Tig! Your It!

Tig, Your It!

The old man lay silently in the hospital bed. He could hear the general hubbub of a busy hospital going on just outside the door to his room. It was heavily muted but he could still make out the tannoy messages and the odd shout.

“Doctor Madraji to theatre, please!”  “Are we ok for a pint tonight, mate?” “Code red! Code red!”

James Barringer was dying. The nurses had made him as comfortable as they could and had left him alone with his thoughts and the silently moving sunlight that painted the walls of his room. James had been in this room for several months now and earlier he had sat in the window and looked down into a small municipal park where children played and people enjoyed the good weather. Later on as his condition deteriorated, he spent more and more time in bed. The weather had started to get chillier and he doubted whether any of the children, or the grown ups for that matter, would brave the cooler conditions to visit the park.

There was a little knock at the door and it swung open tentatively revealing a young woman wearing a dressing gown with slippers on her feet.

“Oh excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t realise that you were in bed, James.”

“Come in, come in Julia,” grunted James feebly. “Misery loves company.”

Julia Pendlebury was one of the hospital’s success stories. She had been admitted with a badly damaged heart caused by a childhood illness and had been very sick, in fact very close to death, when a donor had mysteriously been found. After a very intensive operation lasting several hours, Julia emerged a whole healthy young woman, with, thanks to the donor, her whole life ahead of her.

The hospital had insisted that she remain in the hospital for a few months to allow them to chart her progress, but the prognosis was very good, Julia had been given the invaluable present of Life.

Julia during her recuperation had visited all the patients in the ward. Each had their own private room as most were very ill. Julia would sit and read to them or run little errands to the hospital shop for them. She felt so grateful that she felt she must use her time at the hospital to make life a little easier for her fellow patients.

During the previous week, James had enjoyed his last time sitting at the window. He and Julia had watched the swallows winging south, the park attendant setting light to a bonfire of fallen leaves and listened to the wind sing its song of approaching Winter.

“Oh James,” she said, as she approached the bed. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No dear,” croaked James. “I think it is about time for me to sing my swan’s song.”

“Nonsense, we’ll have lots of days to spend together,” laughed Julia.

Julia sat on a chair by James’ bed. They talked quietly about what they had been doing that morning and although the atmosphere was pleasant, James detected the odd look of concern on the young lady’s face.

“Something  bothering you?” he asked.

“Apart from you, no,” Julia replied, a bit too quickly.

“Oh, come on… We’re friends, can’t you trust me?”

Julia looked at her feet and was quiet for a moment.

“You don’t know much about my background, do you?”

James looked up at her and shook his head.

“Apart from knowing that you are a very nice person, I know nothing about. Is there something I should know/”

Julia then explained that her father was a high ranking M.P. who had been touring the Middle East. His policies were not being accepted by everyone in these countries and a few of the extremist groups had threatened his life on numerous occasions.

Julia had learnt of the death threats from reading the national newspapers that morning and justifiably, she was worried for his safety.

“He will have bodyguards with him,” whispered James, his voice weakening. “They won’t try anything with them at his side.” Julia nodded, but still looked worried.

Later that night James lay awake and wondered how much longer he had on this Earth. He had no family and friends had passed away many years before.

His thoughts turned to Julia. He wished that he could help her in some way to repay her kindness over the past days, but what could he do…?

Suddenly James saw the handle of his door move. Slowly it moved down and the door swung open silently. A dark figure slunk into the room, the moonlight gleaming off the gun he carried in his hand.

Joachim Schultz was a professional assassin who had been hired by God’s Sword, a terrorist group involved with several atrocities in their own country, Guislan. William Pendlebury M.P., Julia’s father had been visiting Guislan and had made a few enemies with his political issues. Joachim had been given the task of eliminating Julia as a warning to her father.

The assassin crept up to James’ bed unaware that he was in the wrong room. He gently pulled the sheet away brushing James’ chin.

The contact of flesh on flesh was like an electric shock to James. In an instant he knew everything there was about Joachim and his odious mission.

“You can’t…” he grunted

“Sorry old man,” whispered Joachim. “Sorry you’ve been disturbed. Go back to sleep.” He turned to leave.

