Freshly Cut Grass

“Polished stone, you always liked polished black marble didn’t you Martin?”

“I did once, but why must you keep bringing up things I did or indeed liked in the past, the past is simply that - the past.”

“I know but it’s nice to reminisce, it’s good to remember how we really were and who we really were.”

“I’ve never changed, my tastes may have but I certainly haven’t.”

“You say that now, however, I would definitely beg to differ. You watch opera, when you never before, you read Shakespeare where before you never would. So you see you really have changed, for the better may I add.”

“Exactly my point, my tastes may have altered but I myself have not. O for goodness sake what does it matter if I like black marble or not, it’s here now, so do stop banging on about it.

I’m sorry …it’s just…it’s just…I don’t want to upset you and you are clearly upset. You did mention once years ago that black marble was your favourite. Well that’s what I got and now you simply detest it, hate it even.

“I don’t detest anything, black marble is just fine, it’s here, it’s done, I can live with it. You bloody well can remove that stupid bloody vase thing which Janice keeps filling up with water and fresh flowers though, that really gets on my nerves.”

O for goodness sake, endless complaining… Janice has a focal point; surely even you don’t begrudge her that?”

“No I suppose not, but you know I detest flowers, especially orchids."

Pulling a small chamois from her jacket, Betty polished the newly adorned gold leaf letters on the black marble stone.

                                                                     Martin Toner

                                                 17th February 1956 - January 12th 2013

                        Beloved husband of the late Elizabeth Toner

                      Dearly beloved father of Janice

                                        RIP

The Door

I can still see you piling suit cases into the back of the old Ford Fiesta. I watched from the upstairs window. I waited for you to look up, but you didn't  You drove out of my life and left me here, with this big old house to myself. It seems like it happened only yesterday but I couldn't tell you how long ago it was. Losing track of time is the least of it… I'm losing track of so many things…

After you left my world ended. It was time to leave, I knew. Time to move on, but my heart wasn't in it. I suppose I just got stuck in a loop; you see, you were always there, still with me. The empty house was full of you. The bricks and mortar whispered your name. Every room told a story, our story. I couldn't escape, even if I ‘d wanted to.

We didn't talk much at the end, but I didn't mind; I wouldn't have missed a minute of it. That’s what made it hard; even after you left I still couldn't bring myself to moving on with my life. Pathetic, I know.

When I enter a room it’s as if you have just gone out; just popped off to the shops. I expected you to return at any minute with a bag of groceries. I rattled around in this old place with only my memories for company.

It’s time to move on, I know. But somehow I just can’t seem to do it. Something was holding me back: you.

When you came up the garden path I almost did not recognise you. It was only when you were in the house that I could see you properly, up close. You had changed; you were older – no, you were old! There were tears in your eyes. like before, You didn't look at me – but you seemed to look for me.

You brushed a tear from you eye as you said: ‘Herbert, it’s time to go, you must move on’

Then you were gone again, but you stopped in the garden and looked up. You gave me a little wave, just before you disappeared! Did you see me this time? Had I just imagined it all? It was hard to tell; I imagined so much, I was living in a dream.

When I found the strange door I thought: ‘one door closes and another door opens’ as if it were perfectly sensible and I thought: ‘it’s now or never…’

I expected to Black out, but as I crossed the thresh hold everything lit up. I had to close my eyes. And then I heard a familiar voice:

‘Herbert, oh Herbert!’

I opened my eyes and you were looking back at me.

Retribution

Silas Greely was probably the most wicked man in the world, indeed in the known Universe!

Born of poor but honest parents, dead now,  Silas had at an early age decided that to get on he would have to lie, cheat and steal and if people didn’t like that then – tough!

Unpopular at school he bullied the younger children and stole their lunch money, but was never without cash. He stole from his parents and if shopkeepers were looking the wrong way…well, whatever he wanted went into his pocket.

