Friday 25 November 2011

The Brotherhood (Short Story)



“What are you doing this weekend Bry?” asked Constable Tony Jones yawning. He and W.P.C. Bryony Williams had been on duty since nine o’clock in the morning. It was now four o’clock in the afternoon. Their job had been to check the speed of motorists on the B793 road and to either warn or issue a penalty ticket to offenders depending on the severity of their infringement.
“Got a barbecue this weekend, Tony,” replied the blonde policewoman. “Jimmy Forbes is holding it at his house. Didn’t you get an invite?”
“Yes, I did, but after Jimmy’s last barbecue I got a stomach bug. I’m sure one of his burgers was dodgy!” Tony groaned.
“Aw, Tony you are a real softy. You are always the one ………bloody hell!!”
Whatever Tony was or wasn’t, was left to speculation as Bryony’s concentration was suddenly switched to the car racing down the road towards the police car.
“Tony!” screamed Bryony, holding up the speed detector. “That bugger is doing seventy miles an hour!”
As the car, a Jaguar, raced by, Tony started the car and switched on the siren. He pulled swiftly out onto the road and was soon in pursuit of the offending vehicle.
It was a built up area and the speed limit should have been thirty miles per hour. The road was fairly empty of cars so it was not long before Tony had caught up with the Jaguar. He flashed his car lights in an effort to get the driver to pull over, but all it did was make him increase his speed.

Tyres shrieked as the two cars hurtled round corners, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and other cars. Houses flashed by and Bryony began to feel squeamish due to the rocking motion of the car. Tony had pulled up close behind the Jaguar and clung to his tail like a limpet.
“Zero one three to base!” Bryony shouted into the hand microphone. “In pursuit of a gold coloured Jaguar. Registration plate Zulu, Uniform, Six, One, Papa, Sierra, Yankee. We are proceeding down Farmouth high street, heading in a westerly direction!”
“Roger that Zero one three, two units are on their way!” came the reply from Base.

Two hundred yards ahead of the two cars, someone emerged from a side lane driving an Audi. The Jaguar raced towards the narrowing gap between the Audi and the opposite pavement and squeezed narrowly through. Tony had to stamp on his brakes and narrowly missed running into the side of the emerging car.

“Get out of the way!” both Tony and Bryony shouted in unison. The Audi driver hastily turned his car into the road and allowed the police car to speed past and continue the pursuit.

Mr Harman, the butcher, was having a very bad day. First he had slept in, his alarm clock had not woken him. Next of all he burnt his toast and had to make a fresh batch.
Then to cap it all, as he prepared to leave Farmouth in his mobile butcher’s van, to visit the village of Crossley, he had a blow out with his offside tyre. The van had slewed round sideways and blocked the road. Mr Harman tried to get the van moved but in his haste he stalled it. The next thing he remembers is a sporty car coming speeding round the corner, swerving to avoid his van and upon hitting a low wall at the side of the road, hurtling into the air and smashing into a grove of young trees.
Mr Harman was about to run over to give aid when a police car screeched to a halt. Tony and Bryony leapt out of the car and ran to the site of the crashed car. A thin plume of smoke was rising from the engine and Bryony turned and ran back to the police car to get a fire extinguisher.

The driver was lying outside the car having smashed through the windscreen. The glass had torn his clothes and as Tony knelt down by him he saw that in the areas where his skin was exposed his skin was heavily tattooed. The man was bald and had suffered a lot of cuts and bruising to his face and forehead.
Bryony used the fire extinguisher to put out the fire that was starting to burn in the engine.

After reporting the situation to Base, Tony had an ambulance and Scene of Crime Officers dispatched to the crash site. He and Bryony then began to marshal the few cars that had come on the scene, getting them to pass quickly and safely on their way.

Sergeant Belton arrived in one of the police cars that had been dispatched during the chase. He had about twenty years experience in policing and upon arrival of the S.O.C.O. team set up communications with Base.

One of the S.O.C.officers opened the boot of the Jaguar with a crowbar. The lid had been badly dented in the crash. He looked inside and immediately called Sergeant Belton across to see what he had discovered.

“Jones, Williams!” called out the sergeant. “Come across here!”

Both Tony and Bryony climbed over the wall and carefully made their way towards the crashed car. The S.O.C. officer and the sergeant had plastic gloves on and were examining items in the boot space.
A skull minus its jaw bone, a large knife whose blade was engraved with lettering and drawings and a large black robe, which upon being spread out, displayed the same lettering and drawings on it, as those on the knife.


………………………………………..  +…………………………………………….


Part 2

“Looks like a cult thing Sarge” quipped Bryony.
“I’ve seen this kind of stuff in a Bond movie, just a bloodied chicken to find.” kidded Tony.

“Ok you two, less of the wisecracks and back up that ambulance to the hospital, let’s get Kananga’s story when he comes round.” ordered Belton.

The driver had regained conciousness in the ambulance and was reasonably lucid by the time Tony and Bry had arrived.

“Is he up for interviewing doctor?” said Tony, after arriving at St James Hospital.
“Give us an hour or so, we’re patching him up” replied Doctor Samedi.

By now it was early evening and darkness was descending. It was late in the year and a miserable time to be doing traffic duties anyway, so Tony and Bry were making the most of this time indoors with nothing to do but wait. They sat in the staff café situated in a parallel corridor to the admittance ward where their perpetrator was being treated.

“Did you notice the docs arms and neck Bry?” queried Tony.
“Yeah, tattoo’s….it’s a common thing these days Tony” replied Bry, sipping away.
“Yeah I suppose…. but he was well decorated for a doctor, don’t you think?” mumbled Tony.

Just as Bry finished off her cappaccino, “BANG…..BANG..BANG”

“What the fk was that,…. can’t be gunshots” panicked Tony.

With that, the duo headed round to the ward…the area was pandemonium, staff and patients running everywhere, headless chickens came to mind.

“Where’s Doctor Samedi?” shouted Bry.
The desk was staffed by a nurse, mature and hostile looking, “Doctor who?, what’s the name?”
“Samedi, Doctor Samedi,” affirmed Tony.
“We have no Doctor Samedi,” replied Nurse Griffen.
“Ok, where’s the guy from the RTA this afternoon?” responded Tony.
“Err, Room 7, down there on the left” answered the nurse.

Meanwhile Bry had called in the disturbance and multiple units and firearms squads were enroute. Hospital security had arrived but were in the dark as much as anyone else and pandemonium continued……

“What’s going on here Wullie?” asked one of the security personnel to his collegue.
“No idea Peter, same old for us, the mushroom brigade, kept in the dark and fed on shit!” quipped Wullie.
“Yeah, seems to be the way of it,” muttered Peter.