Suddenly, using all of his strength, James sat up, leant forward and grabbed the assassin’s sleeve. Jerking him round, he slapped Joachim hard on the face.

Joachim’s fell to the floor and instantly the room was flooded with light. It reminded the assassin of being in an electrical storm where forked lightning danced all around him. He felt dazed and weak. He felt that he had lost all his energy. He collapsed backwards and found himself, instead of being on the floor, in bed!

James now stood where Joachim had stood. He wore the assassin’s dark suit and held the revolver. Joachim, on the other hand, lay in James’s bed, wearing James’ pyjamas.

“What have you done to me,” groaned the assassin.

“You have exchanged places with me. Now I am you and you are me,” replied James in a rich, baritone voice.

“How…..?” Joachim felt weary and he could feel his heart thumping.

“I am a member of a group of beings called the Wyyrex. We can live on this Earth as long as we can find some younger person to exchange bodies with. I have lived for several hundred years,” James replied. “At the beginning I relished the freedom, but as time went on I realised how iniquitous my continued existence was and when my last ‘take-over’ was a man who was so close to the angels, I was surprised that he lacked wings. As I took his body over he whispered ‘I forgive you’. In that instant I knew that would be my last ever life. I would die naturally as that holy man would have done.”

“But…what happens to me now?” wailed Joachim.

“Well,” said James turning to leave the room. “I am afraid you only have hours to live and eternity to regret.”

As James left the hospital and vanished into the night, Julia rolled over and murmured in her sleep. She had been dreaming of her childhood. Glorious, golden days full of happiness.

The old man lay quietly now, tears had coursed down his cheeks but he knew that he deserved everything he had received. Silence and the dark surrounded him and he lacked the strength to call out.

Two hours later his heart stopped and to Joachim’s eyes the darkness became total.

………………………………………..+…………………………………………….

The Cupola

The Cupola

“Hello there maties! Are you visiting Dryvale for your holidays? Me? I’m Alexander Fowler, a son of the sea. I’ve served on the mighty naval vessels, Adamant and Hermes as well as other ships of the line. You’re two sweet little girls in your pretty dresses. Is that your Ma and Pa? And why have you come down to the docks to visit an old seadog like me? You want me to tell you a story. A ghost story? I hope your parents are alright about that. They are? OK, I’ll tell you my favourite spooky story. It’s called the Cupola and I am assured that it is true. Well… are you sitting comfortably? That’s what they say isn’t it? Well I’ll begin.

The original building had not sported a cupola; it was only added by old Captain Henry Burrows for his wife, soon to become widow, as an aid to allow her to look out to sea to witness his leaving and arriving to the port of Dryvale.

The original building had been a stone brick affair with dark red tiled roofs and gleaming glass windows. It had been built in the early century by a stonemason who had made up the building with stones from old houses that had fallen into ruin. It is reported that he even obtained some old gravestones from a derelict kirk to strengthen the house’s walls, but this was never confirmed.

The new house had risen phoenix like using the cannibalised fabric from other dwelling houses and, it is rumoured, memorials to the dead.

The captain had purchased the property off the mason after his business had fallen on bad times. It was sold for a much lower price than its value but the mason needed money and accepted the lower figure in desperation.

The cupola was a pretty affair. A golden dome sitting astride the house’s main roof.

The builders had fitted a large picture window into the seaward side of the structure to allow the Captain’s wife an uncluttered view of the rolling sea. Most days it moved like a lazy cat, but when the wind rose the pussy cat awoke and became a tiger. Snarling and spraying spume into the air. It could crush vessels and take them to a watery grave in a blink of an eye.

The interior of the cupola could be reached by a stair running up the inside of the roof. The walls were painted a light blue and furniture consisted of an armchair, a table and a large brass telescope. The sun warmed the dome in the morning and the Captain’s wife would take her breakfast coffee up there looking out towards the horizon where the seabirds dived and fed.

It was the month of the bad storms when Captain Burrows accepted a cargo of timber to be delivered to one of the Fresian Islands off Germany. It was a lucrative job as the timber was mahogany and very valuable. It was destined for a bureaucrat’s summer house and its delivery was regarded as urgent.

The Captain’s wife wept as her husband explained the necessity for his voyage. She pleaded that he pass it to one of the other ship owners to deliver. She had dreamt of his ship sinking and watching as the cold sea swallowed him up.