Now an older man Silas had built a business for himself. He had bought over an ailing company and basically got it for a song. Initially he fired the workforce, some of whom had worked for the firm for years and then he asset stripped and sold everything. This provided him with capital to inject into his new enterprise. The previous owner wrought with shame and anger at the way his business had failed and how the workforce had been treated, committed suicide, leaving a grieving widow and two young children.

Silas’ own wife had died two years previously, due to cancer, but the truer picture was that the amount of stress and worry that Silas had put her through was instrumental in her contracting the disease. Silas was happier on his own, alone with his wealth.

Today Silas was in the progress of closing a deal that would earn him millions of pounds.

A large area of waste ground that had originally been earmarked for a school and living quarters for orphans had been acquired by Silas for the offer of well above its asking price. Silas would renegotiate the price, through his lawyers, allowing him to pay much less, but effectively robbing the orphans of a home and education.

The deal had to be finalised the following day or else the property would go back on the open market

Silas stretched himself and rose from behind his desk. He had noticed a small bistro on the corner of the street as he had entered the building that morning. A Panini and black coffee would just go down a treat, he thought.

Walking out of his office Silas pushed the button to call his private lift. Thirty floors was a lot to walk down especially when you had a super duper turbo lift at your disposal.

As the lift sped down the floors, classical muzak played. Silas hummed along with the music. Tomorrow he would be even richer than he was today! Happy, happy day!

The counter showed that he was approaching the ground floor. This lift is so fast, he thought.

The lift doors sprang open and Silas cowered back as two white, whispy figures entered. The doors sprang shut and the lift began ascending.

“What...!Who…!” spluttered Silas, then he recognised the pale features of his dead parents. They stood together in their shrouds which were stained and torn. He could see right through them.

“Why have you done this, son?” asked the sepulchral voice of his father. “We thought you would grow up to be a good person.”

The lift slowed and Silas saw that the indicator read ‘tenth floor’. The doors flew apart and another white wraith stepped into the lift. Silas’ wife stood there crying, the tears running down her transparent cheeks.” I tried so hard to please you my love but all the time I knew you hated me!” she wailed. The lift doors again closed and the lift’s ascent continued.

The atmosphere in the lift was electric and Silas could feel large drops of perspiration pouring down his back. His hair stood on end and he felt all the blood draining from him. He was terrified. All three ghosts were there because they hated him for what he had become.

Then the lift again stopped and Silas realised that he was back from where he had started. Thinking quickly he reckoned he could push through the ‘ethereal material’, lock himself in his office and call security. But before he could make for the opening lift doors a fourth and awful spirit entered.

The original owner stood there with his head over at a ninety degree angle. Silas could make out the livid scar made by the rope he hanged himself with. His eyes were missing and his shroud was green with mould. “You destroyed a lot of good people, Greely. They would have transferred their loyalty to you, if you had given the a chance.” he said in a thin piping voice.

Will you make amends Silas? his mother asked. “Will you turn from your greedy and grasping ways?”

“Will you make us proud of you, Silas. Will you change?” whispered his sobbing wife.

“Will you reinstate the workforce and pay them reasonable wages?” whistled the owner.

Silas took in the fearsome figures and quivered with fear, then the true Silas Greely stepped forward and he held himself erect and gazed malevolently at the four  spirits.

He was alive, he thought, not like these four deadbeats. They had had their lives and wasted them. That wasn’t for him. Silas intended to carry on as he had started and become as rich as a king!

“My answer!” he screamed, “is No!”

The owner gazed at Silas for a minute and then said, “Wrong answer!”

Suddenly, with a twang,the lift cables parted and Silas fell to his doom.

…………………………………..+………………………………………….

Crimson Lake

It had lain in a junk shop’s window covered with dust and dead flies. The owner had received it in a job lot and finding no use for it had stuck it on show. Gradually as time passed and as the patina of crud increased, it sank insignificantly down through the layers of detritus like some ancient artefact.