Bry and Tony cautiously peered through the open door of Room7 to find what they’d expected. The driver, their detainee, their whole point of being here was lying dead across his bed. Head pulverised, it was difficult to make out the amount of gunshot wounds to his head initially.

At that, fellow police officers appeared from every corner, it appears the whole station had attended.

It transpired the driver had three gunshot wounds to his cranium, someone wanted him dead and made no mistake about it.

“Samedi was the main suspect, made his escape through the room window onto a walkway roof and down into the carpark” reckoned Belton at the briefing.

Tony thought, “ok, suspect and method seemed straight forward but motive was another thing entirely…… and what did the lettering and drawings scrawled on the mirror mean in Room number 7..?”


………………………………………..  +…………………………………………….


Part 3

That night Tony shared his thoughts with Bry. It was after work hours back at his place and out of uniform – in fact they were now out of their cloths entirely. Bry lit a B&H and inhaled deeply. She replaced the lighter on the bedside table.

‘I’m not so sure that this is such a straight forward case…’ said Bry as she exhaled a long plume of smoke. Tony knew better than to interrupt when Bry was running through a case and thinking out loud.

‘Take Doctor Samedi; how did he managed to arrive at the hospital so soon?’
Bry tapped her cigarette on the bedside table ashtray. Tony remained silent.

‘He must have followed the ambulance from the scene of the crash…which means he must have been following… must have been chasing the Jaguar’ There was a pause; Bry blew an even longer plume of smoke. Tony could not resist coming in: 
‘So the driver of the Jaguar was on the run!’
‘and’ continued Bry, ignoring Tony, ‘he was running for his life…because he knew something or had discovered something that was a threat to this cult, or whatever they  are…he was going to expose them, blow the whistle!’

They were both silent for a moment; contemplating the implications. This case could be big…but the truth is out there…somewhere…

Tony and Bry exchanged glances; Tony couldn’t keep a straight face:
‘This is a case for the X-Files!’
They both burst out laughing. Bry recovered first: ‘Another crazy case…the worlds going mad!’ There was something sobering in her expression; they had seen a lot of weird shit.

Bry had started keeping her own files on special cases and teased Tony by calling him ‘Mulder’ – only it was Tony who tended to be the sceptic; so their roles were sort of reversed, with Bry making the case for the weird and the so called supernatural. It was their own secret game; a private fantasy irresistibly played out.

‘You know, I think I have seen those tattoos somewhere before’ mused Tony.

‘Really?’ Bry arched a quizzical eye-brow.

‘No, really!... I’m sure of it…it’s on the tip of my tongue…’

‘You’ve seen someone else with similar tattoos?’

‘I’m not exactly sure…but yes that could be it…’ Tony had his thoughtful expression.

‘Remember how the murderer escaped from the hospital? That could be a clue!’

‘Come on spill it’ Bry was losing patience. ‘You‘ve thought of something…is it to do with the lettering and drawings scrawled on the mirror in Room number 7? ’

‘No, its not that, I’m wondering if that is something of ruse; to throw us of the track…but you’ve given me another idea…you thought the shots to the head were a bit excessive, as you delicately put it…considering it was a calculated and efficient hit…one shot would have been fatal, surely …so why risk more?’

‘Unless!’ exclaim Bry, catching on, ‘the driver’s face could be identified!’

‘Exactly!’

‘But what did you think of to lead you to that?’

‘Get dressed and I’ll show you, we’re going out’


It did not take them long to find what Tony was looking for; there were posters plastered everywhere; on bus stop shelters, on lamp posts,  on walls and even on public notice boards.

They stood staring at an A3 size poster: bold red lettering, with a drop shadow, proclaimed: THE NIIGHT CIRCUS IS IN TOWN!

Under the garish caption were typical circus performers: the ringmaster with his whip, a strong man with dumbbells and a midget on top, there were fire breathers and sword swallowers, an evil looking clown…but what caught the attention of Tony and Bry were the acrobats; there were four of them; dressed in black spandex leggings and their torsos and arms covered in tattoos!

‘What do you think?’ said Tony. Bry looked stunned.

‘I think we’re going to the circus!’


<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<ß---------------------------à>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


PART 4

Neither Tony nor Bry had been to the circus since they were kids.   The experience took them back in many ways.   Sitting in a ringside seat, surrounded by screaming kids and their parents.

They sat through bubbles the clown, a sword swallower, Pearl the bearded-lady and an especially mad individual who stuck his head inside the mouths of two large lions and a Bengali Tiger. 

Even while watching this slightly corny show Tony and Bry felt like they were the ones being watched.  They felt hidden eyes watching them.  Savage unseen eyes like the eyes of a predator watching it’s prey.  It made Bry feel very uneasy. 

Then came the act they were waiting for………………………the acrobats.

BUT……………….instead came a brief apology from the ringmaster.  Due to illness there would be no acrobat show tonight by their star team, the tattooed guys.  Instead their slot was taken by the Midget Express, three midgets who did acrobatics on the back of a galloping Shetland pony.

Tony smiled for a moment, if he could get those three midgets into the interrogation room with a rubber house, he could surely get the little guys to confess to something! Anything!  Didn’t really matter what.  Looked good on the crime clear-up statistics.

Tony and Bry looked at each other.  ‘Let’s go’ Tony said

Where?’

Backstage.  Illness me arse.  Let’s discover the real reason those tattooed acrobats didn’t perform tonight!’

They left the main tent and started to ferret about in one of the little side tents.  They knew they shouldn’t really be prowling like this, but Tony’s curiosity got the better of him.  They were looking for those four tattooed acrobats.

But inside this dimly lit tent the stench was over-powering.  They heard a mechanical sort of noise from within the gloom, Tony called out warily ‘Hello?’, but there was no reply. 

After a moment or so their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.  On the far side were a lot of odd looking little wagons, cages on wheels in other words!   Thankfully they seemed to be empty.

Tony and Bry walked through the tent, intending to slip out the other side and find the performer’s quarters.  However just ahead their path was barred, something was moving in the gloom.  It didn’t seem to be human because it seemed shorter than a human, waist height maybe, but it moved like a living creature.

All too soon they realised what this was.   The epiphany was cruel and brought a spasm of terror to both of them.

The brightly coloured object was a tiger, prowling slowly but steadily towards them! 

They both froze in terror, perhaps that mechanical sound they had first heard had been someone unbolting the cage that this ferocious demon was normally kept in. Could someone have deliberately set this beast loose on them? 

Tony pushed Bry back, standing between her and the tiger, he told her to run for it!  Bry staggered a few paces then looked back in horror to see a brightly coloured streak of lighting, then a scream from Tony as the tiger engulfed him!  It was a blur of fur, flailing arms and legs, teeth and claws! 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 5

The tiger’s incisors sank deep into Tony’s neck, flaying the throat in one massive movement. Crimson life spewed from the wound, the beast’s unforgiving, unrelenting attack continued, undaunted. In that instant of madness Bry knew that Tony’s life was over, no one could have survived such a furious assault. Bry released a piercing scream and ran.

