodden teens, offering them an escape that only imprisons them even more.
Donna may have lost her Dad, but her Mom had lost more. She’d lost the income that kept them just about afloat. She could barely cover the rent, now, and the harsh, vindictive, uncaring words of the landlord had come as a shock, when Donna answered the door. OK, she gave as good as she got, but that just made matters worse. The notice to quit lay on the kitchen table, on top of its ripped open window envelope. Not even payment was enough, now. They were on the street.
Perhaps not quite on the street, but with no chance of a council house, being cooped up in a dingy, downtown hotel, sharing a room, was doing Donna’s head in. And her Mom’s, too. Even though Donna had turned one corner, her trips to the chemist for her methadone dose proved her intent, at least. Her Dad’s funeral had drained the last of any savings and she knew that she had to shake out and go for a job. A real job. She’d got an unused brain, amongst that addled mess, that could do something respectable. Now she had the need.
Her Mom was useless in grief, wallowing in the self-pity that came with the shame of her daughter’s chosen lifestyle. She’d had Donna in her early forties, when she was already way too old for her years. Unplanned, but not unwanted, Donna had been a blessing and a bane. Post-natal blues never quite cleared away and a period of anorexia took its toll, but after the first horrendous year, when Dad took on all the care, for both of them, her Emily became her light: shining bright up to thirteen, before dimming rapidly, and extinguishing by fifteen. And Mom was back on the rack. First the anger, then the depression and then the meds that lifted a dull glimmer to her life. Emma became a lost child.
How Donna’s Dad coped was a mystery. He was no saint. He had a regular job, yes, and he was respected enough to join the lower echelons of management. He juggled salvaging two women’s lives with several flirtations and thanked God he was on flexitime. He made up the hours, those weeks he fell short, and his boss, with his own teenager troubles, sympathised. Until one day his boss said he would have to draw the line, when he missed out on two important meetings. The strain on his heartstrings only got worse. The strain on his heart killed him.
Donna was just as distraught as her Mom, when the knock on the door came. Her Dad had collapsed at work and it was his boss who had to break the news. He came by a few days later, full of grief and apologies and offers to help. But you can’t replace a Dad. Donna watched as her Mom signed papers, neither of them really knowing what they were: just more stupid officialdom, thought Donna, glad when he disappeared out of the front door. An honour, that: they always used the back.
Getting a job, when you’re an opiate addict, isn’t easy. Holding on to it, even worse. The second attempt worked out better, after being sacked from the first – a fish and chip shop – for backchatting customers (many of whom deserved it) and slagging off her boss to one of them: he seemed to be expecting something more from her than the minimum wage would buy him.
Her salvation had really started a few months before her Dad died. He had shown her the result of long term addiction. Her mother. Both her parents had sat down with her as she came around after they thought she might have OD’d. They revealed the secret never told. The reason why her mother’s emaciated frame had never fully blossomed again, even in pregnancy. Her mother had been a crack addict, almost beyond help when she miscarried in her early twenties.
Her Dad and Mum had met when he literally had to pick her up out of the road and call an ambulance. He’d gone back to see her in the hospital and something had sparked between them that brought back her desire to live. And with medical help, drug therapy and Dad, she became clean. For a long time, she avoided the risk of having a child, too afraid her damaged body might produce a mutilated offspring. Then, as the clock ticked away, she began to feel unrewarded for her place in life; but nothing happened. She accepted it as fate. She thought the menopause had started, as in many women of similar age, but she was wrong. Emily came along. Precious Emily, initially welcomed, temporarily rejected and then unconditionally and protectively loved by both parents.
Even after the rebellion, the rejection of parental discipline and care, they tried to hold their Emily together. It was worst for her Mum, who struggled to cope and relapsed into despair and depression, afraid her daughter was too much in her own image. She saw her own mistakes repeated and no means of calling a halt to them. Dad pressed on, trying to keep one hand on an ever-lengthening rein that only just held Emily back from the brink. The Emily that was no more. The Emily that had become Donna. A tearaway, so dangerous to herself, so upsetting to her family and friends of pre-pubescent years.
The shocking revelation took a day or two to sink home as it whirled its message through Donna’s befuddled mind. She couldn’t get that image out of her mind, so graphically told by her dad, of her mother straddling the kerb and gutter, inches from fast moving traffic, red dress soaking up oily rainwater, her lank hair crumpled against a dog soiled bollard. And most early morning commuters treading gingerly round her, just a few stopping to momentarily stare and only Dad and a young Asian couple stooping to scoop her to safety, before dialling 999. Donna looked in the mirror and saw her mother’s face staring back. One thought stayed in her mind. ‘Dad, I need help.’ And he had freely given it, repeating the process from years before, painful memories tearing at his mind, as he watched the start of Donna’s excruciatingly slow recovery. But he never lived to see the end result of Donna, his beloved Emma, holding down a permanent job.
The resolve Donna had to clean up her act was severely hit by her dad’s death. She held on, just, knowing that roles had been reversed and she now had to look out for her mother. Twice she nearly gave in to temptation, with the thought of dreamily drifting into an oblivion of narcotic sleep seeming like heaven’s door. Twice she looked over the brim of despair into an abyss and twice she missed her methadone. Each time she looked at her Mum wallowing in the depths of depression (expecting her Emma to fall back into depravity) she thought ‘what the Hell?’ and then looked again and recalled the soft words of her Dad saying, ‘keep faith in yourself, like your mother did. One day I’ll be gone, and then she’ll need your strength.’ Donna knew that that time was now.
The funeral had been simple, the tears many and true; and life had moved on. Donna’s second job was good. The back office of an estate agent franchise was her domain, collating and promoting the delightful properties she’d never even consider in her dreams. She worked magic with the firm’s website and proved herself an astute publisher of brochures and online descriptions to whet the appetite of affluent clients. Most of all, before the year was out, it payed the rent on a two-bed apartment that gave both her Mum and herself some private space, some self-esteem.
That pleased her Mum, too, moving back up a step, able to hold her head high again and go back to working, part-time, in one of the local shops. But worry was never far away, the hold that Donna now had on life still seemed tenuous to her Mum and she remained scared for her – and her own ability to keep her Emma, as she still called Donna, safe. She barely recalled the days of smiles and laughter before the teenage years.
In truth, Donna was showing the greater strength. Bills were paid, meals in or out, plentiful and healthy and the sour cream pallor that had haunted both their complexions no longer needed more than the lightest boost of make-up to bring out the glow of recovery from the hardest times. Money was still a problem and there was little there for luxuries or saving. But they got by.
Then the worms started to eat their way out of the wood work. Two of Donna’s Dad’s flirtatious episodes came to light. Two women came knocking on the door, demanding to know what was in his will: if they had, as they believed, a rightful share coming to them. Both were given short shrift, but one threatened blackmail, if she didn’t get a pay-off. Donna knew her and knew her son dealt on the street: she soon backed down when Donna said she would expose them both.
To Donna’s amazement, her Mum laughed it all off. She had known of her husband’s infidelity, but never had the strength of will to take him to task. He provided all she needed and, after her early life, she felt that was all she was due. If those slags had a share in his lifetime, so be it. She had all the memories she needed and hers were good ones. They were the losers. She held the prize. She had had his daughter.
Donna’s Mum began to smile again, sometimes without an obvious reason, and that relieved Donna’s tensions, too. Her Dad had always been tight with money and now she knew partly why: he had others drawing on his pay packet and must have struggled to cope with that and still appear to be building up meagre savings. Disappointment tinged her Dad’s memory, but she still felt his love for her never suffered, was never shared with anyone but her Mum.
Another two weeks on and the smiles turned to laughter. Their lives turned on their heads. Dad’s old boss and a solicitor came around, Probate on the will had been finally proved. After executor and estate expenses and the funeral cost, Donna’s Dad had left equal shares to Donna and her Mum of £14.20.
‘Perhaps we should let those harridans have a share, after all,’ said Mum, and for the first time in years laughed long and loud.
Then the old boss spoke up. ‘Of course, you know we have all our management insured, don’t you?’ They didn’t. ‘I have a cheque here for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.’ And Donna's Mom was the beneficiary.
The two women looked at each other. Now they really did have cause to laugh. All that money was definitely theirs.
Harris House (A very short Short Story – April 2018)
I had no real plans for my retirement, other than gaining freedom from the daily slog down into the town; the endless grind of a routine that saw me change into oily overalls and set up the lathes for the next batch of metal widgets assigned to me.
It used to be a skill, depending on long learned craftsmanship, but in those last years I just watched three machines under computer control. All I had to do was feed the auto loader from an adjacent bin, clear excess swarf from time to time and stand ready to press the big red stop button, if any of the machines faltered. And that was very rare, unless a rogue blemish in the stock caused a workpiece to sheer, or a cutting tool was losing its edge too fast.
I was lucky they kept me on. There are few enough jobs for the town’s youngsters and a monkey could do mine, at the end. Mind you, they do have two apprentices, now. I taught the first one the ropes for a couple of months, before I left. Nice enough lad, a bit dozy and I can’t see him staying there ’til he’s twenty, let alone reaching retirement. The second one, a young girl, who joined the same week I retired, had much more about her. Quick on the uptake was that one.
I was worried, with so much time to spare, that I would become stuck to the telly in the evenings, though I knew I would get out in the day. Thank God for TV magazines: by the time I‘ve read through what’s on the two hundred odd channels that feature on the big telly they gave me, as one of two retirement presents, there’s little time left to watch anything. I read a few books, too, getting them from the library, but don’t keep many in the house.
The house: ah, yes. That was the biggest thing. I’d paid off my mortgage. I was a true property owner at last. ‘Mr Harold J Francis, man of property.’ Sounds good, doesn’t it? Looks good, too, with the new name plate: All of the other two-up, two-down, terraced house on the estate just have numbers; only the big ones, just out of town, have the fancy names.
Perhaps I’ll attract the ladies now! Not much chance, though, seeing as I’ve never managed it in the last sixty odd years. Never seemed to have the pull, except for Becky, in my teens, and nobody wanted her back then. Round spotty face, spindly round lensed glasses, lank brown hair, neither long nor a bob, mostly in a pony tail, skinny as a rake and smelled to high heaven on a Saturday night after her part-time job down the fishmongers. She was all over me. I’d make sure I doused myself with after-shave before we went down the park; and that wasn’t for her benefit, either. Only lasted two weeks. I obviously upset her. when I said I was going to get a job down the chippy, so that we would make the perfect pair.
How was I to know that she was going to a metamorphosise into a beautiful butterfly in her early twenties? Lustrous blond streaked hair, contact lenses, filled out a treat (though I’m not sure it was all natural), wisp of musky perfume when ever she passed by; but too late. Nigel invited me to the wedding, but I didn’t go. I’m not much for socialising, especially after I overheard him say to his mum, ‘I suppose we’d could always ask Harry. It’ll stop us having an odd number on that table.’
But now is now. I stroll down to the river and skim a few stones, walk back up through the woods, take the winding lane back into the town and pass the old factory that was so good to me. No, I don’t long to be back, but I have good memories and I’m reminded of the good friends I made there, especially when I get back home and see the nameplate next to the bell push by the front door. Brass it is, screwed tightly to the stone wall.
Sounds quite grand, doesn’t it, for a little stone town house, in a street of lookalikes. I’ve got the folks at the factory to thank for that. Not quite what I expected though, although I had dropped a few hints. I told them I’d paid off the mortgage and the house was all mine; and that I felt like announcing it to the street, with a plaque on the wall.
It was the boss who presented it to me. Big chap, quite strict, but with a friendly smile and very fair to all the workers. Even came around to visit me the year I had the flu. Now he hands me this flat package done up with a red ribbon, after I’d had the TV from the staff, and beams. ‘I’ve heard you talking and I know you’re proud of your home, so here’s something to let every one know your place is special.’ The he added something I didn’t understand. ‘Do you have family connections with the Hebrides. I once went there on a holiday. Got myself a genuine Harris jacket.’
I untied the ribbon, unfolded three layers of tissue paper and then smiled as it sunk in. They’d made this in the works. Apprentice piece it was: done by that young lad. I could see him beaming out of the corner of my eye. I had to stifle a little chuckle, the daft ha’penny worth. He’d heard me say what I had in mind and done his best to make it look posh and all that: highly polished with crisp clear lettering ‘Harris House’. Not a bad job at all and I treasure it for that alone. But he needs to get his ears syringed. What I had really wanted was ‘Harry’s House’.