Jeb Ganmon had been looking for inspiration. He was an artist in training at the local college and was looking for something that he could paint. Something that he could use in a tableau, which would provide the sort of artistic balance necessary for symmetry.

The local junk shop with its faded pictures, mementos from holidays past and old vinyl records. A virtual graveyard of items, probably better off sitting in a refuse bin.

“Hey Pop!” Jeb shouted, as the bell above the door gave out its off key clang. “It’s   

me, Jeb.”

An old man with stained purple slippers shuffled in from the back room. Jeb could see an open newspaper and a half drunk cup of tea, through the open curtain that covered the doorway.

“Oh, hi Jeb,” said Pop, as he was called by everyone in the neighbourhood. “What can I fix you up with today? A genuine Ming vase? It has a little crack in the base, but I’m sure it is valuable.”

“Nah, I’m looking for something to give my picture a real focal point. Something outstanding.” Jeb picked up a few objects and putting them down again.

“Well, my boy, I’m at last closing this scrap heap up and moving down to Clacton. My daughter lives there and wants to look after me. Imagine a ninety two year old needing to be looked after,” the old man laughed quietly to himself. “So… help yourself to anything you want because tomorrow, the rest goes to landfill!”

Jeb spent the next hour sorting through all the accumulated dross that had arrived at one time or other at Pop’s shop. Ninety nine percent of it was rubbish but he found a few items that took his fancy and he piled them on the shop counter.

“Right, Pop, how much for this stuff?” Jeb asked. “Do I get discount for cash?”

“A brass tray, a set of bronze candlesticks, a vase and a small stone cylinder with broken end. Is the stone to be a paperweight or something?” the proprietor asked looking at the object carefully. “I can’t remember having this item.”

“Watch out for the broken end it’s quite sharp!” Jeb said.

After a crisp five pound note had changed hands, Jeb made his way back to his studio. It actually was his bedroom but he had a North facing window and the light was perfect for his artistic needs. An easel was set up in centre of the room with a blank canvas. But tonight he required the dark for his painting.

Jeb placed his acquisitions down on a small table that he used to set up the objects he intended to paint. On the way home he had bought a bunch of flowers and four candles. He filled the vase with water and placed the flowers in it and he set the candles in the candlesticks and lit them.

Gradually his table top scene took shape. The flowers in the vase sitting on the brass tray with the light from the candles reflecting off the glass and the tray. The stone paperweight or whatever it was, lay at a slight angle on the tray casting a hard shadow.

Jeb worked through the night, often removing certain aspects and adding others. It was harder than he thought. The objects just did not want to interact and the more Jeb tried, the harder the task became. 

Eventually he stormed out of his flat down to a small washing green at the back of the house. Angrily he lit a cigarette and puffed furiously at it. Why wasn’t it working? They were inanimate objects. Why could he not paint them?

After he cooled down, Jeb made his way back up to his bedroom. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, it was nearly dawn. Where had the night gone to? Jeb asked himself.

When he returned to his bedroom he found the flowers strewn over the floor and the vase broken, lying on the floor in bits. Nothing else had moved from the display and Jeb assumed that the vase had tipped when he had rushed out of the room.

The small stone cylinder lay as it had been placed originally but Jeb was suddenly intrigued at where it had come from. The broken top looked as if it was supposed to have been sheared off creating a sharp edge.

Jeb leant down and began to pick up the bits of broken glass before he accidentally stood on them. As he straightened up a bit of glass touched his finger and cut him.

The blood began to drip from his hand and a drop inadvertently splashed on the stone cylinder. Had Jeb seen it strike the paper weight he would have been amazed as the blood was quickly absorbed into the stone leaving no trace of a stain.

After bandaging his finger, Jeb got into his bed, eager to get at least some hours of sleep before he had to get up again. He dropped off right away and was instantly precipitated into a dream.