The Captain looked into her eyes and after kissing her tenderly promised her that he would return.

The great vessel Atlas Carrier pulled away from Dryvale with her cargo of timber. The Captain’s wife sat in her cupola and watched as the mighty vessel pulled away and began steaming towards the horizon. She watched her husband through the telescope busy on the bridge until the ship vanished on her way to the Fresians.

That night the wind howled like a banshee and plucked at the cupola where the Captain’s wife had remained, tucked into the armchair with a blanket over her. She had vowed to stay at her post till the Atlas Carrier reappeared and docked at Dryvale.

She could see the phosphorescent surf pounding the shore and hear the susurrus of the water as it moved feverishly about. Pounding, rolling and kneading, the sea showed all that it was master.

Sadly the Atlas Carrier foundered between Memmert and Juist Islands and the vessel was lost with all hands. Its cargo undelivered escaped from the stricken ship to float raft like marking the location of the Carrier’s final resting place.

The Captain’s wife never recovered from the tragedy and continued to visit the cupola, remaining there all day gazing out to sea. Awaiting the return of her husband.

Kind townsfolk would deliver food to her front door where they left it. By this method the old woman was kept alive and some of the ladies from the Guild would call on her to keep her and her clothing clean, but they came away from the house concerned for her welfare as all she did during their visit was gaze to seaward with wide expectant eyes.

There was a man in town called Hubert Blash and he coveted the Captain’s house. He wanted it for himself and would stoop to any depths to obtain it. He began to woo the Captain’s wife, arriving at various times of the day with flowers or sweets for her. He would join her in the cupola and whisper kind things in her ears. But it was all a ploy to win the property for himself.

One day after continued bantering the Captain’s wife accepted Hubert’s proposal of marriage. She was lonely and her lover was so kind and considerate that she felt that the captain would understand. Although she accepted Hubert Blash she never gave up looking out to sea, right up until her wedding day. On that day she gave a little sigh, shed a tear and swore she that would make a loving faithful wife for her Hubert.

The sun shone down on the church in Dryvale on Mr and Mrs. Blash’s wedding day. The birds sang and the bells rang. The bride and groom were so much in love that they never parted for the whole day. The wedding guests ate and drank and everyone was so happy. Toasts were offered. Speeches made all about luck for the happy couple. Mrs Blash revelled in the dancing, the speechifying and her husband’s attention.

As the evening came, the guests began to make their farewells and promises to stay in touch. Soon the couple were on their own and as the caterers gathered up the remaining food and drink, Hubert sat down in a chair by the fire. He had an evil grin on his face when he thought of how easily his plan had worked.

The abuse started the next morning when Mrs Blash failed to serve Mr Blash’s coffee hot enough to him. With a shriek he threw the cup of coffee at the wall where it smashed into a thousand pieces. Next he jumped to his feet and hit his wife in the face throwing her to the floor where she lay weeping.

She begged his forgiveness for the mistake and promised to try harder at being a good wife to him. But further assaults followed. Each petty mistake was rewarded with a cuff, a slap or a kick. Mrs Blash was reduced to a shivering shadow of her former self and began to hide in the cupola and weep.

Two weeks later Mr Blash decided to have a dinner party at his house. He invited all the dignitaries from Dryvale and spent a lot of money on sprucing the house up, hiring the best caterers and obtaining copious amounts of alcohol.

Mr Blash had reduced the physical abuse to his wife, resorting to threatening gestures, in an effort to keep his wife bruise and cut free (at least where they would be visible) to allow him to parade his beautiful new wife before the town.

He bought a gorgeous dress and exquisite shoes for her to look the part of a successful business man’s wife. He arranged for a dance instructor to guarantee their knowledge of each dance was flawless and he hired waiters and waitresses to serve his guests’ every whim.

Then the great night arrived. Carriages arrived at the Blash’s front door and well dressed gentlemen and ladies got down and entered the house. Soon the building was resounding to dance music. All the lights blazed out and for some it resembled a Christmas tree.

Food was eaten and alcohol was consumed. The party appeared to be an amazing success. Laughter and singing echoed from the rafters.

Mr and Mrs Blash circulated amongst their guests making comments here or giving praise there. Everyone was enjoying themselves.