The Moon and Green Cheese, too. (Short Story – March 2018)
The Moon and Green Cheese, too.
I wait at the top of the hill, listening out for the rattle and clank of the old tram as it makes its way up from the village, where the shops nestle together in a tight regiment on one side of the road and only a grocers, a bike shop and funeral parlour sit on the other. Terraced houses, all for rent, intersperse those last three. Mind you, there’s a pub on one corner and a cinema, with its Saturday matinees, at the far end. I wasn’t allowed in the pub, but Mum gave me the nine pence for the matinee, every once in a while.
The road is wide and from where I stand it broadens further. Twin tracks of glistening tram rails head southwards down the middle of the grass shouldered dual carriageway to the next suburban ribbon of shops and then on to the terminus, tucked into the wooded hills that are an adventure ground for a boy, like me. A world of exploration and play that exists far beyond the parallel rows of industry-bred housing, thrown up to house the workers who toil in the heat and grime of the foundries and amid the clang, clang, clang of metal shop presses, under the acid reek from the battery factory – all overlaid by whiffs of cocoa, when the wind’s from the east.
It’s the days of wanting to have everything that’s new, but never having the money for it. I want to be like my uncle. He has money: and a leather pouch from which he’ll produce the magic sixpence. Magic, because it buys a thin wafer of ice cream for four pence and a couple of ha’penny sherbet dips, from the sweet shop next to the chemist, with a penny still for saving. Mum and Dad rarely by ice cream. Money is too tight.
Anyway, a few weeks back, after a long time saving up the few pennies I get in pocket money, or for running errands, I went down to the little gift shop that sells leather goods. I bought one of those purses that flip open so your coins slide out into a sort of curved tray, just like my uncle’s. It cost me every coin I had, including the tuppence I’d borrowed off my Dad, and so I walked around with it empty, for more than a week, pleased as punch and disappointed as hell, all at the same time.
Now it’s got a fistful of pennies in it, plus a thruppenny bit, a sixpence and a shilling, too. The most I’ve had for the last three weeks. That’s how long it took to save: I earned some from odd jobs for neighbours and from fetching Mrs Jenkins’s groceries for her, but I kept spending the odd tuppence or two on sherbet dabs, whenever I passed the sweetshop. Temptation was too great.
There’s a sizzling in the rails as the tram approaches: not as loud as the railway tracks, and soon drowned by the squeal of brakes as it draws to a stop. No one’s getting off, so I hop on to the open platform and go straight up the twisted stairs to the top deck. Great. Only three others up here and I can get to the front. Pretend to be the driver. Better still it’s an open top tram, with the wooden slatted seats that have those backs you can swing across, with a loud clang, so that you’re facing forward, whichever way the tram’s travelling. I swing a couple over and get an annoyed look from the other passengers. And a bellow of ‘stop that, up there,’ from the conductor, still collecting fares downstairs.
This is the steepest hill on the tram route and the distinctive whine of the motor, as it set off down it, is quickly replaced by the touch grinding of brakes, as we whizz down the incline. In winter, the trams often get stuck coming up and have to roll back for a second attempt or wait while the gravel crew scrape the ice off the rails. But not today: I’m in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, with tennis shoes on my feet: a bit grey and worn, but what do you expect for second hand. I live near the bottom of the hill, in a semi, but I always walk up to the tram stop at the top to get this, the best bit of the whole ride.
It’s settled to a gentle rolling gait, between stops, now the tracks have levelled out. A few cars overtake on the road to the left, others sweep buy on the other side, in the other direction. I get out my purse and start sorting the pennies. Big copper coins of all ages back to a Victorian one, polished so smooth, so black and thin, it’s no good for me today. I separate it and one or two other manky ones, because I’m getting off at the penny arcade, just by the terminus, and the thin ones just slip out of the slots: the bent one amongst them would just stick. I’ll use my shilling when the conductor comes up to take my fare and get three more in change. I’ll keep the sixpence and the thruppenny bit for my fare home.
All the shops are left behind and the tram is on a gentle climb up to the terminus. Three more stops and I’ll be there. I hope I get some money back on those slot machines. I’m not supposed to play them, but the dozy lad in charge is not too fussy as long as people spend their money. He knows he’ll take more than ever goes out. But I need loads more than I can win, anyway. I want to get our telly back.
Everything was fine until a couple of weeks or so ago. The people opposite had bought a small telly, last Christmas, and invited me to watch it. And Mum, Dad and little sis, too. Over the road, in the bigger houses, they’re a bit posher than us. Dad doesn’t like to admit it though. So he saves up the deposit and goes and buys us a telly. A posher one, it was, in a polished oak cabinet with double doors on the front that you opened to reveal a huge twelve-inch screen. Most folk still had nine-inch sets. Took up a load of space in the corner of the lounge. But it was stylish and I saw things I never knew existed on some programmes and I had loads of laughs watching others. It was like having the moon and green cheese, too.
Anyway, I’d just got used to having it when Dad was laid off, down at the battery works and we couldn’t afford to keep up the payments. A right lardy fella came to take it away, looking right down his nose at me. Didn’t know I knew him from one of the council terraces, two doors from Mrs Jenkins. If he’s got our telly in his house, I’ll want to know why. I want it back and I reckon if I can do a few jobs and make a few winnings, I can give Dad something towards the payments. Once he’s off the dole.
The tram’s stopped just short of the terminus. It often does. The one before must have been running late. Mine has to wait while the driver swings the pole of the other tram around to the other end and switches track for the line into the city centre. Nobody’s allowed off between stops, either, so I’m sitting here, the arcade just in sight and dying to get some winnings. I’m feeling lucky. The conductor never came up to collect my fare. Could be an omen.
Good we’re moving again and I leap out the seat, and push past the only other passenger on the top deck – a short geezer, ginger haired, with open necked blue shirt and grey sports jacket, smoking a pipe – and shoot down the stairs, ready to jump off before the tram comes to a halt. That’s when my luck turns against me, after all. ‘OI! You. You haven’t got your ticket, yet. And I know where you got on.’ The conductor grabs my shoulder; pinches it quite hard, too. He makes me stand there while all the other passengers step off and then bends to put his face close to mine and holds out his hand. ‘Ninepence, laddie. No free rides, I’m not that slow you little squirt.’ I hand him the shilling. At least he gives me three good pennies, one of them almost new, still with its coppery shine. I might keep that one. Swop it with my little sis for a couple of her ha’pennies. She likes shiny things.
Off the tram now and I break into a trot down to the penny arcade and stand outside, gobsmacked. It’s shut. Not just for the day, either. There’s a big paper sign in the window saying “Closed” and a “For Sale” board fixed to the side away from the door.
How am I going to get the telly back? Not a chance of getting any money from those machines, now. Oh well: I might have just lost on them, anyway. So I’m off up the hill to where the bilberry bushes grow and then down to the edge of the golf course to see if I can find any lost balls around the edge. I can sell those, fourpence a time. No luck there, either. Thought I’d spotted one, but before I could pounce on it, this burly fella in a Pringle tank top and plus fours appears from ‘round a bush, shouting ‘Geroff, you little imp. That one’s mine. You know you shouldn’t be here, I’ve seen you before. Get back up that hill before I march you off to the clubhouse and send for the police! Get you for trespassing, they will.’
I don’t need a second asking and I scamper up faster than I came down. Tripping over a root of one of the bilberry bushes, I stumble onto the muddy track that leads across to the other hill with the dewponds. That’s when I see it. Half hidden in the grassy edge under a hawthorn is a ten bob note. Brown and crinkly – well not so crinkly seeing it’s been lying on damp grass – but real money. More than the two half crowns my uncle gave me one Christmas. Riches indeed: I pick it up and I think that’s been there all night. No way of finding who dropped it. And no way of anyone knowing I found it.
So, I know what you’re thinking, I’m not a bad lad and I’ll take it in to the police station and hope for a reward. You think I’m stupid? I’d get sixpence at most, if I was lucky and anyone who can let notes float around out of their pockets deserves to say goodbye to them. So it’s in my pocket, see. And, after a short scout ‘round the top of the hill, to see if anyone I know is up there, I’m heading home to give it to my Dad. For the telly.
One bit of luck and then it goes sour again: it’s the same conductor on the tram back. No chance of a free ride with him. I get off at my stop and run down the road to our house and can’t believe my eyes. That lardy chap is back again. Oh no; he’s taking something else, I think, but he goes off with nothing in his hands and I run around to the back door and let myself in the kitchen. Dad’s just brewing a cuppa and he looks at me with a big grin on his face. Not as big as mine as I wave the ten bob note under his nose. His face goes stern, asking where I got it and I tell him. He doesn’t seem too happy, but he says I can keep it this time, because of where I found it. Had it been near our street he would likely have made me hand it in.
It’s not for me, it’s for the telly, I say, but he just laughs. That won’t pay for a telly: not even two instalments he’s thinking and then he tells me to wash my hands and face, which had got a bit grubby up the hills, and go into the lounge.
I hear strange voices and I’m wondering who’s come over, so I open the door slowly. I think I must be dreaming. The first thing I see is little sis snuggled up on the settee, watching Muffin the Mule on our telly. It’s back. But how? Dad comes up behind me: tells me it’s a surprise for when Mum gets back from her cleaning job. The Battery want him back: as foreman: and that’s more pay. Do I believe him? Yes, about the job; but a surprise for Mum? More likely he’s rushed it back because they’re showing the England footie match, this Saturday.
Course, I’m delighted. I give little sis the shiny penny and don’t even ask for her ha’pennies. I tell her, having the telly back is like I’ve got the moon in my hands. And then tell her about the ten bob note, I’ve still got, too. ‘Green cheese,’ she says, both thumbs up and smiling.
Separated by Time … and Space (Short Story)
Separated by time … and space
It took five days to get a reply from Susan. Minimum. Even at the speed of light. And giving her time to actually send one. She was over on the man-made planet Urmaxion 40, an ovoid interplanetary staging point orbiting Proxima Centauri that’s used as a base for deep space exploration and military surveillance across the galaxy. It took twenty-eight years to build and it takes seventeen years to get there, even using the latest ultra-speed cruisers. I’m on one now.
It all started over twenty years ago. I’d just turned eighteen and was feeling lonely. Susan became my space buddy on FISC, the Friends In Space Cluster. All my mates had higher grades than me, in their GEMS FA – the Global Education and Mentoring System Final Assessment. All but two had transferred to GEMS HA – the High Achievement programmes in sciences, business and historical arts. Future highflyers, all of them, I thought at the time, but only one made it to the top. He proved to be useful, though, because his uncle was the top boffin at the largest manufacturer of interplanetary cruisers. That’s how I got my place aboard one.
Phil was a true boffin, like his uncle, and kept in touch throughout our disparate career paths. When his uncle needed a good second grade propulsions engineer on the maiden flight of a new super cruiser – an IGHSCS 3500 Class, Xenon-Cobalt Fusion Powered monster designed for 20-year non stop trajectories – Phil had a word in his uncle’s ear and I was taken on. And guess where it was headed? You got it: Urmaxion 40. My ticket to see Susan.
Yeah, I had taken the plunge. After three years of messaging and highly personal chitchat, I knew we had to meet up. Now that’s not like buzzing the girl down the street and fixing a date. She was seventeen years away and no place half way to share a film and popcorn. No just hopping on an aerial bus and tripping across country. And no making a quick, surprise visit, even though I knew her address. Yet, a surprise visit it was going to be. It had to be. You can’t just message a girl and say I’m coming over and expect her to wait the seventeen years it takes to get there. So I worked out a strategy to keep us both happy, I hoped.
From all her messages, I knew Susan was single and had had a couple of brief relationships that were never expected to be permanent. I knew the things she liked: music, theatre (she was an amateur actress) and powerful bikes. I learnt that she lived in her own apartment, in a semi-rural township that was self-sufficient from its own, surrounding, agricultural land and the chemical air generators that supplemented the natural biological atmosphere, produced from woodland tracts and beneficial algae filled lakes. She kept trim running around one of the local lakes and the images she had sent me confirmed how fit she was and how fit she looked. No one on Earth appealed to me in the way Susan Parminster did.