As Bry fled she could hear the crunching of bone continuing behind her.

My god, what the fuck have we gotten ourselves into.

It suddenly occurred to Bry what the markings on the mirror back in the hospital were.

The mirror, those markings, they were representative of Tiger stripes. It must be some kind of veneration cult, thought Bry.

Bry knew she had to make it back to the apartment.

The keys, she thought. Tony had the damn car key.

She had to go back, she knew she had to face Tony’s death, in order to prevent hers.

Gingerly she retraced her steps. She could hear the crowd gasp and applaud as the circus entertainment continued above her.

Fuck! She thought. If only they knew there was a fucking Bengal Tiger on the loose they wouldn’t be so enthusiastic.

I’m sure this was the spot. Bry thought.

But there was nothing, no signs of a struggle and certainly no sign of the copious amounts of blood Tony was sure to have lost, nothing, just an empty cage.

A light, Bry could see a faint light omitting from the other side of the animal holding area.

As she approached, she could hear muffled voices. Not speech, chanting, ecclesiastical type chanting, low and morose.

She swung open the heavy door .

Inside dressed in hooded cloaks were 20 to 30 people chanting in unison, directed by what would appear to be a naked tattooed man, covering his face was a huge mask, a mask in the form of a Tiger.

As Bry entered the chanting ceased, a follower immediately made for the door, it slammed shut with a forceful bang.

The naked man slowly removed the mask.

 Samedi. Thought Bry.

`Welcome Bryony, we have been waiting for some time on your arrival. I, as I’m sure are all, are so pleased to see you.`

`You bastard, screamed Bry, you had Tony killed; ripped apart by a fucking Tiger.`

`Come come my dear, do you really think I would be so callous as to permit Tony to be killed in such an ill mannered fashion?`

With that one of the followers’ standing directly beneath the Ipsissimus's feet removed his hood.

Tony! Gasped Bry, you’re alive, but I thought you were dead, that Tiger, the blood, the sickening noise, she whispered; but you’re alive, how, how is it possible?`

You only witnessed a mirage, a hallucination Bry, induced by the laced soft drink I offered you when we were sitting in the big top.

What, you drugged me, why Tony, why would you do such a thing, Samedi, the murder, this cult thing, what in Hell’s name is going on?

Not in Hells name Bry but in his. Tony replied, his eyes burning with desire.

Bry listen to me, Hantu Belian, is with us, he is our escape from this ethereal world, this world of hate and fear. How many times in the past have you said you were depressed with the job, your personal life and the general monotony of living? This is our chance Bry, our chance to escape everything, all you need do is put your faith in Hantu Belian and I promise you life will change, nothing will ever bring you down again.

`You are joking right? You want me to worship some guy in a tiger suit on the pretext that everything following that we be OK? I may complain about life at times Tony but that’s human nature, we are supposed to moan about our lot. Don’t you see, that is what we are designed to do, not stand around in robes chanting shit to a naked guy in a tiger mask.`

`Bry you don’t understand Samedi is not Hantu Belian, Samedi is merely his representative here, in this world, in this physical place. Bry you have to believe me, put your faith in Hantu Belian and you will be saved.

`O Tony fuck off with the Hantu Belian can save us shit. This guy. She pointed toward the magician. This guy is a murderer and I’m taking him down the nick. Now are you coming Tony or what?`

`You don’t understand Bry this is not optional, this is your destiny, you have no choice in the matter, as you will clearly not participate of your own free will, we will have to show you the alternative by other means.`

`Enough of this puerile nonsense, shouted Samedi. SIEZE HER.`

Two of the hooded attendees immediately grabbed Bry.

`Remove her garments and prepare her, HE has waited long enough.`

Get you hands off me, Tony help, get off me, I’m a police officer you idiots.

Stop struggling Bry it’s futile. Only Hantu Belian can save you now.

One of Bry’s attackers held her arms while the other ripped off her clothing.

`Tony. Tony for god sake help me`.

`Resistance is futile Bryony, remarked Samedi, you were destined for this moment.`

From the birth of this world, man has abused and undermined his privilege. Hantu Belian has awaited relentlessly for an opportunity to channel his power through humanity, I have been chosen as that conduit. Now we will witness the true raison d’être of man. A new beginning. From this very day humanity will realize that the worship of the monotheistic faiths was pointless; A futile exercise where man indulged in false worship, fabled gods and immoral representations. I, Bernard Samedi will lead his will here on earth in glory and strength toward a new understanding toward a new principle toward a new kingdom, here on this ancient planet where all disillusionment and false tradition will be speedily removed.

Bry, standing naked and shivering, could not comprehend what was occurring around her.

Tony please, help me, please, I beg you.

`Everything will be ok Bryony trust me.`

Another member of the congregation brought a robe and handed it to Bryony’s assailants.

Put this on. One of them hissed, and any stupid actions and you will be swiftly dealt with.`

Bry took the garment and slipped it over her head

`At last. Samedi declared, we are ready.` 

Bry was led toward a strange inscribed altar, within the etchings she could see the face of a Tiger, but not just an ordinary representation, a horrific demonic representation. Horns protruded from its massive head and bolts of red fire shot ferociously from its twisted inhumane mouth. Sitting on top of the altar was a skull, a human skull minus the jaw bone. Protruding from where the scalp would have been rested a ceremonial dagger.

The items from the Jaguar, Bryony thought.

`Place her here.` Commanded Samedi, pointing to the wooden table which stood beside the unholy pulpit.

Bry’s captors forcibly lifted her and placed her directly onto the table. Two other members of the gathering brought steel manacles and bound her feet and hands, she was unable to move in any direction.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek,

`Why? She silently mouthed toward Tony. Why is this happening?`

`It’s the right thing to do, Tony replied. It will all be over soon , you’ll see.`

`IT’S TIME!` Screamed Samedi, Commence the ritual.`

The gathering began to chant.

`Bagabi laca bachabe…Lamac lamec bachalyas.`

`Lamac cahi achababe…Cabahagy sabalos Barylos.`

`Lagoz atha cabyolas, Samahac et famvolas.`

Samedi entered into some form of hypnotic trance. Writhing with intense sexual gestures.

He hosted high above the dagger adorned with a tigers head.

`In the name of Satan, ruler of the earth, king of the world, the chief of the serfs, I command the forces of darkness to bestow their power upon us. Save us Lord Satan from the treacherous. Oh Satan spirit of the earth, god of liberty, open wide the gates of hell and send forth from the abyss, your disciple ...