As the evening progressed several of the arriving guests commented on a bank of fog that was slowly creeping towards the shore. Mr Blash laughed at their misgivings and ordered more logs to be piled on the already heaped fireplace. None of his guests would feel the cold that night.

Later in the evening a young gentleman asked Mrs Blash if she would dance with him. She agreed and they stepped off together into the swirling, dancing couples.

Everyone said what a lovely pair they made and how well they danced together.

Mr Blash, who had consumed several drinks of alcohol, was incensed when he saw his wife dancing with the young man. How dare she show him up? After all he had done for her!

Then it was all over and the carriages returned to take the ladies and gentlemen home.

It was very foggy when the guests left and a foghorn wailed dismally in the distance. The sound of the horses’ hooves was gradually lost in the swirling fog.

Mrs Blash shook her head wearily as she shut the main door. She hoped in her heart that everything had pleased her husband; she was truly frightened by him at times.

Mr Blash was standing at the foot of the stairs holding a long leather belt. He swung it to and fro as he screamed that she had disgraced him in front of all the very important people. What had she been thinking of, he snarled, of dancing with that youth? Was he not good enough for her? As he shouted he hit her with the strap, over and over until her dress hung in shreds. Her lovely party dress reduced to ribbons and rags!

Turning Mrs Blash pushed her husband violently so he fell over onto the floor. In that split second she ran up the stairs. Mr Blash quickly recovered and followed his wife up the stairs shrieking like a witch. He knew where she was going and this enraged him further.

Unbeknown to everyone, as the bank of fog had come in, it had brought with it a rusty hulk, covered in seaweed and barnacles. The Atlas Carrier had returned.

Slamming the door of the cupola shut, Mrs Blash bolted it. She was crying from the pain of the wounds and the blood was running down her body. She knelt by the window and prayed for the Captain to return and rescue her just as Mr Blash began pounding on the door demanding to be let in.

“Now, little girls, the last bit of this story was told to me by some of the servants who had been cleaning up after the party. They said that they heard the master bellowing like a bull and the mistress screaming and wailing. Then the main door suddenly crashed open and the fog began to pour into the house and fill the hall. Suddenly all was silent and the servants rushed upstairs to the cupola to find out what had happened. The dead body of Mr Blash lay on the floor of the cupola. As well as blood he was covered with sand and seaweed! Of his wife there was no sign!”

“I like to think that the Captain returned in his ship to retrieve his wife from the clutches of that evil man Blash”

“Mrs Blash has never been discovered to this day, but on the morning after the fog cleared someone had inscribed a large heart on the sand with ‘Together Forever’ written underneath.”

“Why thank you sir, for the money. I hope you daughters enjoyed it. The house? What happened to the house? It still stands sir, on the hill, empty for no one will live in it!”

“Sleep tight girls and don’t forget about Alexander Fowler and his spooky tales!”

………………………………………….+……………………………………………

Another Day

Another Day

The porridge was burnt, the coffee was made undrinkable by the inclusion of sour milk and the toast, the toast was an acceptable cremation. Breakfast? More like blitzkrieg! I had had enough and stormed out of the house leaving her silently weeping.

Out marriage had been a big mistake. It’s true that once lust is out of the way nothing remains. She had been a superb bed mate, but out of it, well less said the better.

Love? I don’t think Cupid was involved in this experience. Maybe Old Nick, but nothing amorous. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

The day didn’t help. It was wet and not a crashing rain either, a wetting, effete mist that was neither one thing or the other. I turned up my collar and made my way down Summerfield Street. Huh, another misnomer. The street was full of rusty wrecked cars, broken glass and dirty, snottery nosed kids. More like Dumpfield Street! The odour of boiled cabbage, faeces and smoke permeated the atmosphere. Another local attraction!

I headed for a McDonalds. There at least I would get a decent cup of coffee and maybe a bagel. There was one on the corner and getting out of this rain would be a bonus.

As I approached I could see a procession of cars at the Drive By. It seemed as if a good proportion of the world had decided to eat out. I hoped that at least the inside would be fairly empty to allow me to savour the silence as I consumed my belated breakfast.

Fat chance! The local kiddy care group had brought their screaming kids in for a McD’s hat, balloon and colouring competition. I seethed as I stood in the queue as mummies asked their children what they would like for their meal.