She seemed to be attracted to me, too. Was even quite flattering about my physique (I worked out regularly at a local gym), so I remained hopeful that our FISC friendship would one day become more physical than a keyboard and screen romance. I certainly wanted something more than cybersex, not that either of us had suggested that. We’d kept within the guidelines of FISC, which recommended maintaining a discreet distance in our online activity (not that there was much option when you’re over forty trillion kilometres apart).
For those of you that don’t know, FISC was originally set up to enable a cluster of small populations working on distant space projects to maintain friendship contacts back home. As space exploration grew, so did FISC and now there are thousands and thousands of space buddies in hundreds of individual friendship clusters. I joined partly out of a selfish whim to replace the friendships I was losing with my peers, who where moving out to GEMS HA institutions, but I also felt for those brave souls that had emigrated to distant locations, from which they were not likely to return, certainly not in their more youthful years. Now, of course, many of them don’t want to, whole families having grown up on some tin satellite or other; or in one of the vast habitation domes on cultured lumps of planetoid rock that wander about the galaxy. Even deep into the third millennia, they are the only ‘extra-terrestrials’ you’ll come across.
I was not going to be the first to bridge the gap, I was sure, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t just as determined. I was already working on the idea when Phil’s uncle came up trumps. There was only one snag. I knew I’d be welcome when I started the journey, but seventeen years, c’mon, that’s one hell of a journey and how would we both feel by the time I arrived. So I said nothing to Susan. I let her think I was plodding along as a second grade propulsions engineer working the small ships on Round the Moon cruises, so popular as short term holidays. You launch out of Earth’s atmosphere day one, get a live planetarium style presentation, day two, flip around the dark side and then land next to a Moondome in the sunlight. Next day, you get to jump around in low gravity recreation and choose between the Starlight Cabaret and tacky Green Cheese Diner for the evening.
The following morning you go on a moon trek, viewing acres of dry dust as you bump through a few craters, like a cheap fairground ride, and finally gather your goodies from the gift shop to take back home. Return journey is a bit of an anti-climax (though there’s on board karaoke for those who have seen all the videos on offer), except for a hover peep at one of the five space stations in Earth orbit. Not that you can see much more than a giant metal capsule with a glint of sun, if it’s not in the Earth’s shadow – or a vague shape and a few pinpoints of light, if it is.
To Susan, that was my working life and hers was no daydream job either. She was a data supervisor for a minerals extraction company, in charge of a small team of inputters and analysts, so rated middle management. And she had a similar education profile to me. That seemed good: certainly comforting that she was not a highflying executive, out of my league. Things between us were steady, with online comms once or twice a week, more if either of us got around to doing something interesting. Always hearing about it five or six days after the event, of course. Not quite a live commentary on our lives, but close. So to keep it this way I maintained my reply interval to Earth measures, during the voyage, even though I received her messages ever quicker as I passed through the comms zones closer and closer to her home.
Five years into the journey, however, I thought I’d blown it. I’d messaged an account of a theatre visit I said I’d been to, though I actually watched the play on video, in the ship. No reply. No Comment. Nothing for over six weeks. My heart sank. I was despondent and irritable, after all I had planned, but at least I had a steady job for another twelve years or more, I reckoned. It wasn’t all bad. Maybe I’d find a soul mate on board?
Then came a verbose apology. She had suffered a virus and only just recovered, she said. She’d got all my messages, though, and everything quickly returned to our normal messaging routine. I still did wonder if that was all it was or if she’d found some other buddy closer to her home, but that didn’t last long and somehow our online relationship remained strong, still more than hopeful, as the super cruiser docked, seventeen years and three days from departure. In the final couple of years, I did drop some veiled hints about how great it would be if we could walk out together in the same place, but I’d never disclosed my secret plan. Now. This was it. Surprise time.
I had three weeks leave to decide if I was to re-join the ship, stay on Urmaxion 40 or find another route home. With Susan? Without her? Well the next few days should provide the answer to that.
I caught a tunnel train to her hometown and came up to street level. I was surprised how Earthlike the general layout of streets and buildings looked. The chance to be really radical and the planners had just thrown up the old faithfuls: perhaps they were homesick when they populated this artificial world. One advantage, though, it meant getting around should be quite easy. I debated whether to message Susan to say where I was, but decided I’d take a look at her place first. Get a feel for what was going on in the locality. I wandered over to a taxi bay, climbed in a hover capsule and tapped in Susan’s address. Offered the choice of direct or visitor’s route, I punched in the latter. Might as well have a short, voice guide tour on the way and see some of the sights.
The direct route would have whisked me to Susan’s door in five minutes flat, but the scenic alternative took twenty minutes, allowing me to gather my thoughts. Would this sudden appearance be too much? What would I discover that she hadn’t told me? Would it all be too intrusive? It’s not often someone turns up on your doorstep from trillions of miles away, unannounced. I sent her a message, brief and to the point. I hadn’t been entirely honest in the last seventeen years. I had been travelling towards her all the time. I was in her hometown. Would she be free to see me? There was no reply. She might be at work or out somewhere – or, worse, with someone. Someone who doesn’t know about me and whom she doesn’t want me to know about.
The taxi pulled up and flashed my arrival on its screen. I looked out: something was wrong. This long building with its single entrance didn’t look like any other apartment block we had passed. All flat grey walls and no windows, just a massive row of air conditioning vents along the roofline. I stepped out and checked the name on the building. A large plastic nameplate proclaimed “The Farmhurst Building.” That’s the one, I thought, so I looked for entry buttons. There was only one, beneath which the words “Information” and “press for service” lit up as I approached. What a welcome, after seventeen years travelling. I pressed and heard two beeps and a synthesised voice politely ask ‘Can I help you. Sir?’ Something must have been seeing me or scanning me from somewhere, but looking around I saw nothing.
I explained I wanted to see Susan, gave her apartment number and waited. Two more beeps. ‘All deliveries for Susan Parminster should be placed in the bay on your right, sir. A receipt will be issued once it has been scanned as acceptable.’ A panel had opened next to me revealing a large cubic bay with a base of rollers. It was big, but not man sized, so I pressed the button again. Beep, beep, ‘Place your delivery in the bay, please, sir.’ In the hope that some AI was at work, if not a real person, I explained that it was me that wanted entry, not some package. The beeps and ‘Scan your pass on the red bar on the left, please, sir.’
I told this disembodied voice I had no pass. Four beeps this time. ‘Wait there, sir and hold your palm on the red bar for at least five seconds.’ A short silence. No beeps. ‘You are unknown sir. You are not of Urmaxion origin. Entry disallowed. A pass may be applied for at Farmhurst Incorporated. Good day, sir.’ I screamed at the wall in front of me that I’d travelled all the way from Earth and had no intention of going away without seeing someone. Maybe it was the pitch of my voice or me thumping the information button repeatedly, but it did the trick. Beep, beep. ‘Security will be with you in a moment, sir,’ was annunciated in an infuriatingly even monotone.
By now the hover taxi had taken the huff and, because I had ignored it and not tapped wait on its screen, it had sidled of to the nearest charge point. Luckily I had noted the operator’s code sign, so I could call another and not be completely isolated. Security, on the other hand, did not seem to be on its toes and it was a full ten minutes before the doorway opened and a uniformed guard stood in the aperture eying me up and down.
I explained what I wanted. Just to visit a friend. He tapped Susan’s name and number into his data watch. No beeps this time just a shrug of the shoulders and ‘I can’t help you sir. She doesn’t have an apartment here and she doesn’t work here, I’m sorry. You’ve wasted your time. Then with a sly smirk, ‘All seventeen years of it, sir.’
I started to protest, reasserting that we’d been messaging for all that time. We’d even exchanged gifts, using each other’s local supply services. I think he thought I was joking, winding him up, and asked if I’d really come all the way from Earth just to meet up on spec and I said yes: it was supposed to be a big surprise.
‘You should have asked her first. It would have saved all this. She would have refused to meet you,’ he said, but I said that was poppycock, how would he know? We had a good relationship going. Even if it went no further, I was sure she would have met up with me.’
‘Not possible sir.’ His demeanour was more consoling, now. ‘Follow me and I’ll explain,’ he said.
The security man was a fit and healthy sixty-year old and not someone to mess with, so I let him lead me forward in to an enclosed hallway and then into a scanning bay. He told me to put my hands on a green panel and look straight towards a soft glowing blue line. I knew the process; we had similar devices on the super cruiser. I was being bio-scanned – fingerprints, palm, iris and retina recognition factors for a visitor pass. I then followed him down two long corridors and up two floors to another, where we stopped halfway down by a smoked glass door. This was no apartment block, unless they were very spacious apartments. There were only four doors per long corridor.
‘This is the one you want,’ he said, pointing at the door, but don’t get you hopes up. Which I had.
‘You found FISC rewarding, obviously,’ he continued. ‘I understand it was a godsend when it was inaugurated. Trouble was so many people responded that they had to turn down some of the Earthside applicants, which led to a bit of a hoo-hah on the selection process. So good old Farmhurst Incorporated came up with a plan that solved the crisis and enhanced the fee income for initial introductions.
With that, he had swung open the glass door and pointed to the rack of server modules. ‘From her key number, sir, Susan is somewhere in the twenty-third server from the right, on level fourteen. That’s as close as I can get you.’
My expression went blank with shock and disappointment.
‘Once they’d paired off the real folk, Farmhurst developed an AI auto-reply system, using data ported from names and personal details randomly re-matched with a mix of information extrapolated from historic genetic and physical databases. In short, they started making people who would never really exist. The AI system handled all messaging, replying to Earthside buddies, usually delayed a day to give greater credibility. Mind you it nearly went belly up when a virus got into the system a few years back. If gifts were sent, the system contrived a suitable return gift, from information on the original sender’s database. Your gifts to your Susan would have been sold off in the company shop.’
I’m now two years into my journey back, having re-joined the super cruiser after a few days moping around Urmaxion 40 and finding little new or interesting. Only good thing is I’ve been promoted to first grade and with little to spend my extra pay on, I’ll be quite a rich man when I tread Earth’s soil again. As a respectable man in my fifties, maybe I can think about playing the field: perhaps become some young girl’s sugar daddy. Who knows what surprises might await me.
Seven Pills Younger (Short Story)
Seven Pills Younger
It was when I was clearing out Mum’s things, that I found it. An old classified advertisement torn out of a newspaper, yellowed with age. At first, I thought it was a picture of King George V at some official engagement that she’d saved, but the image was torn through. When I turned the paper remnant over I spotted it, circled in blue crayon.
It was three weeks ago mum passed away. She reached her 90th last year, but missed her 91st by a month. The decline had been quite sudden. She had just run out of steam, she had said, and from the stories my uncle had told me (he’d died at only 72, still a good age in the 1920’s), she been quite a steamy character in her youth. You would certainly never have guessed her age until those last few weeks. She was energetic, bright as a button, always in touch with what was going on in the world. She would hold long and meaningful conversations with folk of all ages and she got the better of most disputes, though there were few serious enough to fall out over. I miss her. I miss her wit and I miss her inborn vivacity, but most of all I miss the comfort of knowing she was always there.
“Look and feel 10 years younger in just 7 days!” the advert promised. “One course is all you need.” Had that been her secret, I mused, smiling at the ridiculousness of the thought, as I finished emptying the drawer in her bedside cabinet. Then when I took the drawer right out to brush out the dust, stuck in the groove where the base met the back was a small square flat packet, empty now, but with slight indentations where it had once held seven round pills. In tiny, faded, handwriting was her name and a date: “Mrs L. Jeavons ~ 30th Aug. 1932.” On the reverse was written “Take one daily for seven days only.” I looked back at the scrap of newsprint, a ripped off corner carrying the date: August 27, 1932. Could there be a connection?