In the dream everything was in black and white, he was painting the table top display that he had set up but without the vase and flowers. The small stone cylinder looked wet and the light from the candles glistened off it. The tray had a pool of something on it and it looked as if the liquid had run off the cylinder. Jeb was painting the various articles onto his canvas and even though the painting was going well, Jeb felt the same frustration building in him that he had felt the evening before. Why couldn’t he paint this picture right? he thought.

Then he had an inspiration and looking at the bandage on his cut finger he began to unwrap it exposing the wound. A scab had begun to form on the injury but Jeb dug hid nails into the wound starting it bleeding again. Quickly he dipped his paintbrush into the blood and began to paint the black and white image of the cylinder. Suddenly he was painting in colour. The stone cylinder became the focal point of the painting as it was the only item in colour and its colour was blood red!

Jeb woke up with a start. What a nightmare, he thought. What was that all about?

After a cup of coffee the elements of the bad dream began to fade and Jeb took a new canvas out of his cupboard. Right, he thought, now I will paint this picture right.

He felt refreshed and eager to go, but decided to leave the flowers out of the picture this time.

Jeb painted and painted and the collection of articles began to appear on his new canvas. It looked as if he had carried it off when once again, the feeling of inadequacy swept over him. The picture was useless. It was a mediocre attempt, an amateurish daub. He was a failure.

Then he remembered his dream. About removing the bandage on his finger. Of opening the wound and using the fresh blood to paint part of his picture. But, which part? Could it have been the insignificant roll of rock?

Once the bandage was off his finger, it was easy to scratch the fresh scab off and allow the blood to run down his hand. He tentatively dipped his paintbrush into the blood and then touched the tip of the canvas. Instantly he felt a feeling of warmth rushing through him. He was a great painter! His picture was a success!

Later that day his girlfriend Jane came to see him. Jeb made them coffee and they sat on his bed and talked she asked him how his painting was proceeding.

Jeb got up from the bed and walked across to where his latest painting sat on an easel. It was draped with a piece of cloth.

“Ta Ra Ra!” Jeb shouted and whipped off the cloth revealing the masterpiece.

Jane got up off the bed slowly. Her face wore a mask of incredulity.

“Yeuk!” she shrieked as she recognised what the red liquid running down the canvas was. “That’s blood!”

“It was the only way I could guarantee reality,” Jeb blurted out. “The paints just did not give the right …feeling.”

“You’re sick!” shouted Jane backing towards the door. “You need to see a shrink!”

“Don’t say that!” shouted Jeb rushing over towards her. “You have no idea of what I am going through to finish this painting!” And picking up a dirty plate that lay on the table, he smashed it over her head.

That night Jeb hung his creation on the wall of his room, but the off white colour of the wallpaper made it look awful. He took it back down and laid it on the table. Looking back at the wall he realised that the wall had to be repainted to allow his painting to be shown at its best, but what colour to paint it…?

The sun rose the next morning and filled the off white coloured room with its rosy colours. Jeb lay on his bed and gazed in admiration at the chromatic changes that were occurring. The reds, oranges, yellows and crimsons, they blended, bled and mixed in a symphony of colour. But why, why could he not capture the effect on canvas? he thought.

Jeb felt his senses exploding with the effect and he began to dream. It was a progressive dream where, bit by bit, he came aware of where he was and what he was meant to do.

The desert sand reminded him of an all enveloping ocean where waves rose and fell. The mighty pyramid that rose high above the sand glowed in the hot sun and threw a harsh black shadow on the desert. Jeb could hear chanting and as he moved round the massive monolith he saw that people were lined up on a large bridge that led into the dark interior of the pyramid. They were raising and lowering their arms as they chanted a sort of hymn.

As he neared the edge of the bridge he realised that the people were chanting to him. They were welcoming his arrival. He was expected…

Moving slowly between the lines of worshippers Jeb soon found that he had arrived at a large block of hewn stone. It had a cleft leading to a bowl cut into it and the surface was smeared with dark reddish brown stains.