“Fun Bag? Cheeseburger? Oh you want a big Mac? No you won’t be able to eat a whole big Mac! Have a Cheeseburger? Oh don’t cry, Mummy will order a big Mac and I will eat what you can’t manage. Now, do you want ice cream? What do you want in your ice cream? Smarties, Yorkie, Cadbury’s Flake…?”

I take a big deep breath and hold it, feeling my temper rising steadily. I try and remember what I was like when my parents took my sister and I out for a meal. My dad wouldn’t set foot out of his car before we had decided on what we were eating. Even mum had to make her mind up before we de carred. It wasn’t that he was a power freak but he liked order and attempted to create it wherever he expected chaos.

Suddenly a miracle occurs; one of the childrens’ mothers turns to me and loudly says.

“Let this gentleman to the front of the queue, we have all day!”

I am so astounded that I momentarily glanced behind. Gentleman? No one behind me, so it must be me.

“Aww thank you,” I blurt out. “A big Mac meal and white coffee please.”

“Are you sitting in or taking away?” The eternal question. To be or not to be? Ahh! The agony of choice!

“Sitting in,” I mumble after taking another very big deep breath.

So at last, serenity. I have my untainted coffee and a gorgeous smelling meal.

I eat a couple of french fries and carefully pick up the bun with intercalated layers which immediately begin to slide out in opposite directions until I am left with an empty bun and a polystyrene box full off various components from the big Mac.

Another deep breath and one by one I consume the integral ‘bits’.

I am fast becoming hyperventilated and may possibly faint. Fat chance, but why is everything stacked against me. Life puts the pressure on and then just when you feel everything begin to crack; it comes off momentarily followed by double pressure when it comes on again. If I couldn’t manage the stress the first time, how can I withstand double stress?

Micky D’s door opens and in walks an old man. He looks as old as Noah and I wonder why he isn’t in a home or something. He comes right over to my table and stands there looking at me.

“What?” I say. “What do you want?”

“Any chance you could buy me a drink mate?” he asks me in a deep phlegmy voice.

Milk shake, Coca Cola, Slurpy, Tea, Coffee…..I think as he just stands and looks.

And if slurpy or milk shake, what flavour? I suddenly realise that I better pull myself together or it will be me that will end up in the home!

“Yeh, sure my friend. Will coffee do?” I ask cordially.

“Aye coffee will do. Two sugars and milk.” he grunts.

When I bring back the coffee he grabs it and begins to chug it down.

“Watch out,” I yelp. “It’ll be hot!”

His coffee is drunk and still he sits and looks at me.

“You are an intrinsically unhappy man and you exude unhappiness,” he says after a few minutes contemplation. “What are you unhappy about?”

“Apart from having to shell out money for you coffee?” I facetiously start off. “Personally I think the World has dealt me a shitty hand!”

There, I had said it. I had often thought it but putting it into words effectively carved it in stone.

“You are very lucky you know,” the old man says. “So lucky that I can feel the beams of luck pouring out of you.”

“Yeah?” I say. “I’ll remember to put my Lottery numbers on this week.”

The man puts his hand out and lays it on mine. I feel a sudden homophobia, but I realise that his touch is relaxing. I feel all the tension in me go out and everything around become fuzzy.

“The fields of France were marshy bogs by the time me and my mates arrived. We met on the train before we got the boat over the channel. How smart we looked in our new uniforms with shiny belt buckles. We felt like gods and how we would charm the French ladies.” he says as pictures begin to appear.

We’re no longer in McDonalds, I can see a tortured horizon with the blackened stumps of trees standing like skeletons. The wind blows and I can hear the cries of injured men and smell faeces and blood. An explosion over to our left sprays stones and sand down upon us. I look across at the old man, but he is standing with a group of young men. They look keen and excited.

“Oh yes,” he continues. “We were excited and keen. We had seen the pictures portraying the Tommies beating the sausage eating Hun. It would be like taking sweets from a baby.”

I am standing in a trench. My feet are wet and I can see the bodies of dead soldiers lying about like litter. “Can’t we bury them?” I scream, but no one pays any attention, they are all looking at the bank of earth in front of us. A whistle sounds far away and is echoed and re echoed up and down the trench as the men scrabble over the top and go off towards no mans land.