It was then that I was jolted back to reality, when the sirens sounded the approach of another bombing raid. Three years into the war and London was getting a pounding. Making haste down the stairs I grabbed my overcoat and walked smartly up the garden to the Anderson shelter I shared with my neighbours. There being only me and my Mum on one side of our pair of semi-detached houses and only the three of them on the other, we had decided to build one shelter across the two narrow gardens to save space for more vegetable growing on my side and the pig sty on their plot. They had the entrance on their side and I’d fitted a small gate in the fence at the top of the garden for our access. We were lucky. We got on well with the neighbours on that side. The aggravation from those on the other side is a story for another day. Let’s just say that their garden was an immaculate lawn and flowerbeds, all-year-around, even a planted rockery disguising their shelter. They despised our meagre horticultural attempts and hated the pig grunting away, only one garden width from theirs: they thought it lowered the tone. Then they had the only detached house at the end of the run of semis on our side.
Much as I was often tempted, I had always refrained from pointing out that the detached houses over the road were much grander, with bigger gardens; and that theirs was like the little bits of chocolate put in boxes to make up the weight: there wasn’t enough space on their plot for another pair of semi-detached to be built and they had effectively just built half one.
I digress. I looked up at the sky, as I passed through the gate. The evening light was almost gone, but the scudding clouds had cleared exposing the hugeness of the city as a clear target for the Luftwaffe: pray God our Spitfire and Hurricane boys would get amongst them, I thought. I automatically stood back a moment to let my mother in first, then, with a sad beat of my heart, realised, of course, she was no longer with us. The neighbours had already scrambled in. Fred and Jenny, with their seven-year old son Micky, were always prepared and sat with blankets around their knees, several flasks of soup and tea, bread and a packet of butter, all of which they prepared every evening in expectation. If there was no raid, the bread made toast for breakfast and the soup was re-warmed for lunch the next day.
Micky came and sat on my lap, asking for a story. It helped to while away the time in the dim light and I usually managed a pirate adventure or a tale of mystery and magic in which the hero was always named Michael. It took my mind of graver thoughts and sadder memories of recent weeks.
The only downside to sharing the shelter was my neighbours’ dog. He was a lively mongrel who romped and rolled around the park and gathered the detritus of every other creature in his shaggy coat. In the tight, enclosed space during an air raid, the stench that his owners seemed not to notice became increasingly nauseous. Especially after rain.
The air raid lasted well over the hour and we could hear muted thuds as bombs landed close by. I looked at the boy whose innocence of the true horror of war kept him smiling still and once I’d finished the story of a little chap saving an elephant from African hunters, we all played a game of snakes and ladders on the floor of the shelter. The all-clear sounded and I returned to my new loneliness, once I’d taken in some deep breaths of fresh air – well away from the dog and the pigsty. Back in my kitchen, my thoughts returned to the youthfulness my Mum had always shown, her affinity with people much younger than her years and constant good health.
It was late, now, and the kitchen door was sill unlocked, so I put my hand in my pocket to pull out my keys. That newfound scrap of newspaper came out with them. I must have shoved it in, in my haste to get to the shelter. I looked at the advert again and saw that it had an address only a few streets away, preceded by an “Apply here in person.”
It was a silly thought, but could my Mum have taken the course – perhaps more than once? She’d certainly outlived all her peers by a good fifteen years and she’d remained very active right until the last few weeks of her long life. And what was the course: just pills or something more? I could certainly do with some of it at my age. Sixty-one and still a bachelor, I’d happily devoted my life to looking after my Mum, not expecting her to reach many years beyond the recognised three score and ten. Not many belonging to her era did. In the outcome, she seemed to have ended up looking after me, for most of those years.
So here I was, beyond the age of attraction, I thought, destined to a solitary life in the same house I was born in. In four years time, I would be retired, with a little pension and not much else to show for my years at the chocolate factory, supervising the girls decorating the delicacies and packing them into pound and half pound boxes; and, now, watching those same lines produce bandages and sticking plasters for the war effort. Would all that be over before I retired? Or would the war still be on? Or would we all be learning German?
I took those last thoughts to bed and dreamt first of living under a military regime, watching my every step, my every word and presiding over a production line spewing out Iron Crosses, all packed into silk lined, velvet boxes. Then my dreams turned to playing out on the nearby hills as a young boy again, flying a model glider, then a kite, which was so big it carried me into the air with it; and finally I was back on the ground watching Diana – the girl I gave up to stay with Mum during those six months she was ill, in 1931 – being driven off in a confetti covered jeep by a lean, handsome SS officer. What chance would I ever have to enjoy the fruits of youth in any form?
There had been a sharp and heavy shower of rain in the early morning and when I awoke the sun was glinting off shiny wet roofs, the grass glowed with a verdant green and, slightly to my shame, I admit, I smiled at the tall, delicate flowers in the detached house garden, bent double on their split stems. Not so pristine, now: not as sturdily upright as my sprouts and broad beans.
Breakfast was a scrambled egg, one of six that a chap up the road, who kept chickens, had exchanged with me for a savoy cabbage and two large carrots. Fresh food and no coupons needed, when we all pull together. I often tended to carry half-a-dozen carrots and a couple of onions around with me, for a bit of quick bartering – usually for a quart of beef stew from somebody else’s meat ration. Not that there would be much actual beef in it, probably more of my veg back than that. This morning, though, my mind was more on me possibly vegetating than my vegetables. I needed to start a new order in my life.
It was Saturday and I had this weekend off, although the production lines would be steadily churning out their wares throughout the factory – even a few chocolate bars for the troops, from our limited supplies of cocoa, with very little going on general sale. That scrap of paper was haunting me. It was still on the kitchen table from the night before, the little advertisement drawing my eye to it like a magnet draws iron.
“Look and feel 10 years younger in just 7 days! One course is all you need.”
I couldn’t help it. I knew it was nonsense, but I was intrigued. Apart from a bit of tidying up and deciding what to do with Mum’s things, all now neatly packed into a large cardboard box given to me by Sally at the Co-op, I had no plans for the day. That address was tantalisingly near. Would there still be someone there who knew about the ad? Would the product, or whatever it was, still be available? Would it be silly for me to go and find out? I couldn’t answer the first two but the third answer was definitely a yes. But what if …? So you can guess what comes next.
It was quite mild, as I set out in just a sports jacket and flannels, blue shirt open at the neck. I could smell the destruction before I could see it and as I walked the half-mile or so to Engerman Street the rows of houses seemed to slowly fall away before my eyes. At Adelaide Road, I asked a fire warden if I could get through to my destination and he told me the road was blocked off at this end, but try via King Street. ‘Don’t expect to find much there. We had a hell of a night, the night before last: worse than last night. Wiped out three streets completely. If you’re looking for a relative or someone, best go down to the school or the hospital. Most of them ended up at the one or the other.’ Cheery fellow, he was, but I took his first advice and traipsed the extra quarter mile around and down King Street.
What little was left of Engerman Street was on the left and I turned in looking for a house number to guide me. Trouble was there were few house fronts still standing, but a short way up I found a number 18. I was looking for 107, so that meant a trek up the other side of the road, almost to the end. At what must have been around the numbers 60/61 mark, there were barriers around a great crater in the middle of the road, “KEEP OUT – GAS – DO NOT SMOKE” signs and a huge pile of bricks, mashed up joists and roof timbers, tiles and crippled furniture on either side. I gave a sigh. I’d been stupid to come here, on a whim. I might as well just turn around and wander back home.
I didn’t. Something inside of me made me go on. I don’t give up easily on problems, though I’ve been lucky enough not to have too many, and I was wearing a stout pair of brogues, which were not my best, so, if the rubble scuffed them a bit, it wouldn’t matter. As luck would have it, the easiest path was on the far side of the road and took me about 100 yards out of my way and across the back gardens of two evacuated properties that still stood proudly facing the carnage around them. By the time I had found my way back onto the odd number side I knew I was nearing my goal, though why I actually carried on I shall never truly know. I passed three more complete looking terraced properties, jagged brickwork and exposed interiors bookending them. I noted the numbers 91, 93 and 95, and then came a desert of destruction. Every house laid to waste and the irony of just one complete doorway, but no house, just a little way ahead.
I’d come this far, I thought, so just to pander to my curiosity I walked on to look at the number on that isolated door. It was 107. The frame and a few bricks surrounded it and it was about two inches ajar. I stood in reflection, thinking what and who may have resided there.
That’s when I heard the man’s smoker-gruff voice.
‘Come on in. The door’s open. It catches a bit, so give it a good shove.’
Like a fool, as if in a trance, I did and felt the door grate against the cracked and uneven cardinal red floor tiles, as I stepped through into a hallway open to the sky. I don’t know what I expected. I suppose it was to see someone standing there, but all that was there was calf high broken brick and flapping woodchip wallpaper. To one side the ground was level and clear in what must have been the living room and where the far wall had once stood was a small-tiled, beige coloured fireplace and dark oak mantelpiece, with an unlit coal fire laid in the grate.
‘Over there: on your right: on the mantelpiece,’ the voice called out again. I looked all around but could see no one.
‘Where are you? Who are you?’ I called out. There was just silence, except for a distant rumble from distant salvage work: the excavators and other machines, making safe last night’s bomb damage.
I called again. ‘Who are you? What am I supposed to do?’ All the time I was peering about me looking for the source of that gravelly voice.
‘On the mantelpiece: what you’ve come for. Your Mum said you should have some.’
Very slowly, I stepped towards the fireplace and, as I drew closer, I saw a small piece of notepaper and two small packets on the top, held down against the light breeze by a shard of red brick. I picked them up and looked at the note. It was from my mother and simply said “Please look after my son, Jeremy, now I am gone.” It was signed in a shaky hand, “Leanne Jeavons (Mrs)”. I turned to the packets and both were neatly inscribed “Mr J. Jeavons ~ 14th Sep. 1943. Take one daily for seven days only.” On one packet there were the additional words “Do not take until 10 years after first course.”
I just stood still, for a moment, emotion welling within me as I thought, first of my Mum and her care for me right to the end and then at the strangeness of being directed to this barren landscape of destruction and, stranger still, the past tense of my mother’s note “… now I am gone.” It was as if she had written it after she died. Yet that was impossible and, even if she knew her days were nearly over, how would she arrange to send it. She was never out on her own in the last few weeks. Was it something the purveyor of the pills had been keeping ready for the day? Who was he or she? And how could they know I’d be coming, when I’d never been told about them and my discovery of that advertisement was pure chance? Or was it? Mum knew I’d have to clear out that drawer. She knew, too, that I would be inquisitive about what I found.
‘Who are you? Where are you?’ I shouted loudly.
The voice came back, ‘I am the life-giver, I have the knowledge to extend your years, but not forever – and now I have come to the end of mine I’m passing the last of my discovery on to you.’ There was a slight pause, but before I could speak again, there was a gravelly chuckle. ‘Sounds a bit pompous, doesn’t it, but the old ladies like it! I’m just a wheezy old man who’s been peddling pills for years. They do work though.’
The voice seemed to come up from below me. I felt a nervous fear that my treatment of the supernatural as superstitious nonsense was being disproved.
‘Just at the moment you are standing on my head, more or less. Go back to the hallway and walk to the far end and you’ll see stairs going downwards. You might need to move a few bricks and stuff to get down, but if you want to brave the gates of hell, come on down.’
Hesitating at first and looking all around again to see if there was life above ground, playing tricks with my mind, I picked my way across charred timber and broken bricks diagonally to where the stair head should be, if I believed the voice. Less likely to get trapped that way, I thought, though I didn’t really know what I was doing. Clambering a stub of partition wall I saw it: an old cellar staircase, charred walls and a dim, flickering light coming up from below. My mind did a double take: an old man in a cellar or the Devil in his lair. Was I brave enough to find out? Or should I make a quick exit?
Half an hour later I came back up those stairs a relieved, if bemused, man.
I was now anxious to get back home and chose, against the warden’s earlier advice, to take the short way back. This saved having to scramble over all the bomb carnage I’d clambered across earlier. It wasn’t that much easier, but once I’d heaved myself over the red and white trestle barriers across the end of the street, it was quicker and I arrived just in time to greet the undertaker, with his bill. He said there was no need to settle up now, he knew I must still be grieving, but if I didn’t feel like coming down to the funeral parlour in the next few days, he’d pop back next week. He was sure it would be one less worry, once I’d dispensed with the matter. One less worry for him, more likely, once he had the cash in his hands.
Back inside the house I went straight to the kitchen, stuck on the kettle and made a strong brew of tea. My brief venture into that cellar in Engerman Street had given me plenty to think about. I’ll tell you what I found later, but for the moment let’s just say it was mind stretching.