A robed figure approached Jeb and handed him a large ceremonial axe. It was highly ornate and the blade looked sharp.

“The sacrifices await Lord,” the robed man said before bowing and moving away.

Jeb looked down the avenue of people and saw a thin phalanx of human beings, some shackled in chains, moving up towards him. There were about six of them and they looked terrible. Thin and emaciated, their faces had a greenish pallor. These people had been imprisoned, starved and ill treated.

As the first prisoner arrived in front of Jeb, a large trumpet sounded and the worshippers fell on their knees and bowed.

The robed man returned carrying a small stone cylinder and a bowl. He bowed before Jeb and handed the two items over. “The sacrificial stone and bowl, Lord. Do you wish me to position the first offering?”

Jeb suddenly broke out of the dream like feeling that he had been experiencing.

“Why do I have to carry out this duty? Who am I?”

The robed priest turned to Jeb and said, “you are the High Lord of Death. Without your contribution, the crops would fail, the population would die and our very existence could be in jeopardy. Spill the blood, water the plains and all will be well.”

Then he forced the first of the prisoners, a man, to kneel and place his head in the stone bowl.

“Strike it Lord!” he shouted and Jeb felt a rush of adrenalin course through his body as he raised the axe and brought it sharply down on the man’s neck.

The rest of the proceedings was a blur. Each time a prisoner was decapitated the robed priest rolled the stone cylinder in the unfortunate’s blood and applied it to Jeb’s body. First it was on the forehead, then his shoulders, then his legs. By the time that the last prisoner had been sacrificed Jeb was covered in blood. The crowd were roaring and calling out his name, commending him for once again guaranteeing that all would be well for them.

After the ceremony- the celebrations. Massive table covered with food and drink. Jeb was led to a large throne where he presided over and took part in the feast. Women danced, musical instruments played and high above fireworks exploded lighting the night and casting strange colours over the revellers.

The wine was very strong for it wasn’t long before Jeb began to feel drowsy. The stress of the day’s events, the sheer mystery of why he was here and how he was going to get back home all played on his emotions. His eyelids closed and soon he was sound asleep.

The sound of his front door crashing open brought Jeb sharply back awake. The cries of “police! Get down on the ground!” echoed around the flat and as Jeb opened his eyes he couldn’t get over the fact that every where he looked the scene was red, blood red.

 Suddenly he was manhandled onto the floor and a burly policeman wrenched his arms behind his back and handcuffed him securely.

The ambulance service removed seven women’s bodies, including Jane’s,  from Jeb’s flat after forensic had been in and photographed and sampled everything. It appeared as if Jeb had killed them and drained every drop of blood from their bodies to cover the walls and ceiling with. His artistic masterpiece hung proudly on the scarlet coloured wall.

A team of cleaners suitably gowned and masked were employed to clean up the flat.

Not a job for someone with a weak stomach, four old hands were given the job. They had worked in some of the most ghastly of areas and thought nothing of it.

“Here, look Fred,” said one of the men to his colleague. “Here’s something for your display cabinet,” he said as he handed over the small stone cylinder. “I’ll bet it’s something special!”

The Sleeper Awakes

He lay on the pavement, a dirty raggety figure proffering his plastic container. “Any loose change?” he would ask hopefully of the passing public.

He had sat in this very site for months, becoming a fixture, part of the fabric of downtown Lython. The shopkeepers knew him and saw him every working day, either to chase him away when he came to beg scraps from the food shops or tell him to ‘be on his way and don’t bother the customers’ when he went mobile.

 But he was nearly always to be found outside the Salvation Army shop. They would never ‘move him on’ and often came out with a cup of hot sweet tea for him and a biscuit if they saw that his plastic container was empty.