“The guns cut us down like wheat. My pals from Blighty all dead. The Clark twins, Berty and Colin, Johnny Carter, Bill Farne and dear old Smithy Collins all lying dead in that mud. Always mud, it haunted you, it coated you, never left you alone!”

I am running holding a rifle with a bayonet sticking out. The shells are screaming overhead and exploding. The earth moves when one of these ‘bolts from the blue’ comes down. I have never, ever felt so alone. I feel I am the last man on Earth. And at any time I could be disseminated, destroyed or vaporised, or all three simultaneously.

“The guns are blazing from the slope above. The Jerry’s helmets are visible and offer some sort of target - if you could stop. But you go on and on becoming less and less as you get nearer and nearer. Till you are alone and it is you that everyone is relying on. It is you that must climb up and destroy the field gun post. It is you that must kill the foes – or be killed.”

I was looking down at four men in German uniform. One is firing a machine gun; one is feeding and endless belt of bullets into the gun. The other two are preparing themselves to defend the post. I have a grenade in my hand, I pull the pin out and drop it amongst the men. Suddenly they are all dead and I am triumphant. I look back across the meadow that has been sown with the bodies of my comrades. My pride turns to ashes in my mouth. Triumph, glory? Surely just a waste of men.

The old man removes his hand and McDonalds reappears. I realise that I have been crying for there are tears on my face.

“Where were we?” I mutter. “How did you do that?”

He looks into my face and says, “You are very lucky, don’t waste it.”

I have her in my arms and I kiss her tears away. The little soul is so cosy and warm and I know that deep down I do love her. And if I nurture her like a delicate flower the love will grow and blossom.

She leaves me for a moment and then returns carrying a plate with two bits of bread perfectly toasted and covered with butter as golden as her hair. In her other hand there is a cup of steaming hot coffee that smells like heaven.

She tells me she is sorry that she will try harder, but I kiss her excuses away and I say I’m sorry and that I will try harder.

The old man pulls the old blanket round him and prepares to sleep under the stars for the umpteenth time. He remembers the man who bought him the coffee and he hopes that what he gave him back will last him for a lifetime.

………………………………………….+……………………………………………..

More of the Same

More of the Same

The wind blew cold as Eric made his way down the main street of Branton. Winter had come early and already small piles of snow sat up against the buildings. Water in puddles displayed icy glass like shards. Pedestrians huddled against the gale and pulled scarves tighter round their throats.

A large hinged, wooden shutter was padlocked to the front of Eric’s newspaper booth. He unlocked it and raised it up attaching it to a metal bar. Now it served as a roof which over hung the open window through which magazine and newspaper sales were made, protecting Eric from any inclement weather. The only enemy was the cold and Eric wrapped up warm and carried flasks of coffee to make his sojourn a little more bearable.

Eric West was middle aged, he had lost his wife two years before and his contact with the public gave him a sort of solace.

“And how’s the man today?” a voice sounded. Eric turned and saw Jaded Jim holding a large pile of newspapers. Jim was one of the street people who were homeless. He often came by and Eric would share his coffee with him.

“Where do you want them?” Jim asked laughing. Eric could see that the pile of papers was heavy and Jim was struggling.

“Over here, mate”, Eric said indicating a bench inside his kiosk.

Jim gratefully drank the hot coffee as Eric sorted the newspapers and magazines. Eric made it sweet and strong, just the way he liked it.

Jim had picked up his prefix of Jaded when a house painter had accidentally spilt a pot of green paint over Jim as he slept in a doorway. Eric had given him some money to clean up, but the nickname stuck.

By lunchtime Eric had eaten half of his sandwiches. Business had been brisk and the pile of papers had diminished. A few magazines remained as well as some action comics. The weather had deteriorated and now the wind strength had increased and Eric felt the booth being buffeted.

“Hey, Eric!” A man shouted from across the road. It was Big Sam, a four foot dwarf who like Jim lived solely on the street.

“Sam, have you eaten today?” Eric asked. “Cos’ I made myself too many sandwiches and I’m sure you can help me out.”

“Eric, you’re a gent.” Sam said as he crossed the road. “I was just wondering where I was going to get my breakfast.”