`...Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

Lightning flashed and the room plunged into darkness.

Slowly, emerging from beneath the altar, a shape began to appear. Small at first, then growing ever larger.

 Peering through the darkness, Bryony could see the tremendous bulk rise before her, twisting and writhing in unison to the chants.

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian` The crowd screamed in ecstasy.

Bryony could see the forming shape, a gigantic Tiger, red not orange in colour. Massive ivory horns protruding from its forehead.  Blood red eyes filled with hate, a creature bestowed with immense demonic power.

`Hantu Belian` exclaimed Samedi you have heard our call`.

The demon raised its ungodly head and roared, releasing black flames from it mouth.

The demonic fire engulfed three of the congregation, instantly turning them to dust.

`Take them, cried Samedi, they are mere mortals, take them as you wish.`

`Look I have prepared another for you, swooping his hand across Bry’s body. Sup from her, feast of her, fulfil your desire, you will not be disappointed`.

The massive head loomed over Bry’s. Frozen in terror she felt a scream building up inside but could not find the strength to release it. She could smell the creature’s breath, rancid; see the massive teeth gleaming in the gloom, salivating, drooling at the thought of the kill.

It raised its head for the final time…

Bryony closed her eyes.

She prepared for the assault. She was ready to die.

In her petrified state Bryony could hear what sounded like a voice, chanting, not unlike what she had heard before but more solitary more individual.

`Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah.`

Bry felt her entire body tremble. She opened her eyes, it was not her body which was trembling but the entire room. The massive head was still above her but its eyes were directed elsewhere. She looked; standing in the doorway was a man, arms folded, chanting over and over…

`Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah`.

As Bryony’s eyes adjusted to the light which emitted from the doorway she realized who the man was.

Belton, Sergeant Belton.

A massive clap of thunder resonated throughout the room followed by a lightning bolt, splitting the altar in two.  

The beast roared toward Belton and prepared to leap.

Belton stood motionless, repeating over and over the words…

`...Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah`.

The creature leaned back on its haunches and sprang. A second bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the room, halting Hantu Belial’s attack. Bryony watched as the face of the demon vanished before her with a tremendous flash.

`No, screamed Samedi, you fool, you idiot, you will pay for this.

Arms waving manically, Samedi lunged toward Belton.

The moment between the gunshot and Samadi’s body hitting the floor, was infinitesimal, but to Bryony it appeared to last forever.

Belton’s bullet from his revolver had entered Samadi’s forehead, a solitary shot which removed him from his earthly plane.

`I’ve wanted to do that for years,` shouted Belton. And this was the perfect opportunity`.

`Bryony are you alright?` Shouted Belton as he rushed toward the sacrificial table.

Yes I’m fine, answered Bry. But, Tony, where’s Tony?

Tony’s Fine exclaimed Belton, I got him out just before I began the banishing ritual.

That chanting, those words you spoke, that god awful thing, what in hells name is going on?

`Your exactly right Bry, all this did happen in Hells name. But let’s forget that for the moment and get you home, I think later though I will have a lot of explaining to do.`

Monday 21 November 2011

Where's The Story At? (Poetry)



Oh woe, where's the story at?,
We're asking the English Literature Cat.
Relax at night, take a pew,
Spend a minute and think it through.

Time at the plot, time in your bed,
C'mon shake off your holiday head.
Failing now, no rhyme, no reason,
The crime is nothing short of treason!

We wrote and wrote and created our art,
But it's all in vain without the final part.
So why the delay, why the pause,
Have you written in a get-out clause?

Is it the creation of conclusion,
That's causing all of this confusion?
Days go by, oh what a wait!
But no show at the jannies gate.

Cut the fags, leave the wine,
It's now the moment for you to shine.
Have a cuppa, have some toast,
Take some time and publish your post!!

Wednesday 9 November 2011

What the Fox Saw (Short Story)



`Oops, oops, yep there he goes, fat Gipin has bounced off his old knackered nag.`

 `Wish the bastard had come off earlier and I would not be breathing out of my arse.`

 `Look at him... look, fat shite that he is, dressed up in that red riding tunic looking like a fucking post box that’s been missed on collection day by the mailman.`

 `Hey Gilpin - who ate all the pies, who ate all the pies, you fat bastard you fat bastard who ate all the pies?`

`O this is getting better and better he’s landed in cow's shit.`

`Look! He’s totally covered in freshly shat cud.`

`And what about that sun ripened plough horse of his?`

`Fucker should be hanging in a boucheries chevalines not riding half way across the English countryside chasing after me.`

`So much for four legs good and two legs bad eh, you burnt out old scrag.`

`This crap has gone on for weeks and weeks now.`

`I just get my head down after a nice juicy bantam or two and then that fucking hunting horn starts blasting in my ears.`

` I would love to grab the thing from him and ram it right up his arsehole, see how much toodleing he would manage then?`

`Anyway better head the rest of the hooray Henry’s will be here any second now.` 

`See you Gilpin, watch the saddle doesn’t hit you on the arse as you get up.` 

Perspective on Hell or Heaven? ( Short Story)

The neon sign blazes `Abaddon,`
She lingers, doubting, indecisive, unaware. She faintly recalls visiting the club in the past but her memory fails her, blurred, incomplete like her life. Since the first attempt nothing has been quite the same. She longs to rid herself of the past, to free her mind of the torment the pain the suffering. She looks at her watch 11.30pm; she pulls up the collar of the fur in an attempt to block out the chill. The night air grips the capital like a bastard clings to his bedclothes in an orphanage.

`Are you going in? ` He asks.

Startled by the sudden voice she turns to face him. For the first time in months she can see clearly. His sallow skin appears almost ivory in the moonlight. His black suit mirror’s his eyes, the eyes the blackness.

`I’m sorry what? ` She replies.

`You’re going in the club? `

 `I’m not so sure. ` She answers.

 `Please, allow me to escort you down, I’m sure you will not be disappointed. `

A black Hackney screeches to a halt the driver leans out and shouts in a cockney accent.

`Hey sweetheart you need a lift? `

 `No, no I don’t think so. `

`You sure darling it’s bitter cold and this is not the sort of area a lady such as yourself should be hanging around.`

Suddenly the man speaks, `Michael, Michael, ` shaking his head, `how many times must we enter into this ancient conflict? `

The driver laughs. `You know me Louis always around to pick up any lost souls who may be wandering confused and alone. `

 `She is mine, ` the man exclaims, `and you know it. `

 `Not this time mate, ` Michael replies, `not this time. `

 Inside the woman feels panic, she needs to understand the situation she backs away from the black clad stranger and moves toward the cab.

`What is going on? ` She asks the driver.