That day it was particularly cold and there were a limited number of pedestrians going about. Snow blew through on a north wind and leaves, the ambassador’s of autumn, blew in clouds above the road. The man shivered and pulled his coat more tightly about him. Another pair of hours, he thought and he would head home or if you could call a one roomed hovel, home.

“Now then, what have we here?” asked a sarcastic voice. A policeman stood looking down at the man. “You can’t beg here, you know.”

“I ain’t doing anyone any harm officer,” grunted the man looking everywhere but at the policeman. “The Sallies don’t mind me being here.”

“Well we’ve had complaints from some of the shop owners about you,” said the police officer. “They say you’ve been annoying their customers.”

“Nah, not me. I just stick to my pitch. I don’t annoy anyone” whispered the man getting up and folding the torn blanket that he sat on.

“Well, off you go and don’t let me find you here again.” The parting comment of the constable blended with the wind howling down the street and sounded like a supernatural warning. The man shivered again.

The following day found the man back at his place. It was raining and people hurried by, several under large brollies, some under hoods, but all in a hurry to be out of the nasty weather.

“Got any change?” growled the man holding out his receptacle, but it was as if he had become invisible. No one even acknowledged his existence. He was a non-person.

At eleven o’clock one of the Salvation Officers brought him out a mug of tea and two Bourbon biscuits. “Thank you, thank you” he said taking the steaming cup from a uniformed lady with blonde hair.

Months went by and the man, by collecting unemployment benefit and from his meagre collections from a few sympathetic souls, continued his existence.

The police came off and on to threaten him with meaningless warnings which he rolled with, but ignored.

The summer approached and with it came an increase in the people out and about enjoying the warmth of the sun. The man’s takings increased and he often had to surreptitiously partially empty his container to prolong the abject look of poverty that he gave out.

One of the warm days he was dozing and not paying attention to those who passed him.

“Are you alright?” asked a little voice.

The man opened his eyes to see who had spoken, but the sun was shining from behind them and it gave the person the appearance of a halo. The man squinted and saw that a small girl stood before him proffering a coin. An older woman stood a little bit away observing.

“Yes…I am alright,” grumbled the man. “I was just having forty winks.”

“Well here you are,” the little girl said. “I hope it helps you Mister…?” She paused, waiting for the man to fill in the gap.

“Uhhh…” It had been so long since he had spoken his name that he had forgotten it.

“I’m just a beggar,” he said with a grunt.

“But you must have a name,” persisted the girl, “everyone has at least a first name.”

“Well…I think my name is Bill.” The man growled picking on the first name that came to mind.

“Well, nice to meet you Mr Bill,” the girl said extending her hand to the man.

He looked at the proffered hand and automatically took it and gave it a little shake. “And to you too Miss…?”

“Oh, I am Sylvia,” she proudly replied.

“Sylvia! Sylvia!” shouted the awaiting older woman. “Time we were getting home.”

Sylvia turned and smiled at the man. “Goodbye then,” she said. “Take care.” And before the man could reply Alice had disappeared with the lady into the crowd.

The man looked at his hand and whispered the little girl’s name to himself. Instantly he recalled an earlier time, a happier time, running through the long grass under a golden sun chasing his sister Alice. Happy childhood memories of loving parents and an annoying but ‘fun to be with’ sister. He felt a warmth percolate through him as he relived the experiences.

The rest of the day passed quickly. The man decided that he would buy a fish supper on the way home. He would count his takings and maybe hide some under a floorboard in his room. Salting away funds for the poorer days.

Something dropped into his collecting box. It sounded heavy and the man looked up to see who had dropped it in, but due to the number of people who were about, it was difficult to spot his benefactor.

Looking in his box the man saw something wrapped in paper amongst the coins. He lifted it out and unfolded it. A two pound coin lay in the centre of the paper and the man spread it out to see if it contained a note. Instead of writing the paper bore a series of letters and numbers.