For the moment, I had a decision to make. Do I take the pills or age gracefully? I only had the one chance, if I believed the old man, of going back ten years in fitness and appearance and I couldn’t take another course before the next ten years were up. An obvious theory in that is that I’d soon end up back in nappies; but the truth was even more horrific. That much I had learned. Even sticking to the prescribed seven pills could have side effects, in those first seven days, that weren’t that pleasant in the older person. And I was an older person: a person sceptical of rejuvenating pills and potions. So do you think was I going to take those seven little pills in the packet in my hand?
You’ve already guessed the answer. That night there was no air raid, but my sleep was just as troubled, waiting for the sirens that never sounded, as it was racing down to the shelter. At least I didn’t have the extra discomfort of a dog’s bad breath and reeking coat, never more than an arm’s length away. Instead, I had the anxiety of what would happen after the first dose of my rather dramatic sounding anti-ageing course. I soon found out, having swallowed the first of the little pills before making my breakfast of toast and Mrs Smith’s (from up the road) homemade blackberry jam. There had been an abundant crop of wild blackberries in the hedgerows, last summer. Everybody made tarts and jam to supplement their rations, while also diminishing their meagre stocks of sugar. Mrs Smith’s jam certainly lacked quite its usual sweetness.
After that first pill, I was a little deflated. Nothing changed. A slight nauseous attack about seven or eight in the evening, but that could have been too thick a layer of jam in the morning or the custard I’d made with slightly sour milk, for my evening meal.
The next day, I felt the same, I looked the same and I ached in all the same joints that were beginning to niggle with age. The second pill made no difference.
On the third day, the course kicked in. I woke up with a jolt of sharp pain that shot briefly from head to toe, then slowly spiralled back up again as a dull ache. Day four I awoke with my skin itching all over, which lasted for about three hours and no amount of scratching would ease it. Then, like the flick of a switch, it was gone. I looked in the mirror in the hall, that day and the brown age spots that had appeared on my receding hairline had disappeared. No hair had grown back, but what I had left had taken on more of a soft sheen. Something was definitely changing.
The old man had warned me about the fifth day. ‘That’s the one that can be bad if you’re sixtyish or more and not too fit.’ He had said. He could obviously see my slightly corpulent figure was not too fit, still showing the signs of the many canteen lunches of fried food and sticky puddings and an unhealthy frequency of beer drinking with workmates, before venturing home to Mum’s three course dinners. Almost to the end she insisted on a full meal in the evening, even though she only pecked at hers. ‘You’re a big man, with a big job, we’ve got to keep you fed,’ she always said, as she served five or six roast potatoes onto my plate and placed just the last one, from the pan, on hers. Although rationing had curbed my consumption of chocolate and similar delights, my body still seemed reluctant to shrink by any appreciable degree.
So it was in the still dark, early hours of the morning that I found out what the old man had meant. Cramp. Hard, sharp, mind numbing cramp. In my calves, in my thighs, in my arms and in finger curling pain that pulled me into a tight ball against my effort to stretch out and which, thankfully only lasted a few minutes – though it seemed an age each time – on three separate bursts of nauseous discomfort and sweaty heat. It drained me of energy and, in the relief following the last bout, I drifted back to sleep, waking late at half past ten in the morning. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt altogether different.
I slid myself carefully over the side of the bed, expecting the next surge of pain and was surprised by the ease of movement as I stood up. My body felt relaxed, yet firm, I was standing up straight with none of the stoop I had been developing and, for the first time in years I dared to look at my naked body in the full length mirror of the wardrobe, in the bedroom my Mum used to sleep in. My shoulders were squarer, my abdomen had lost much of its curve and I glimpsed the figure of my younger days, when I used to swim regularly and posed, at the side of the pool, confident of my trim fitness.
I only had tea and toast for breakfast, afraid that my last rasher of bacon and two fried eggs might undo all the good of the night. I was refreshed, ready to take on the world again, after days of grieving and general despondency. Two more doses to come. The old man had emphasised I must take them both, however I felt each day.
I never got around to telling you about my meeting with the old man, did I? Well, it was a very strange experience. I’d found the stairway down to the basement of number 107 and had expected to find a cellar full of rubbish and destruction and probably some old chap sitting there, bemoaning the loss of his bombed out house. It wasn’t the case. Nervously pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairs I was met with a clean, spacious room, filled with low light from three paraffin lamps. There was a kitchen table, an oak dresser, three cream painted wall cupboards with fluted glass doors, a small gas stove and an unlit open fire grate. Beyond them were two red moquette armchairs and, half shielded by a pair of dark green velvet curtains, a single bed. There seemed something familiar about the curtains.
‘Come and sit down.’ It was the gravelly voice again, but now clearer. ‘You’re safe down here. My son fixed it and he’s a good builder, if you ever need one.’
I hesitated, peering at the uncracked ceiling, with just a couple of repaired patches, and fresh looking floral papered walls, before walking across to the chairs, which had their backs towards me. A wrinkled hand to the side of one and waved me forward. ‘Don’t take all day, I’ve little enough time left as it is.’
As I came around the chair back to sit down, I saw this wizened, bald headed, but immaculately dressed old man, with a clean white shirt, ironed and pressed, the collar loose around his scrawny neck, a plain blue tie, a multi coloured tank top and sharply creased grey flannel trousers. His eyes were wistful and pale blue around deep, dark pupils, but his smile was an impish, denture filled grin. ‘You look like your mother. I miss her, you know. She was like a little sister to me, at times.’
For a moment I couldn’t speak. Who was this man? How did he come to know Mum so well? Why had I never heard of him? Then I simply said, ‘Why am I here?’
‘For the pills, of course. That’s why. She told you what they had done for her and so you couldn’t resist some of the same.’
‘Not true,’ I replied. ‘She never told me about them. I found an advert and an empty packet in a drawer and I was intrigued. I was also very sceptical about it all, but somehow I needed to know more, especially as Mum had always seemed younger than her years.’
‘Oh. She should have told you. Then you would understand. It’s strange she didn’t: perhaps she knew the pills I’ve given you were my last. I can’t make them any more. She was kind like that: she wanted me to have them. When she knew I wouldn’t take them she left me a little envelope and made me promise not to open it while she was still alive. She knew her time was coming, too.’
‘Well you can, if you wish: if they are better for you than me, for I don’t see how seven little pills can do me much good, despite what the advert says. Who are you, anyway, and what are these pills and how come my mother came to you for them? And how come you have this cosy space all to yourself when all around here is flattened by bombs? How did you know I had arrived?' The words rushed out in exasperation.
‘Let me explain,’ he said and then he told me the whole tale.
He said his name was George – ‘Old George’ to most folk around here – and he started off with the story of his luxurious bomb shelter. It had originally been converted from a bare brick cellar, so that he could live there, after his wife died (she’d never taken a single pill in her whole life, not even when her head throbbed like a sledgehammer). It was his son’s house and the family had welcomed him in, knowing that he would also provide a ready-made babysitter.
By the outbreak of war, the children had grown and his son had moved to a more affluent district, befitting his success as a builder and businessman, and George then had the run of the house to himself. The idea was that he remain there until his son converted the property into flats to rent, a plan delayed by wartime circumstances. Conscious of what might happen, if he left the property empty, the son had had some steel beams installed to strengthen the ground floor and make the basement into a bomb shelter for his dad, who was becoming less mobile and eschewed the nearest public shelter. His foresight had proved fortuitous, the basement having survived when the house collapsed, like most others in the street, on a night of heavy bombing aimed at the factories just two blocks away. There had been some dust and a couple of holes in the ceiling, but nothing his son and daughter-in-law couldn’t quickly clean and patch up.
So there he was, comfortably protected, so he decided to stay, despite many pleas for him to move out to a safer district.
He pointed out that he had a little daylight, on a good day, from two small windows, high on the walls, one facing the garden and one long thin one, of pebble glass, at street level, now half hidden by rubble. That’s how he saw me arrive. He wasn’t expecting his son and no one else was likely to call.
‘Your mother liked to come down here, you know. Said it was a little capsule of calm away from the hustle and bustle surrounding her life at home. She used to sit in the chair where you are now and talk about your father. Wished he could have gone on as long as her. She helped me tidy the place up, too. She gave me those curtains, so I didn’t have to look at the bed all day, when I was up. I normally draw them right across during the day. Helps me divide the last of my short days and long nights.’
I knew I’d seen those curtains before. They had stretched across our back room wall and French windows until a few years ago, when the room had been partially refurnished and redecorated in creams and browns.
George continued, telling me how Mum had found out about the pills from the advert and come around to fetch them, finding him in a state of agitation on that day, with his mother slowly dying in an upstairs room. He had regarded her as immortal, not quite sure of her actual age, but knowing he was well into his eighties, thought his mother was most likely well past the century mark.
‘She was a witch, you see.’ His voice sounded proud and his eyes momentarily sparkled. ‘Not one of them with a broomstick and black cat, mind you. She was a white witch: she knew all the herbal remedies, all the balms and poultices, the felicitous fungi and the stuff to avoid, ways to heal wounds, cure aches and pains; she’d get seized up old cronies tap dancing in the street, almost, and she dabbled in the odd incantation, too: though I reckon that was just to impress the superstitious biddies who wanted more than a pot of hazel and honey linctus for their wheezy chests.’
He went on to explain how his mother had been really inquisitive, trying to find how traditional remedies had originated and if there was anything in her particular brand of wizardry that could be used more widely, even scientifically proved. The alchemists of old had intrigued her. They may have been portrayed as fruitless seekers of ways to turn base metals into gold, but some searched just as avidly for the elixir of youth. She pored over historic tomes at the libraries, questioned present-day chemists and came up with her own formulae based on different mixes of ancient remedies. Then, one day, she found an old book that had belonged to an acknowledged wizard in the early centuries and saw a formula that half matched one of her own. It suggested to her a different recipe of natural substances that might react with the body in a strange way. If it worked it would have a beneficial affect on ageing ¬ maybe slow it down. That was when she made her great experiment and those little pills you now have in your hand were born.
She belonged to a small coven of like-minded well doers, some more into incantation and paranormal forces, some like her, trusting in the natural world of plants and animal extracts. To them, she introduced her new concoction and the promise of longer lives. None of the witches thought themselves immortal, but most believed they would remain on this earth in longevity and be able to ward off the many simpler causes of death. In truth, few actually survived more than the average lifespan, so all were interested in the latest magic formula and agreed, in turns to sample the dark blue powder George’s mother produced, a little over dramatically, from the sleeve of her gown.
To each she gave a different course: some for three days, some for five, one of them seven and the oldest one ten. The coven reconvened two weeks later. Less one member. Not because of the medication, he hastened to add. She fell from a tree, trying to find a cuckoo’s egg for a powerful remedy for her own arthritis.
Those who had been given the three-day course said they felt a few tinglings and a sharp pain on the last day, but otherwise they felt much the same, with no visible signs of change, though they felt somehow refreshed. The five-day guinea-pigs had suffered sever cramps and extreme tiredness afterwards, but said their skin felt softer, their hair more full and bouncy and they had an inner feeling of optimism and happiness.
The witch who had taken the largest dose, over ten days had felt similar awakenings of her body, but had then become violently sick and was losing weight at an alarming rate. Luckily, George’s mother, knowing the ingredients in her concoction, had a remedy that would counter the effects of it and no lasting damage was done.
It was the one who had taken the powder over seven days that surprised them all. She’d had the same reactions as the others, but when she came to the coven she looked visibly younger than her 49 years and felt considerably more energetic. A few months later, when the rest of the coven had regressed to their former selves, this one witch still believed she was ten years younger and behaved more like a forty-year old than a middle aged mother of two, soon to become three, children.
That was it. Six month’s after her fist preparation, George’s mother brewed up a new batch, with a few small changes, and tried it on herself. She felt the changes, suffered a few small pains and smiled. Next she had to find a better way of dispensing it than loose powders, so coming across a chemist who was shutting down his small pharmacy, she managed to acquire an ancient, but still working pill press. That proved the answer and gathering her ingredients mainly from the hedgerows and local woods, she went into small time production. It was only distributed by word of mouth, as it was only possible to produce small quantities at a time. Many of the ingredients were seasonal, but a small stockpile was slowly built up. That’s when ‘Old George’ thought it was time to advertise. There was no response the first couple of times, but then a couple of ageing ladies tried the 7-day course and told their friends. The stockpile was soon exhausted, but the local dance hall was doing exceptionally well out of a revival of couples, of which at least one had been thoroughly rejuvenated.