 `Forget him love, jump in I’ll take you to a club much more suited to a lady such as yourself. `

`Come, ` he beckons, `it’s called Art in Heaven. `

As they drive away she looks back at the well dressed man. The blackness in his eyes has gone and for a split second she could swear they were on fire.



`I look in the mirror and what the fuck do I see? `
`A washed up 26 year widowed journalist who’s addicted to Prozac, Gordon’s and Benson and Hedges. `
`Anyway mother will be phoning soon so I need to get a grip and pull myself together. `
`The last thing I need is for her to be driving down to London making me chicken soup and telling me everything’s going to be OK.`
 `She visited last Christmas and didn’t leave until Ash Wednesday. `
`I know she’s not so bad, she means well, but I just couldn’t stand getting dragged to that depressing old Church just off Piccadilly with the dreadful mural painted by Cocteau.`
`I can hear her now. `
`Ruth, Ruth Lilith will you listen to your mother for once? `
 `My darling everything will be alright, let Christ into your aching heart and your pain will disappear. `
`Fuck Christ he did nothing to save Eric so why the hell should I go exposing my fucking soul to him. `
`Anyway thought he was supposed to know everything? `
`He clearly doesn’t because if he did why on earth does he leave me feeling like shit? Why you bastard, why, why, WHY........`



`Call me Legion for I am many. `
`I love that fucking quote. `
`Especially when it’s orated by some gravel voiced cunt advertising Paramount’s latest attempt to pin me down. `
`I have been known by other nom de plumes, Beelzebub, lord of the flies, Prince of Tyrus, Father of all lies, but my most common name (if I can be called common) is Satan.`
`I personally prefer Lucifer (Louis to my friends) just because it pisses HIM off. `
`The hypocritical old bastard named me that so since that is my GOD given name that’s the one I prefer to be called.`
`Bearer of light! `
 `Yes that’s me alright. `
`Now let’s see what’s on tonight’s agenda? `
`7.30 the rape and murder of a 90 year old woman, 7.45 suicide bomber on a bus in Nazareth. `
 `8.30 Gunship attack in Nablus. `
`Mmm what a rush. `
`9.30 A smidgen of African famine, and the evening is rounded off with, a fucking SUICIDE.`
`I really must speak with Astaroth about writing up the diary.`
 `How many times must he be told to give the trivial tasks to Amon, Heaven knows he has enough time on his hands.`
`Come to think of it where has the sick little flea bitten wolf been hiding lately? `
`Not seen him in quite a while. `
`I bet he’s fucking around in the Seventh Circle shoving hot pokers up Alighieri’s arse. `
`One just can’t get the staff. `
`I really must take it easier, I am spreading myself far too thin these days. `
`Well to hell with it then, oops no pun intended. `
`Tonight Ruth Lilith Journalist, widow and hopelessly lost cause.
`This is your, ahem, life. `


`O my God, oops sorry governor, late again. `
`Why did he assign me this task? `
`I haven’t spread me wings for months now. `
`Stuck in this bleeding cab, patrolling the West End, looking for possible salvations, I mean I know it’s me job but why this guise why ere?`
`London’s like a scene from Bosch these days, more flipping sinners ere than down there, and that’s bleeding saying something. `
`I’m getting serious cramp in me plates of meat, stuck behind this wheel all flipping night. `
` I mean it wouldn’t be half as bad if there were some worth saving but lately it’s been absolutely pathetic.`
`It would appear Louis has been a very busy boy. `
I’m not normally one to complain but, Gabriel’s dossing around New York putting the bite on UN officials. `
`Raphael’s got free reign in the Middle East`.
`Uriel’s sitting in Brussels influencing the EU, and I’m stuck ere sitting in a black Hackney within a city that’s, well, let’s just say is beyond saving. ` 
`And the food around ere please, don’t get me started on that, I can tell you something, Manna it ain’t. `
`O well nothing else for it I might as well have a slow drive round this bleeding den of inequity.`
`I must admit the governor does have a warped sense of humour; it always cracks me up when I click on the meter, SAVE, DON’T SAVE. `
`Well I’m free at the bleeding moment so SAVE it is. `
`Hell on earth to Paradise One do you read me Paradise One, over? `
 `We read you Michael loud and clear any luck so far? `
` No mate just came on, I’m off for a spin around Soho you are always certain of a few misguided souls there. `
`Roger Michael we will send the Seraphim if required`, Paradise One out. `
`Bloody Seraphim never in my eternal existence have I came across such a bunch of bleeding arse lickers. `
`Well well well, look who it is, me old mucker Louis bleeding Cipher. `
`Wonder what he’s up to? `
`He’s talking to some gooseberry pudding, better go take a butcher’s hook, he doesn’t turn up for nothing. `
`Hey sweetheart you need a lift? `    

Boo Hoo. (Short Story)

It’s me again... crawling... winding... pulsating through your infected mind. You hate me but I fucking love you. 

Go on try to ignore me, see if it works. Remember the last time when the only way to end the conversation was to drag blades across your wrists. Well I’m back and ready for a long cosy chat. You think you’ll win, you’ll never win. I’m the annoying fucking neighbour who pops up to offer advice when you’re mowing the lawn. O... I forgot you don’t have a lawn, nothing to take your mind off me. But then why should you? I’m really interesting. I attack your soul to gain control, you red eyed cunt. 

Come on... offer up some resistance you weak manipulable freak. Seek and you shall find... O boy did you seek long and hard and you found me, aren’t you the lucky one to have found such a loyal fucking companion.You can share your innermost secrets with me and even if you choose not to I can hear them.Nothing is sacred in here, fuck all.Nothing is hidden. Your soul is bare, wide open to my influence. You can run but you can’t fucking hide.

You like that smell... mmmmmm... it’s all for you. I play with your senses like a cat with a Canary. Tossing it in the air, letting it catch its breath then just when Joey thinks its safe, I reclaim my bloody prize, my cuddly toy from the coconut stall.

I see you’re living in the bottle again... suits me, I love the morning after, I’m a master of post alcohol chit chat. When the 4 litres of Cider are tanned what do you do then, reach for the vallies? They might turn the sound down a little but I’m always there in the background, like a depressed housewife suffering from tinnitus, I hum away, reminding you of the past present and fucking future.

When you were little and your whore mother used to burst your head about partying, late nights and choice of women? Well that’s fuck all compared with my special little soliloquies isn’t it? She was a brilliant teacher though; I took her lectures as the basics and added my special blend of fucked upness specially designed to do your fragmented nut in. Nothing helps sooth the deep lacerations me and mummy inflicted, deep pus ridden gashes which will never heal.

The adolescent years... now there was a time, not only was puberty dancing inside you like an E’ed up court jester, I, me, was right there, always ready to lend a hand, too many cooks and all that shite well not in your case me and old pubie well we were like two peas in a fucking pod .