34 PX 97 ZQ 56 SJ

Instantly the man started back. He felt as if he was suffering an epileptic fit.

 Visions shot into his head. An encampment, somewhere far away. A classroom where he sat with other individuals being taught… What was on the blackboard? Diagrams, maps….!  Why was it so difficult to remember? He seemed to remember electric shocks, injections and long periods of not being allowed to sleep.

 But suddenly he knew what he had to do. But he needed… What did he need?

The man flung the door to his room open and collapsed on the camp bed he slept on. He felt sick, confused… He knew what he had to do and when he had to carry out the action, but where was the …..? He looked around the room.

A parcel lay just inside the door. Someone had obviously gained entry and left it for him. Could this be the …? Rolling of the bed he grabbed the paper wrapped bundle and ripped it open.

A Glock 36 pistol fell out of the parcel onto his bed. The man didn’t know how he knew the make and model of the handgun, but he did…instinctively.

A note was the only other item inside and the man took it out and scrutinised it

17TH 12 LE 13 ZX

The job was to be done on the 17^th at 12.00 on the road by his site. He had been prepared for the job. He knew what he had to do. Free choice did not enter into it. He was a man with a mission.

  The following day dawned with a sunrise as red as a ripe tomato or as red as …blood.

The man struggled down the street towards the Salvation Army shop, but before he got there he was accosted by a policeman.

“Sorry mate,” he said. “We got to keep the street clear today. We don’t need the likes of you hanging about.”

The man looked about him incredulously, “but all I want to do is sit in my usual place. I won’t bother anyone.”

Another policeman arrived in time to hear the man’s plaintive request. He leant over and whispered in his colleagues ear, “he wont cause any problems. He’s harmless.”

The morning passed without incident but due to the restrictions on traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, the man’s collection box lay empty. He had secreted the pistol in his trousers’ waist band. He wondered if the second policeman imagined how harmless he was…now.

As twelve o’clock approached the man started experiencing strange physiological effects. He felt omnipotent. Like a god he knew he had the power of life and death. He knew that he and he alone deserved to live yet others, especially those that were coming…had to die! His heart beat faster as adrenalin coursed through his veins and arteries. He felt wonderful.

The police escort guarded the limousine. Two motor cyclists sat before and aft offering protection and a guaranteed, undelayed journey for the Right Honourable James Watkins, M.P. and his family. They were on their way to open a museum in Lython.

Government funds had paid for a complete refurbishment of the old museum and now the public were to be educated about the history of the area and the country, using the latest technology. The architect responsible for the innovations had been awarded a prize for his far looking suggestions and ideas. James Watkins M.P. was to cut the ribbon and open the way for the masses.

As the motorcade approached, the man surreptitiously pulled the pistol out and checked the magazine. It was full with special explosive tip bullets. Perfect for the job ahead.

Standing up, he moved to the edge of the pavement, careful to keep his weapon out of site. He could see the large limousine with tinted windows. His quarry was inside and it was now up to him.

“Crack!” the first bullet penetrated the nearside tyre and the car slewed round and jerked to a stop.

“Crack!” the second bullet shattered the windscreen and hit the driver in the arm. He slumped forward, bleeding profusely.

The man ran to the car door and yanked it open.

 Inside he could see the MP and his wife. The wife had bashed her forehead and was bleeding, the MP was attempting to pull his wife behind him and act like a human shield.

The man raised the pistol and pointed at the MP’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger and he prepared to fire, when suddenly a figure leapt in front of James Watkins, a figure with long golden hair.

“Please, please don’t hurt my Daddy or Mummy!” the little girl said, hugging the crouched bodies of the MP and his wife. “Please…….!”

The man was in the field with his sister Alice. Happy, happy days. Golden days when the sun stayed in the sky for weeks and the blue sea washed up waves on golden sand.

“Alice, Alice. Don’t leave me…. I need you,” he whispered and raising the pistol to his head, shot himself.