Everything was fine, for a good few years and then George’s mother began to visibly age again. So she took another course of pills. They worked, but not quite as well and from what she had learnt, from some of the people she had sold the pills to, it looked that anything more than two courses might prove fatal. She revisited the tome of the old alchemist and deduced that what she was doing was extremely dangerous if not left for at least ten years between courses. She was tinkering with the body clock and it needed to recycle very slowly. That was it then – for anyone else it was a once every ten years remedy – and she knew she had problems ahead. They didn’t prove fatal, but tore her body apart in pain, in near blindness and complete loss of hair, before she recovered to a near normal state for her real age. If anything was a warning to me, that was.
I was still sceptical, despite his story, so asked George, quite pointedly, ‘If these pills really do work, why are you seemingly so old?’
‘Second course, tenth year gone, now reverting to my real age: mortality catches up eventually, but you enjoy a younger lifestyle on the journey. Besides, since my mother died, no one knows the formula any more. She was taken sudden at the end and too frail to write it down: probably couldn’t remember it anyway, in those final days. So those two little packets you’ve got are the last ones. I offered one to my son, but like his mother, he doesn’t believe in pills and he never believed in any of his grandmother’s remedies, so he refused them.
‘I had a sisterly love for your mother – no one could ever replace my missus after she’d gone – and I’ve no truck with selling them, anymore. I won’t be around long enough to enjoy the money I’ve got, as it is. So they are yours. If you believe – and you should – take them. If not, toss them in the rubble a long way from here. I don’t want a plague of youthful rats invading the cellar.’
With that he gave a little chuckle, told me to leave and made me promise not to tell anyone he was there. His son would come around and see to his final needs and he wanted to slip away in peace if he could. He had a remedy for that, he said, that would ease his way to another world. His final words stressed that life was challenging and that I should make the most of my final chances.
Well, as you already know, I was seizing the opportunity and, as the seven days of pill taking progressed, I dreamt of being a younger man again. Day six rocked the boat a bit, though. I was sick as a dog in the morning, steadied up during the day and, as George had warned me, had violent diarrhoea for three hours in the night. That, I had been told, was my body clearing out the detritus of age. All I noted was the return of my fish supper from the previous evening and the foul smell of liquid brown pooh.
Still, with only one pill to go, it was a case of in for a penny, in for a pound: or, more accurately, a pounding headache when I awoke, which cleared about ten in the morning. By the evening I was feeling on top of the world, my face had taken on a healthy bloom, my joints felt silky smooth and the world seemed a happier place. I had come through a week plagued with a few torments, but that was in the past. I had a new life before me and my mind was clear where I was going. I could get a modern chemist to analyse the second packet of pills and possibly make a fortune. Happy in mind and body, I stopped to finish my celebratory bottle of pale ale, as the air raid sirens wailed and carefully placed the empty glass in the washing up bowl. I couldn’t resist one more look at myself in the hall mirror and ran a comb through my hair, all the grey ones gone, before I strode up the garden, with a spring in my step, towards the shelter. That was when, with a whistle of parting air, the bomb dropped.
No more to rhyme (Poem)
No more to rhyme
Those little poems I first new,
Did always seem to rhyme,
But looking at today’s fine works,
That’s something lost in time.
It is more common, now,
to find evocative, descriptive, emotional pictures,
light projecting shadows across each page,
as they climb down blank white walls
with a climber’s agility, roped fast,
descending a sheer rock face,
harnessing an inner energy,
alerting the reader to every crevice,
every hand or toe hold,
eyes held steady
on contour tracing paths,
tracks observed and recorded in the mind,
some gently sloping back to the summit,
others tortuous in downward steepness,
or, fraught with the dangers of haste,
foot-sliding rapidly to level ground.
There, gentle rivers meander,
delicately hinted with reflections
from pastoral meadows
and coloured skies, bright with sunshine.
Turn the page,
adjective on adverb cascade forth
to flood the snowy plain
with blackened crags,
conjuring dark forces, sorrow, despair,
embracing the reader
with heavy heart or tender understanding,
history and foresight uneasy partners,
the poet’s art creating
new found emotions, heightened senses,
a totality beyond our mortal sphere.
But has poetry become another prose,
sliced into bite sized fragments
that meet phonetic perambulation
and cast aside the simple music of genres past?
Or do great symphonies arise
from the very trash and treasure
strewn where our souls tread?
Seen, felt, heard, experienced,
moulded and spoken with sybaritic verve,
sibylline honesty or just simple expression,
for the pleasure of those who hear, who read.
Words of gentleness and purity,
harsh tales or bawdy song,
prophetic stanzas or imaginative tomes,
reflective impressions of timeless beauty
or the wave like slip slapping
of phrase upon phrase,
characterising or caricaturing in crescendo,
at the writers whim,
until exhausted, drained to a conclusion.
But will the pendulum swing once more,
The poet seek new challenges to climb,
Look back on youth,
And once more write a melody of rhyme?
Turvey Tops (Nonsense Rhyme)
The sun shines bright
in the middle of the night
and the moon stays up all day.
The clock strikes one
at half past three
as the chickens
start to bray.
In a time before now,
but well after then,
the flowers pushed their roots
to the sky.
And the kitchen maid
stood for hours on her head
putting beetroot in apple pie.
Large oranges grew
on the crab apple tree
and the river ran back
up the hill.
The tide stayed out
for two days at a time,
the clouds in the sky stood still.
Now the grass grows tall
with a bright hue of blue,
the trees taste of Cheshire cheese.
Houses are built
With their roofs on the ground
and huge aeroplanes
sail the seas.
If all this seems strange
and you don’t think it true
take a new look, yourself, at the day.
By closing your eyes
when looking around
you may see this old world
the same way.
Tormented (Short Story)
‘He has no desire to kill me. He knows that, every time he has taken a life, it’s like twisting the knife in my stomach, tearing out my heart. The suffering he inflicts goes way beyond the simple act of killing. He does it to hurt, to torment, yes, but beyond each murder, who is his real victim? Who knows how his mind works or whom he’ll choose next? Or how close to us he is?’
It is three days since the death of Matthew’s brother. Not much over six weeks from the first murder, it represented a chilling repetition of earlier events.
‘It’s all your family in his sights: More than that: the pattern leads right to you’. Diana has tears in her eyes. ‘First your uncle, then your cousin and now your brother. All male. So if not you, who else? Your sister? Me? Your father is in hospital, so at least he should be protected. But us? We have to get away from here. Go somewhere safe.’
In the background, the BBC news channel was still on, but muted, just the scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen displaying the most significant events of the day, relentlessly repeated. No more on the triple murders, although, in an earlier interview, a haggard looking detective inspector had promised they were following new leads, which they believed would be significant. Reality or bravado; a move forward or just a ruse to unsettle the murderer; a breakthrough or another dead end; who can be sure?
There was a low hum from the fan oven, slowly warming up for the evening meal and a stockpot of chicken bones simmering away on the hob. Matthew stopped chopping the casserole vegetables and turned towards her. Slim, brunette with scared blue eyes looking hopefully into his.
‘Di, be real. Running away won’t solve the problem. Newspapers, TV, Internet: another murder and we’ll still hear about it – and I will still suffer the same torment: the torture of another loss. I can’t escape that.’
‘But, Matt, if he doesn’t know where we’ve gone, he can’t find us, then it will give the police more time to catch him. To put him behind bars. I’m so scared; I keep thinking I might be his next target, if he’s out to scare you before he comes for you. I want to go. With you, or without you, I have to go. Now.’
‘So you’re leaving me, then?’
‘It’s not like that – it’s just not safe here. You saw that news interview, a few minutes ago. They said they’ve got new leads: some clues that must have been left behind in the carnage. I don’t know what, they didn’t say, but it gives us hope that this might soon be over.’
‘And you believe that?’
‘Why must you be so obstinate, so selfish, when you must clearly see it’s not right to stay. It’s like waving a flag to say come and get me – you or me.’
‘Or my sister.’ His voice was flat, his tone annoyingly calm, as he continued, ‘I’m staying. I’m not running. And, anyway, wherever you go, he’ll find you, if he really wants. With more torment piled on me until, … and when, he does. So who’s the one really being selfish?’
Diana steadied herself on the back of a dining chair and looked deeply, appealingly, into Matthew’s eyes. ‘I can’t take any more. I’ve tried to stay positive for you, knowing how much each loss must have hurt. The grilling by police, the search through personal possessions, that detective and his routine procedures, the useless, young liaison officer, full of theoretical concern, but no life experience. I’ve suffered, too, more than you seem to realise.’
She drew a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh. ‘You must see the danger; you just can’t ignore it any longer. I can’t: I have to go and go tonight. If you won’t come, you’re on your own … and don’t expect me back until all this is over. Really over.’
‘So you are leaving me,’ his tone still measured, ‘I knew that would happen, one day. No need to worry about me though, Di, stuck here all alone. Waiting. I know the killer. I glimpsed him in the hall mirror, as he left my brother’s house. Yes, the brother you slept with after that thirtieth birthday bash my uncle so kindly arranged for me, in his plush hotel. All those swanky rooms; and you slept in two of them.’
It wasn’t just the chopped onions that glazed Matthew’s eyes, as sunlight glinted off the cook’s knife, still in his hand.
‘So it is time for you to go.’ With that he plunged the knife deep into her chest, then her stomach, before slicing it across her throat as she fell, blood spurting across his shirt, spattering his face and arms, to writhe in temporary spasms on the floor; floating, it seemed, on a pool of ever spreading red.
Matthew dropped to his knees, drew her limp body up towards him, whispering ‘One step too far, my darling, it would have stopped with my brother. He was the target. I just needed to build up his fear, first. As long as you never left me, the killings would have stopped. But you chose to leave.’
Now cradling her in his arms, tearful eyes draining away the hatred, the bloodied cook’s knife still in his hand, he was surprised at the dead weight of so slight a figure, as he eased himself upright and walked towards the balcony of their seventh floor apartment. Stumbling over the threshold of the wide glass door, as he shouldered it wider open, he looked out onto late summer clouds, tinged with pinks and purpled greys, as the sun started its final descent below the skyline.
‘It’s all gone; all those years together; all that we built together: all the love that passed between us. You destroyed it all in one night of frivolous abandon, leaving nothing behind but empty air. That was the real torment.’ Moving forward one step he slowly let her body roll off his arms into free space. For a moment he watched her floral cotton skirt flare out, as if a wing, her loose arms waving a last goodbye, before launching himself forward over the rail, pressing the point of the knife to his chest, to be driven home as he crushed against the cold, hard, rain shower wet paving below.
More mist than rain,
there’s softness in this autumn shower
that closes about me,
as I walk in uneasy company
with swishing tyres.
White lights approaching
red rushing away,
all just passing glimmers
as I think back on summer days,
to ease my journey through
these dreary, fume choked passageways.
Pebbles roll in susurration
heralding aqua tints and deeper blues
splish-splashing into sandy coves
trickling around ragged rocks.
Foam flecked sea runs over sandy bars,
the ebb and flow of eternity
catching unwary feet
that tread the water’s edge.
Diamonds glint, in sun’s new light
climbing slowly above the Nare,
washing last shadows from the night.
Footsteps along glistening sand
to the sweeping curve of low cliffs,
green topped in gentle slopes
dashed with white houses, dotted with sheep
stretching out beneath the blue.
Across the rippling stream,
sandy channel snaking to the sea,
pass the derelict kiln to iron gates
and pink hotel, alas no more,
to breakfast by the window,
looking out along the shore.
Days spent ambling coastal paths
or criss-crossing between rivers,
walking over soft, open pasture
or being dwarfed by maize,
an endless blue to the horizon
peppered with drifting cumulus.
Watching tall ships from Charlestown,
tankers from Falmouth,
sailboats from St Mawes,
riding chain clanking King Harry,
to explore further shores.