When you discovered drugs, Christ it was a busman’s fucking holiday. Dope, grass, acid and coke, all excellent additions to my itinerary but not a patch on my personal all time favourite, speed. It was like throwing petrol onto an already blazing furnace. Watching you coming down after a Saturday night all I had to do was throw in a couple of suggestions and that was me for the rest of the day, absolutely fuck all to do. Mr Amphetamine was a workaholic, a master of his art, sickness, lethargy and impotence all very nice but his real forte was paranoia, he was the grandmaster of that particular satanic rite. Wow was he a professional, chatting away telling you how fucked up your life was and how the only means of escape was to score another gram. Even I felt a little sorry for you sometimes. The blackest of thoughts racing through your tiny mind and boy there were some really dark ones. But of course you got a little wise to Mr Speed and sought out rehab, I had to come out of early retirement. So here I am back in the swing of things screaming in your FUCKING ear... Well let’s see... what can we chat about this evening?

I see you’ve decided to take the pistol out again, sitting toying with it, playing with it, caressing it, you don’t have the fucking bottle, you were always a little coward, no fucking spine, no fucking guts. Yes that’s right point it at your pulsating temple just as you have done a million times in the past, shaking, crying cowering in the corner then you’ll change your mind,  like you always do... then wrap it up in an oil stained rag and put it back in the drawer until next time. Still playing with it eh, well go on then; pull the trigger... pull... pull... pull... 

Monday 7 November 2011

The Rosary (Short Story)


It was a bright, warm summer day in New Ulm. The birds were singing happily in the trees, the countryside basking in the warm sunshine. Nearby the mighty River Rhine flowed gracefully downstream to the sea.

The streets of the town, usually filled with happy villagers of all ages, were today completely deserted. A cat prowled on it's beat across the street, but apart from this there were no obvious signs of life.

However the occasional loud bang and thump shattered the peaceful rural scene. Strangely enough these loud noises were coming from the little church, the old medieval church that had stood at the centre of town for nearly a thousand years.

Today clustered in the old church was the entire village, plus many invited dignitaries. The local bishop was present, watching the proceedings, together with all the dignatories of the local Nazi party. A camera team from the ministry of propaganda had also descended on the town, filming today's events. Inside the church Gestapo men in their distinctive trench coats mingled obtrusively with the crowd.

A gang of workmen had been using sledge hammers to try and knock holes into the West wall of the church, under close supervision of course.

It had all started several weeks earlier. A visitor to the church had noticed a discrepancy in the wall and brought it to the attention of the curator, the visitor thought the dimensions were all off.

Experts and surveyors came to pay a visit, after thorough examination they declared that there was a small space within the wall, enough to conceal a small object like a chest.

Rumours spread through the little town, wild stories of ancient treasure hidden within the church walls. The local Nazi party members soon heard of it and a work party was organised to search for this 'hidden treasure'. The great treasure hunt had attracted all sorts of attention!

The bangs of the sledge hammers against the old wall were having an effect. Pieces of masonry law strewn over the floor and the air was thick with dust. It was sheer vandalism inspired by greed, the lust for gold!

Eventually the regular sound of hammering was interrupted, there was indeed a space in the wall! The audience waited with bated breath, the Nazi functionaries glared greedily. One of the workmen reached his hands into the tiny abyss, after much groping and pulling his hand emerged with a small wooden box in his hands. It was a stout oak box, venerable through age. The workman handled it gently, not through reverence of this hallowed old object but through fear of the Nazi functionaries who lusted after what surely lay inside............

The Nazi mayor of the town stepped forward, eager to give himself the honour of opening this treasure chest, eager to be in tomorrow's Nazi Newsreels.

The Mayor's fat hands fumbled with the box, but eventually managed to prise it open. He eagerly peered inside, his voracious expression soon changed into one of complete confusion. Only now, after a moment's pause did the mayor hand the box over to the representative of the church, the bishop. The bishop tentatively looked inside, a similar expression of bewilderment appeared on his face.

All the while the people watched in dazed anticipation, the cameras continued to roll, the Gestapo waited like hawks, ready to arrest anyone who showed even a hint of hostility to the regime.

The only man in the whole village who had not been present at the great treasure hunt was the local priest. He was an aged man of more than seventy years, a decent man, friend to the friendless and no friend of the Nazi regime. He now walked calmly into the church, his footsteps echoing off the marble floor. The air was so quiet that you could literally hear a pin drop!

The bishop was eager to get rid of this box, he passed it to the aged priest, pawning it off onto him. The contents of the box were a huge disappointment to him and he didn't want to be the one who broke the bad news to the world and to the Gestapo. No, the expendable old priest could do it!

The old priest looked down into the box and smiled. He alone was not disappointed by this unexpected treasure. Some priest, back in the mists of time must have left this small box as an object lesson, a demonstration of the true treasure of the church.

The old priest lifted out the first item in the box for the crowd of villagers to see. It was a set of rosary beads, just plain old well used rosary beads. Almost worn out through use these were a reminder to the faithful not to neglect prayer.

The second item in the box was a feather. The old priest held it up for everyone to see. Nazi Germany could produce thousands of warplanes, battleships and tanks, but something as intricate and naturally beautiful as a feather was beyond them!  Such a sublime act of creation came only from the supreme creator. 

By this time the villagers were looking at each other, exchanging bemused glances. Yes, they had been seduced by the thought of treasure, by the false gospel of these Nazi party officials. The meaning of these long hidden objects was beginning to strike their consciences.  They had made a pact with the devil in the guise of a swastika and were now heartily ashamed of it.   

The Nazis meanwhile were yet too bemused to speak, the camera was still rolling, still recording these quite unexpected proceedings.

Now the old priest reached into the box and produced the final item, a handful of sand. The sands of time, these reminded the people of the fleeting nature of existence. He picked it up in his clenched fist then began to pour it out onto the stone floor of the church.

'Observe' he said, 'look at the grains of sand as I scatter them on the floor. One day that is all that will remain of this filthy third Reich!'

The villagers began to slip out of the church as the Gestapo moved forward to arrest the old priest.










Memories in Silver and Gold (Short Story)

MEMORIES OF SILVER AND GOLD




Anne had always been a solitary child, happy in her own company. Her nearest friends Mr Floppy, a raggedy, velveteen rabbit; Blackeyes, a panda whose stuffing poked out of its chest and Miss Florabunch Flower, a china headed doll who  gave out a ‘Mama’ when inverted. Together they acted out little dramas which Anne had heard on the television, from earwigging her parent’s conversations and from the font of all knowledge, her copy of ‘Girl’s World’, a weekly magazine that came with Daddy’s Thursday papers.

 An average pupil, Anne’s schooldays passed uneventfully. She acquired some indifferent friends in primary school, who fell away when they moved up to secondary, attracted to rising stars among their peers and pop idols current at the time. Anne plodded on and sat her exams coming out with ‘ok’ results, but nothing to ‘write home about’.

She entered a career in banking and became one of those pretty ladies behind a glass screen who wore a badge giving their Christian name on it, in an effort to give out a cosy, familiar ambience to the customers.

Anne moved from her parent’s house to a flat quite near to the bank. She furnished it herself and was pleased with the result. She adopted a cat from the Cat’s Protection League and called it Mr Grimble after a cartoon characted that she had seen on television.
Mr Grimble would wait for her in the flat until she returned from work  and either rub himself against her legs whilst awaiting his tea or sulk terribly if she decide to go out later on an errand or to the cinema and leave him.

One day in the bank Anne had smiled at a tall dark customer who having found her quite appealing, had waited outside the bank to walk her to her flat door.
He had made the meeting seem like a chance encounter to allow him to invite her for a drink, but Anne turned him down and after politely saying goodbye, had closed her door. She had stood in the vestibule for a few minutes while she got her breath back and allowed the blush to fade from her face.
The following day, a Saturday, a bunch of long stemmed roses were delivered to Anne’s door with a little card attached. The card read: ‘Please give me a chance’.

They had married a year later after a courtship that had been full of long walks, pleasant conversation and romantic interludes.
His name was Max and he ran a small printing business two streets from the bank. He came from a big family with two older brothers and three younger sisters. His parents were dead and the siblings had spread out over the country, some marrying and creating their own families and others enjoying their singularity.
Anne and Max’s wedding day had been a joyful and exciting day. Full of introductions, hugs and kisses. The speeches were all of a high calibre and displayed a genuine feeling of warmth and love that Max’s family felt for them.
Anne’s family had consisted of her mother, father and a sprinkling of aunts and uncles. A few of her colleagues from the bank attended the evening reception and were immediately ‘adopted’ by both sides of the family and made to feel very welcome. A truly happy experience.

The married couple’s honeymoon took them to Canada. They climbed the Rockies and paddled their feet in Lake Louise. Crossed the water to Vancouver Island and drank wine in the vineyards of ???. Stood in a blizzard in Calgary and ate steaks in a restaurant in Whistler. The month’s holiday was action packed and left them both breathless.
A camera that Max had bought for Anne captured their exploits and happy moments on film and promised golden memories when they reviewed the resulting photographs in the months and years to come.

They bought a house soon after, in a small rural village close to the town where Max and Anne worked. The house when they saw it originally was very dilapidated and in need of some real tender, loving care, but with a bank loan and some hard graft, the property was soon restored to its former glory.
Anne decide to call it the ‘ Hideaway’ and Max agreed with her choice. The village was secluded and quiet, the perfect hideaway to return to after a busy, stressful day at work.

Max and Anne travelled each year to countries abroad for their holidays. Malta, Tenerife, Cyprus and Madeira to name just a few. They would book bus trips during the day of their arrival for the days to come. They intended to explore and see as much of their holiday spot as possible.
Anne’s camera clicked away incessantly with pictures taken of Max in various foreign locales or displayed in front of some scenic landmark.


Time passed and sadly Anne’s parents died and their respective families drifted apart, divorce, death and indifference becoming predominant.
They would exchange cards at Christmas but for the rest of the year a silence grew. People were just getting on with their lives. Their children growing up and lives becoming complicated by social events and other demanding events.

During the winter evenings Anne and Max would make up their holiday photographic albums from the summer holiday before, revelling in the memories they evoked.
“Do you remember that old man……?” Max would begin, holding out a photo.
“The one that had the puppets?” Anne would finish.
They would light a fire and load it up with logs, then sit back in the light from the flames.
Often on wet, windy days, Anne would make some hot chocolate and they would savour the rich flavour as the photos were glued in. The rain would batter into the windows leaving long trails as they ran down the panes.
Gradually the number of photo albums increased and Max had to make shelves to hold them. Anne got sticky labels to put on the spines to write on numbers. One whole wall of their living room was given over to the shelves.

One spring day while Anne was at the bank, she received a phone call from Max. He had been sent home from work with a bad headache. He told his wife that he would take some aspirin and go to bed. They concluded the call by deciding that they would have a pizza for tea and Anne went back to checking some documentation.

As Anne made her way home that afternoon the birds were singing in the trees. A light breeze blew ruffling the leaves and gently swaying the branches. Anne was humming a tune as she walked along, happy to be out of the stuffy bank.
As she unlocked her front door and pushed it open she shouted:
“Max, I’m home!”
A deathly hush hung about the house and for a moment a cold shiver ran down Anne’s spine.
“Max!” she screamed as she ran up the stairs and into their bedroom.

The paramedics assured her that she couldn’t have known that Max had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage from the symptoms of a headache. He had died some time in the late afternoon just after he had gone to bed. There would have been no pain just an increasing drowsiness as he lapsed into death.

The funeral was a nightmare. The doctor had given Anne some sedatives and her head felt full of cotton wool. Friends, colleagues and family members drifted up to her offering their condolences, hugging and kissing her in sympathy. The day was endless. Later that night when alone, Anne broke down and sobbed herself to sleep.

After a month of mourning, Anne looked out all Max’s clothes and shoes and sent them to the charity shop. It broke her heart, but she felt that it would be better to get it over with right way than let it drag on.
The house felt empty without Max. The household duties that they would share now fell to Anne to do on her own.
Every time she moved from room to room she saw things that reminded her of her late husband. She carried a permanent lump in her throat.
                                                                            
As autumn approached Anne decided that she couldn’t stay in their little house any more. Her heart still ached for Max, but she felt that the pain may reduce if she moved away although she knew that it would never totally leave.
Over the next few weeks she checked advertisements, haunted property agents and visited a large number of potentials before settling on Rose Cottage.
The property was situated in a small market town on the south coast. An old woman had lived there until she felt it was necessary to move to residential care. The interior decoration of the house had been renewed upon the old lady’s departure and one of the local gardeners had tidied up the garden and cut the grass. All Anne had to do was move her furniture and clothes in, which would take no more than a day.

A life insurance that Max had taken out two years previously left her very comfortably off and with her bank pension Anne felt that she had no need to work for the rest of her life. Her financial situation would also allow her a short foreign holiday each year which would help to ‘recharge the batteries’.

Sadly after only two years, during which Anne holidayed in Cyprus and Italy, she developed a debilitating illness which curtailed any possibility of future trips out of the country. The muscular disease was so aggressive that Anne eventually became house bound and had to employ a carer, a no – nonsense dour individual called Mrs McCabe. This woman although strict in her demeanour had a heart of gold and worked tirelessly for Anne. The two ladies became close friends and would spend endless afternoons discussing aspects of the local and world news.