Twisty lanes pass mill and castle,
revealing local wines and cider brews,
narrow ways through tiny harbours
to the bright hued boats of Mevagissey,
a clamour of tourist delights
and the obligatory fish and chips.
Then back to quieter moments
St Anthony’s, the church, the head,
St Just’s real peace and views,
before returning home to city life,
back to puddle-splashed shoes.
Lost love? (Poem)
I thought I’d lost my love
as I set to leave the shore
aboard the channel ferry
new countries to explore.
I’d hurried to the port rail
and looked down at the Quay
but my loved one wasn’t standing
in the place that he should be.
I searched the smiling faces
hands waving their goodbyes
and nowhere in amongst them
could I find his smiling eyes.
A tear slid down my cheek
my heartbeat slowed in pain
I feared that I would never see
my dearest one again.
We’d parted on a quarrel
He said I should not go
Now to lose him altogether
was indeed a bitter blow.
I could not turn back time
as the ferry left the dock
the only way was forward
now I’d lost my former rock.
I wiped away the dampness
that tears left on my face
and turned to step back inwards
when I felt a soft embrace
as loving arms surround me,
lower me gently to a seat
the soft words whispered in my ear
made my heart skip a beat.
A soft voice with compassion
erased my greatest fear
as I turned my head towards him
not believing he was here.
With eyes upon each other
he said in softest tone
'you did not wait to hear me say
you must not leave alone.'
'Your harsh words hurt
that much is true
but they don’t
stop me loving you
and as we set out upon this voyage
with every ebb and flow of tide
I’ll remain forever more
Your anchor: always at your side.'
Warped Off (Short Story)
The trouble with warp speed is that you don’t get much chance to view the scenery. Except when something blows up. Like the warp speed controller that’s just done a splendid impression of a four slot toaster and fried two technicians to boot. Luckily they weren’t sentient engineers, just two old XKB37 five-limbed maintenance droids that would’ve been chucked out as space trash at the end of this voyage, anyway.
So, here we are. Becalmed, as you might say. Come to a dead stop somewhere between a little known minor planet, Kershaw 1720, apparently – but known to it’s native population as Ierdslonod (as far as I can pronounce it’s translation from the native language, Ierdslonodic) – and, far, far away, Aeodinus. A space explorer, named Kershaw, discovered the former – now who would have guessed that? Not the first one of his, either, judging by the number. The latter was named after some Greek mathematician, who predicted where it should be several millennia before anyone got there. Mind you, he still insisted the Earth was round when everyone then knew it was flat and was exiled to an island almost as remote as his distant planet.
So what do we do now, you wonder. So do I actually. We can gaze out at the view, which is mostly black from where I’m seated in the lower control deck, with just a couple of small ports to the universe outside. It’ll be better from the upper control deck, if you want to go there. Should be a wide panorama of pinpoints of light, mainly, and four or five glows of star clusters not too far distant, and, if my coordinates are right a large green orb, directly above us. If it’s not there, we’re in the brown stuff.
Ah! Looks like something’s coming up on my screen. Beautiful. A big green orange, if you get my drift. A green cloud covered orb that sits out on the very limits of space travel and is used to slingshot warp speed ships in a graceful, parabolic arc to their destinations. And it supports life.
Even better. We’re getting a tow. Saves starting up our secondary power and risking another mishap, if that’s been affected. We don’t know yet what caused the warp controller to blow or if the fault is linked elsewhere. Better not be, or we’ll be stuck here a standard year or two. There won’t likely be any spares down on this greenball that’s sending out the tug. Not that I don’t welcome their help. We need to get this ship down to use some external power, if we want to be sure we’re not going to blow the whole caboodle. Very unstable things warp drives. That’s why the controls are so complex. Just a few buttons on the face panel, but beneath that there’s a while lot of error management and stabilising technology to stop everything blowing up. Like it just has.
Looks like another message popping up. Tug will be with us at 07:26:42.47 GMT. That always amazes me. Not the preciseness, but with a whole Universe to travel around, why the heck do we still use good old Greenwich Mean Time. I’m on standby now until PSST-C-hl 24-2 draws alongside. Now there’s a name to conjure with! It actually stands for Planetary Service Space Tug, Calbofrel, high load from district 24, number 2 (they only have 3, apparently and a few low powered loaders that serve the passenger ferries).
Calbofrel is the name of the big green ball above us, where we shall end up for awhile. Not too bad a place, as it has oxygen in its atmosphere, so it’s breathable. Nitrogen content is low, but it has some strange mixture that our lungs can cope with, but you end up wheezing like and old granny, if you spend more than a couple of days there. So I’ll still take my auxiliary respirator when we leave ship.
By now, you’re probably wondering who I am, waffling on to pass the time, as we sit in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go until that tug arrives. Well, you asked to sit with the captain and that’s me. I’m Second Engineer Jack Jackson, Interplanetary Population Movement Auxiliary (IPMA for short). I’m a sort of peripatetic spaceship driver, assigned to the big ships of the Intergalactic Population Balance Migrant Transfer Shipment and Distribution Agency. Now there’s a mouthful. No one ever uses the title, can’t even get a decent acronym out of it, so they are usually just called the Pop Shippers.
Pop Shippers came about around two millennia ago, when we had just about circumnavigated the inner sphere of the universe, to the limits of our technology and staying power, (and, boy, we still have more than half of the ‘Big U’ to get out and see). Some bright guys, looking at all the inhabited planets, decided there were too many people in too few places and plenty of spare globes that could be made quite comfortable to live on. Obvious answer, shuffle the pack and redistribute. So on finding supposed compatibilities between both different races and some of the stranger forms of life out there, the order went out to ship whole communities of them to new ground. If there was a bit of unrest, it didn’t worry the Pop Shippers: the chosen migrants just had to go where they were taken and learn how to get on with each other, once the dust settled.
Took a good deal of technology to make some of the new places fully habitable, mind you; most were old rocky planets worth mining, but with not much of an atmosphere on some. Law and order had to be more than strict, positively draconian at first, but a millennia into the programme, it all seems to have settled down. The new communities thrive, with no overcrowding, homes and security for all, jobs for those who want them and support for those who don’t. No scroungers mind; if you don’t have a job, you are placed on social task teams, so you still earn your keep.
My current secondment is transporting three thousand eight hundred Ierdslonodians to Aeodinus in this old hulk names Minerva V, one of the earliest Minerva class, fifteen tiered, people movers. There are forty-two others still in use, all built to a budget from de-armed Class 7X7QB battle cruisers that had been decommissioned and structurally morphed into something less aggressive looking. It’s my sixth trip, so far, and I’ve another nine to go. Then this old girl goes in for a major refit, the paperwork says, or more likely, it’ll be scrapped and it’s working bits and base materials recycled once again. There are four other ships on the same mission, so none of the migrants need feel lonely when they get dropped off. Seven other communities from different planets are already based on Aeodinus and this on-going top up of Ierdslonodians will just about fill the planet’s quota. The organisation behind all this movement of human and alien resources, The Universal Council for Population Redistribution, has chosen their migration because of their dual breathing capability. They can work under sea without the restraints of oxygen bottles. And they are strong swimmers able to lift heavy loads. Just give them a weighted belt and they’ll work all day beneath the little planet’s salt free waves.
You’d think they’d use robots down there, but the sea bed has a strange mixture of materials that send out electromagnetic wave forms that tend to fry any android’s brain and send robot arms into a windmill waving frenzy. Not good for picking up the goods. However, there’s a stack of minerals and rare metal ores in the sea bed and it’s been calculated that mining just ten per cent of what’s available will be enough to meet the demand of all the habitable planets for the next 500 years or more. That’s because each plant’s recycling regime ensures minimum use of new material, so once it’s got the stuff it’s just a matter of topping it up in small amounts. So, that was it: back to good old-fashioned manual labour and we can dig out what we want without totally destroying the natural habitats around Aeodinus. Now, I’ve got a feeling it’s just one of those recently discovered rare metals that’s wanted for our warp controller, but we certainly can’t go and fetch it. Let’s hope Calbofrel has had its quota: plus some technicians who know what to do with it.
Now if you are as bored as I am at waiting around for a tow (and don’t take that personally, I’m glad of your company), you might want to go and stretch your legs, get a coffee or something. One of those chemical blends they push nowadays or one of those strange fruits from unpronounceable planets with equally unpronounceable names. I’ll stick with the Earth stuff, if you don’t mind. Like paper, you know what’s in it. And to think they even thought of a paperless world, down there. They tried it, you know: almost got there, then someone pressed the wrong button in a multimillion document archive and half destroyed it before anyone noticed. They said it couldn’t happen, but it did and luckily some minion in the Civil Service had been squirreling away years and years of paper stuff, because he was so lowly, no one thought to tell him to stop. Saved the day. Became a hero. Given a medal. Shame the fame killed him: died eighteen standard Earth months later. His heart couldn’t stand it.
Happened on another planet, too. Huge electromagnetic storm wiped thousands of stored hard disks, caused massive fires all over the place, consuming whole libraries of laser engraved material. Now, every planet has at least three underground caverns, humidity and temperature controlled, of course, fitted out to sore all the important stuff – on paper. For your personal stuff, you’re on your own, of course, but then you probably only need it for one lifetime, a couple of hundred years at the most. Cloud storage is OK for that, or personal memory banks.
I used to lap up all the Sci-Fi stories in the old books of eons back. Failed predictions most of them, especially those that promised implant surgery and potions to give you nigh on immortal life. Who’d want that anyway? By then you’d have been everywhere, seen everything, done everything. What boredom would lie beyond that?
But I’m on the waffle again. I can’t leave my station, but go get yourself a walk around before it’s me boring the pants of you.
Ah! You’re back. Nice timing. The tug’s just about to take us down onto Calbofrel. You see it arrive, from up top, did you? Ugly looking box of a thing, isn’t it? Just a big power unit really that senses our power systems and we leach off it. No tow ropes out here. Their pilot takes control and gently guides us down to a repair pier in some desert area. Then if we blow up we can’t do too much lasting damage to the local habitation. Not that we will. When a warp speed controller fries itself, it’s usually an easy refit. I’m surprised a spare one isn’t carried on board; then that’s budget cuts for you. They do cost a bit, I admit, because they are so complex, but 0a repair is possible if you have the right materials to hand and Calbofrel techies say they have.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to monitor the tug pilot’s commands and make sure he keeps everything cool. That’s why I’m down here with not much of a view and not up top, though that’s where I sit for the long runs on auto and sometimes at docking speeds, when on semi-manual. The rest is all done via the screens and I need to concentrate on those and not stop to admire the view, so I stay down in this belly side pod with its two small ports. Stay and watch though, if you want. I’ll talk you through what’s happening.
I’ve got the first screen message, basically just a ‘Hello’ – we rarely speak one to one; saves translation from each other’s language and the on-screen comms use a universal binary notation that addresses your own screen in whatever language you understand. Even got good old British English, not just that misspelt jargon they use across the water from my home island. I‘m told that what was once the UK was a great place a few millennia ago; powerful enough to hold Europe to ransom and able to nudge the USA in the right direction on a few things. Fifty-eight US states now; took a long battle to bring in Mexico, especially after one joke of a President tried to cut it off with a wall.
As for poor little England, it’s on it’s own, now, stuck in it’s time warp of sovereignty, but a great place to live. The Welsh joined up with a united Ireland as a viable economic unit, while Scotland chose its independence eons ago, then went on to slide into such a large economic deficit, it chose to swallowed up by Russia, rather than renew ties with its closest neighbour. Even though over half the natural born Scots had already crossed the border to a more compatible and stable regime. Never could make sense of any of it, but it’s all in the history clouds, if you want to tap in a quick search, sometime.
Ah! Here we go. Power links verified. Testing retro drive pulsators. They’re the brakes of this monster. Always make sure you can stop, before you set off.
Docking probes active. They align us and guide us so that we land softly in the dock.
Forward power units set: aft power units set: warp speed power locked off: hazard beacons on: communication channel clear: dock signal verified: captain’s clearance awaited.
That means we’re already to go. I‘ve just one check to make this end.
Tug virtual link secured: passenger list verified: passenger bays shuttered. There’s no physical link to the tug, so we are not likely to bump into it, or anything else, but we drop corridor shutters to stop anyone wandering about, except approved personnel with auto-passes – just in case of a problem. If we know where everyone is, we can keep them all safe.