As the end of October approached Anne illness took a turn for the worst and the local doctor was called. Dr Thomas was one of the ‘old, dependable’ physicians and throughout the town was held in great respect by the citizens.
After checking all Anne’s vital signs he pulled up a chair by her bed side.   

“Now Anne, you know me and what sort of man I am. I call a spade, a spade.” He said sadly. “Your illness has run its course and I am sorry to say that you are in the final phase.”

Anne took the old man’s hand in hers and said:
“Yes, I can tell. Soon I will return to my dear Max’s side. How long do I have do you think doctor?”

Dr. Thomas looked down at his patient. Anne could see tears in his eyes.
“I would say no more than a few days at the most. I am so sorry.”

The doctor offered to move Anne to the nearest hospice but she refused saying:
“No thanks, I think I will just see it out here.”

After the doctor had gone and Mrs. McCabe had gone down to make some tea, Anne lay looking out over the Common that bordered her house.
The children of the town had been scrounging and collecting wood, cardboard and other flammable items for their bonfire. The pile now stretched ten feet into the air and was topped with a very well dressed Guy Fawkes.
When her carer returned with the tea and biscuits Anne asked when the bonfire would be lit.

“It will be lit on the night of the fifth of November and not a day earlier. Why, that is in two nights, Anne” replied Mrs. McCabe.

“Are the children still collecting material for the bonfire?” Anne asked.

“Oh, they’ve stripped the area of everything that’s burnable but I’m sure they can always use more,” the carer retorted.

Later that night when the window outside Anne’s window darkened and Mrs. McCabe drew the curtains the wind began to blow quite strongly. It whistled round the house and tickled the slates on the roof.
Anne looked up at her large collection of photographic albums sitting on the shelves that Max had built.
“Mrs. McCabe, would you be as kind as to hand me down a few of my albums please?” she asked.

Before her carer left for the night she propped Anne up in her bed and laid a selection of albums on her quilt.

“Thank you Mrs. McCabe,” said Anne. “There’s one more thing that I would like you to do for me please.”

“And what is that my lamb?” replied the carer.

“Could you bring some of the children in to see me tomorrow?” asked Anne.

“It’ll tire you too much Anne,” pleaded Mrs. McCabe.

“Please, I need to ask them something.” Anne replied.

Anne poured over the albums. The pictures of their holidays. Happy golden days spent together on sandy beaches, climbing grassy slopes and sliding down snow covered hills. Anne felt as if Max was standing by her looking at the pictures. In fact the feeling was so strong that a couple of times she turned as if to speak to him.
“Oh Max,” she murmured to herself. “I miss you so much.” Then the wind outside blew as if was replying “Soon, soon, ……..we’ll be together.”

Next morning dawned bright and cold. Anne watched some of the children collect and return bits and pieces which had blown off the bonfire overnight.
Mrs. McCabe came in with Anne’s breakfast and set it on her bed.
“Good morning Anne,” said the carer.

“Good morning to you Mrs. McCabe,” replied Anne. “When are the children coming to see me?”

The carer turned to Anne and smiled.
“You will have your way, wont you? You are lucky November the fifth falls on a Saturday or else they would all be at school.”


Later that day a motley crew of children threaded their way into Anne’s bedroom and stood looking at her lying in bed.

“Hello children, I am Anne and I am in bed because I am not well,” she said.

“Will you get better soon?” asked a little girl who wore her hair in pigtails.

“No love,” replied Anne. “I am afraid I won’t.”

“Are you going to die?”  a little boy asked, with all the bluntness of youth.

“Yes,” said Anne. “I am afraid I am going to die, but I wondered if you would all do something for me………”


Later that afternoon, Mrs. McCabe came up to Anne’s bedroom to shut the curtains; the evenings drew in so quickly now that the clocks had gone back.

“And how are you this evening my little lamb?” asked Mrs. McCabe.

“I’m fine, “said Anne. “Please don’t close the curtains; I really would like to see the bonfire.”

Anne watched as people moved across the common as the lighting time for the bonfire approached. Fathers, mothers and over excited children gathered in front of the massive pile of wood, paper, cardboard boxes, tree branches and …….. photographic albums. Anne turned round to look sadly at the empty shelves.

Mrs. McCabe sat down next to Anne and the two women watched the spectacle that was beginning to unfold.

Mulled wine was handed out to the adults and fruit juice to the children.
Then an expectant hush fell over the crowd as a dark figure approached the bonfire holding a burning torch. The figure bent forward and touched the orange flames to the base of the pyre and flames shot up into the air.
Quickly the fire took hold of the tinder dry wood and soon the whole heap was burning. Large clouds of smoke rose into the night sky.

Fireworks were let off and the sky filled with colourful sparks and flames. Catherine wheels spun round like burning snakes, roman candles spouted golden sparks and rockets rose high in the sky and then blossomed out like fiery petals.

It was a glorious sight, but too soon over.
The crowd began to disperse, people making their slow way back home and to bed to dream of all the wonders that they had seen.
The bonfire burnt on and continued to reflect its angry red glow off the louring sky.
Anne felt a hand on her shoulder and turned slowly. Max stood their in the reflected light of the bonfire. He looked young again, as young as he had been when they had wed. Gone were the frown lines and crows feet from his brow and eyes.

“We have to go now Anne,” he said. “No time to dally here.”

Anne rose and took her husband’s hand and together they walked forward and were suddenly standing by ……..the bonfire.

In the glowing centre of the pyre Anne could see the burnt photographs from her album. She felt sad that she had allowed them to be burnt.
As if reading her mind Max kissed her on her cheek and said:

“You were clever to have the children put the albums on the fire……for now, they are released!”

A large flame shot into the air and Anne could see fire pictures in its colours.
It was the beach on Paphos in Cyprus where Max and she had swam in the blue Mediterranean waters.
Then it was a sledge ride down a snowy slope in the Rockies. Max was sitting behind her as they plunged down the hills.
The next picture was of them walking on a path in the volcanic hills of Tenerife. The sun was bright in the sky and white fluffy clouds chased each other over an azure blue sky.

“Don’t rush them my love,” whispered Max. “We have all eternity to enjoy them together.” And they were suddenly walking along the path Anne had seen in the flames

“Oh Max,” she cried, looking at her husband. “Tell me this is real!”

Max smiled into her eyes and gently kissed her.


Mrs. McCabe closed Anne’s eyes and laid her down on the bed.
Anne was smiling and looked at peace with the world.
The suffering was over and now she could rest.

“Oh my wee lamb,” crooned the carer. “Oh my poor wee lamb!”



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