Right. We’re clear to go. I’d let you tap the screen, but it’s fingerprint sensitive so only I can do it. Captain’s clearance: affirmative.
The screen now tells us our distance away, ETA for docking (14:27:06.33 GMT). It’s all on auto at the end and you won’t even feel the bump, control is so subtle. But you’re stuck with me until then.
So, if you’ve got any funny stories to tell, tell me them now. Can’t promise to laugh in all the right places: I’ll be watching my screens mostly, looking out for any deviations. I don’t expect any. It only happens when some rogue ship has gone off the comms net and looks like it might transverse our path. I don’t think there will be any pirate ships this close to Calbofrel; but you do get the odd personnel carrier that’s not signed in.
Uh, oh! Looks like I might have spoken too soon. Or jinxed the system. That red dot, top right corner with the letters PCC: Potential Collision Course. Give it five and if it doesn’t change course it doesn’t know were here and, as we are unscheduled, we have to get out of the way. IGTC should have known though and flagged it up. That’s Inter-Galactic Traffic Control. No message, so maybe it will slide off, but we’ll send out an all craft warning, just in case, before we start shifting this beast off path. Let’s see if it’s willing to move; data shows small, unidentified, Protoplasma-Xeon powered craft. Basically sucks in the free floating, rarefied space gas molecules and spews them out in a jet. Not that fast, unless on short burst supercharge, when it can almost reach warp speed for about fifteen seconds.
Ummm. Hasn’t acknowledged. Data update: unmanned, unclassified craft, 400 TK (that’s TerraKnots) PCI 8:02.22. It should still call back on autorespond. No. Keeping course. PCI means Potential Collision Impact. That means we move. We let the computers work out how far we deviate, usually, but this time it’s the tug that’s in control, so we’ll message it. The tug may not have picked up the interloper yet, its systems aren’t that sophisticated, as it never strays far from its base, not like the Intergalactic Rescue Supertugs. Now there’s a meaty beast. An IRS can go anywhere and see way beyond even our surveillance systems. It needs to, to find a lost box of metals and ceramics floating around goodness knows where, with a total power loss and a scared crew and passengers or payload.
I’ve fed the coordinates over to the tug. It can make up its own mind now, which way to go. Ah! It’s put us on a three-minute detour that will take us well out of the way. No problem.
Protoplasma-Xeon ships are small packet cruisers usually. They port hop, a bit like the pedal bike couriers of the twenty-first century. It’s in the history cloud if you look back far enough. Imagine. Some bod pushing pedals around to turn a wheel that propels him forward. Otherwise no power at all, while we can swop planets in the time he would take to go two blocks across an apartment grid. Stupid. But that’s what it was, then.
Some of the little cruisers are private transport, too. Trouble is they have to stop and recharge their supplementary pressure tanks at quite short intervals. That’s essential for deep space where molecular matter is too thin for the ship to maintain thrust. The only other use is by the militia on short-range missiles, precharged. Those are cold, quiet and lethal at short range, in battle.
That’s better; we’re swinging away from our little friend’s course. PCI now zero. Should pass us about 200k away. Take a look out the port side port in a couple of minutes. Only it won’t be red, like the dot. Probably just a dirty grey tube with an annular bulge about a third the way down it, a few side markings and a colour flash insignia for its owner.
Hey up? What’s this? What’s going on here? It’s swinging in, heading straight towards us and … cripes! It’s accelerating. PCI 1:32.18 minutes. Explosive capacity detected: Lucaquatrin Biodin > fuel load: masked: not able to measure.
That’ll be enough to blow our while caboodle into eternity, I guess. Strap yourself in while I sound alert. No one, but no one upstairs moves until I give the all clear. See that red handle above you? Grab it and pull. That’s your G force shield. It will weld your body to the seat, near enough. This pod has another trick, courtesy of its battleship origins. We’re leaving you mother; we’re going to shake hands with our antagonist. As acting captain, my role is to be first greeter of any incoming vessel and first defender if it seems to be on the offensive.
Don’t mind the drop, that’s nothing to when we get going. Thirty seconds out we use our light weapons. If it doesn’t swerve, we go in for the kill. Right, hold yourself tight while I do a 180, only about 7G, and it’ll be right in front. There’s the boy. Got you, one across its path. Decoy flare. Not going to follow? Five-degree correction, heavy round – got you, two. Right on the tail, spinning you. Next one gets your throat. Wow! That one rocked us out here. Power out, but still spinning too close to mother. Rolling out: might make you feel a bit sick on the tight turn, about 12G, but I’ve got to duck away from target, pretty sharpish. Only choice now: the Deflector. Coordinates in. Release. This comes from mother. Too big for the pod to carry. Should clear the hog like a giant scoop and send it tumbling away from both the ship and the planet, hopefully without an explosion. Sorry, with a big, big explosion. That must have been something mighty sensitive, there. The Deflector is fast, but has a soft touch gas cushion. Shouldn’t have blown like that. It’s pushed us out a kilometre. Won’t be using that one again: biggest part left, about the size of a tin can, by the look of it. There’ll be some collateral damage to mother, but only surface wounds, I guess. No leaks on us anyway. Just two comms channels down. Tug might have suffered though. Lets put this thing back in the hutch.
OK. I’ll release your G shield. We’re locking back in. Comms link on main-ship channel, fine. Tug dead. Hope it’s just the comms. Scanning. Big tear, starboard flank. Something else to be fixed when we dock. One crew missing. All others registered. Their e-tags show locations as expected. A few injuries. Doesn’t look like anything we can’t fix. Trying to raise tug.
You OK. Not quite the joy ride you expected on this trip, eh? Look likes the tug’s had it. Found a weak comms signal. And a distress signal. Seems the tug’s about to become a fireball. We are now drifting, untethered. Still on course for Calbofrel, but not where we intended to dock. Trajectory correction needed, before we come down in the middle of a city. And we are going tail first, that whizz-band must have spun us.
Our main power is shutting down. See that row of red lights, flashing like it’s Christmas. That’s serious. We’ve lost all power from the tug and we’ve got damage to the starboard power controls for ours. We might be able to limp in on the port power system, but that’s makes manoeuvring this great hunk more than difficult.
Stand by. I’m going to risk our own power and pray it doesn’t blow anything more. Only the retros, though, just so we can steer away from our present course. I’ll work out how we are going to stop once we’ve stabilised our progress.
Interesting. Look at this news item on the side screen. Military say a test missile has gone rogue. Haven’t declared whether or not it’s armed. Warning all vessels over a wide sector to give any unidentified craft a wide berth. Apparently they lost navigational contact first and all tracking comms 48 hours ago, so don’t really know where it’s heading. Well we have news for them. We know it’s whereabouts, or rather the bits of it that are left and can verify it was armed. I’ll broadcast the news, that’ll upset them. Apparently, it’s from that exiled planet regime run by a dynasty of military style nutcases on StrataJongun K26. That’s a fabricated moon structure orbiting a barely habitable planet that has the right temperature, but no natural oxygen, just a few multi-domed biospheres with gas conversion plants. Perfect for missile target practice – provided they’ve mapped all the domes. Typical, though, that they wait until it’s too late to tell everybody. Probably hoping to find their buzzing bee with its sting still intact and cover up the failure in their development programme. Stupid. Could have cost some four thousand sentient lives and the few tonnes of androids, robots and tech equipment on board this ship. Never mind wasting the ship.
More flashing red lights: seems there’s some concussive damage inside the ship. Retros only on half power, but should be enough to ease us into a better trajectory. Not enough to put us into orbit around this green hunk, though. Its gravitational pull is 2G. The only way is down. Can’t promise a soft landing, but desert here we come. Unless … Scanning. What’s under that green mist? That might be some sort of lake. Asking permission to land there. It looks a bit softer than rock. Good. Affirmative. Only one problem, if we go in too steep, we’ll probably end up with the fishes – if they have fishes. I don’t know what natural aquatic life the place has. Only ever seen the city aquariums and there’s some vicious looking, ugly stuff in those tanks. Makes you shudder, thinking of sharing a pond with them.
So, if that’s cheered you up, just hope I make the right moves with this hunk of recycled scrap. Not that you can do much about it. Not even a mutiny aboard can change our fate, now. I’ve got five engineers upstairs working with me, that’s what all this screen chatter is for: all the digital info between us. It all helps, but this is the one time my role is god. Sit tight and don’t say a word.
We’re going through the green stuff in twenty seconds; we’ll be in it for thirty. Look out port and you should see a shimmer, a rough oval amongst the expanse of rocks. That’s what I’m aiming for, but seems strange steering this lump backwards. You got it? Good. Easing off on the port retro. Planet comms have given me a clear run. CSTC have moved every flight away from my corridor. Calling Calbofrel Space Transport Control, Second Engineer Jack Jackson, Acting Captain, Minerva V. Calling Calbofrel Space Transport Control, I’m making final descent to Laqus Amarris, cannot abort, repeat, cannot abort.
This is it fellas. Panel has green lights for upthrusters fore and aft. Powering up aft thrusters to half power. Levelling, levelling, twenty-five seconds to splashdown. Red handle G protection now, eighteen – seventeen – sixteen, all upthrusters full power, twelve – eleven – ten ¬– nine – too high, too high, cut thrusters, – five – we’re tipping, jammed thruster, OUCH! What the hell have I done? We’re still moving, were deep in something and it doesn’t feel like water, we’re slowing too quickly. It’s something more viscous and it’s bright green through both ports. Now why don’t I find that surprising. OW! That ricked my neck; we’ve jammed on something. You OK? Oh, your stomach’s in your throat and your knees and ankle feel like they’ve changed places. That’s me, sorry, choosing a big bowl of creamy soup and landing you on the only chicken bone in it. And that smell, it’s coming through my nasal receptors. You won’t get it under that G force blanket. Might as well release it. That more comfortable? Thought so, but keep you visor closed, we’re leaking, so we need to evacuate as soon as I’ve transferred control upstairs. I just hope we are still firmly attached to mother, or were in for a deluge when I open the overhead airlock.
Boy, was that close. We got every one off the ship before it started to keel over and drop off the shelf I’d hit, just below the surface of that pungent green treacle. The cargo folk are now all corralled in a holding area west of the main city. You were lucky to be found with me, stuck in the bottom tier of the Minerva as we were, trapped behind that warped bulkhead. That’s why you’re enjoying the hospitality of the security suite, awaiting clearance. Should be just a formality.
There’s no chance of salvaging the Minerva, but at least we lost no lives. Even found the lost crewmember, trapped in the original starboard wreckage. He must have had a bumpy ride down. The Calbrofel crowd are delighted. They get salvage rights and as there is no likelihood of another Minerva class ship being available inside three standard years, they’ve increased their tourist count by around four thousand – all of them, including you, funded for the duration by the Pop Movers.
So, while I’ll have to conduct all the official business, you can just sit back, relax and enjoy your stay. Excuse me now, though, I’ve been summoned to a debrief. I’ll give you a call later.
As a consequence, all three lives are threatened by Mark Tynesdale and a malicious Mr Grace, whose legitimate concerns hide an underworld of intrigue, murder, and human misery. Mark, having taken over a family business that he had greatly expanded, has his own dark secret: one known to Mr Grace, who secretly takes advantage of Mark by using Mark's covert courier service for his own nefarious deeds. After sending Paul on a clandestine errand, Giules, is forced to expose the truth of her activities: but not to the police. DI Robert Brown would have to find Paul’s assailants the hard way.
After a tortuous chase that ends in another death, Mark's secret is revealed, while Mr Grace, his illicit operations discovered, plans an escape: but there are those who hope to thwart him - if there’s still time.
Whichever your point of view, this book provides a varied collection of prose, poetry and rhyme to match many a mood.
Originally written for my own amusement, reflection or especially for my family – be they adult or child – this eclectic compilation is a short volume that that is designed to be dipped into when you just want to fill a few moments with a quiet read.
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Hearing how Anne had found the son she thought was lost to her forever, appealed to Edna's inquisitiveness - and other residents of Arden Ash, too - but it might have been wiser had the full story not been told. A light read, laced with a little humour, tragedy, mystery and intrigue.