The winter evening drew steadily in and the roads gradually emptied of pedestrians. I’ll give it another ten minutes then I’m homeward bound, thought Eric as he counted the contents of his till. It had been a profitable day and had passed quickly thanks to visits from Jaded Jim, Big Sam and other denizens of the streets.

Eric looked up and noticed that a solitary hunched figure stood on the opposite side of the road.

“I’ve still got some hot coffee!” shouted Eric. “If you fancy a cup.”

The person moved slowly across the road and as he neared the booth an errant gust of wind picked up Eric’s remaining newspapers and blew them off down the street.

The dark figure raced off chasing the escaping papers.

“Leave them mate!” shouted Eric. “You’ll never catch up with them.”

But strangely, he did, and returned them all carefully folded.

As Eric poured a cup of coffee for the man he thanked him for his trouble.

“They‘re destined for some of the street people’s blankets, so I’m sure they would thank you too.”

“You could use a paper weight to stop the papers blowing away again. How about this…” The man bent down below the front of the booth and picked up something from the ground.

It was a circular piece of stone and the chips, scratches and cracks on it surface gave the impression of writing.

“That’ll do,” said Eric looking admiringly at the object. “And it was just lying on the ground?”

A fresh fall of snow covered the street when Eric arrived at his booth. Faithful Jaded Jim stood holding a pile of newspapers.

“Didn’t want them to get wet,” grunted Jim, as Eric took the load from him.

“You look cold my friend,” said Eric. “Let me pour you a cup. It’ll warm you up.”

As Jim drank his coffee he admired Eric’s recent addition, the stone paperweight.

“Woh man!” he shouted. “Where did you get that? It looks Mayan or Aztec like.”

Eric explained where the stone had come from and about the hunched man who had found it for him. Jim shook his head when Eric asked if he knew the man.

“No, never seen anyone about like that. You say he was a hunchback.”

“Yeah,” replied Eric as he sorted the newspapers out. “That’s what it looked like to me.”

After Jim left, Eric sold papers and magazines to several customers who purposely came to his booth. They knew him to be a good and kind man and liked to help the news seller. The wind had dropped but the low temperatures kept Eric’s booth chilly and he often gave a shiver.

His eyes strayed to an article at the middle of the front page.

Two injured in pile up on Branton’s main street.

A collision of two 4 x 4 vehicles at the town’s

centre has led to one driver and the other vehicle’s

passenger being transported to hospital by ambulance.

Eric found out from the article that the two drivers had been racing each other when the accident occurred. Eric hoped that the injured would make a quick recovery.

Later that afternoon Big Sam came over to the booth.

“I got some news Eric,” he whispered. “There’s been an accident in the town. Two cars collided.”

Eric was only half listening and only heard the last part of Sam’s news.

“You say there has been another crash in town?” he asked.

“Another crash mate?” replied Sam. “No, there’s only been the one.”

“But… I read about one in the newspaper,” said Eric running his finger over the newspaper in front of him. “I am sure it was here.” He indicated the area on the front of the newspaper where he thought it had been but where it should have been was an advertisement for a car.

“I am sure I saw it here…” Eric said looking at Sam in dismay.

“Must have been one of those ‘senior moments’ Eric,” Sam said laughing. “You probably heard someone talking about it and your subconscious made the rest up.”

The next day was a brighter day with a blue sky but bitterly cold. The morning had gone by slowly and Eric had only seen a few of his regular customers. He decided to take a break and have a sandwich. Edith his wife had made up roast beef sandwiches smothered in mustard. Just the thing to keep the cold out.

As he ate he scanned the newspaper and once again his eyes were drawn to an article at the foot of the front page.

Mother and daughter (5 years old) die in fire at house in Branton.

Yesterday, Margaret Boyle and her daughter Sara who lived at No. 5 Taylor Way,

 Branton died when fire swept through their house.

Both victims had succumbed to smoke inhalation.

Eric quickly looked at the date of the incident. It had happened that day… but in two hours time. It hadn’t happened yet!

Eric spotted Jaded Jim walking up the road and shouted across to him.

“Jim, mind the booth until I get back please!”

By the time Eric arrived at Taylor Way he was exhausted. He had run for about a mile before flagging down a taxi which had dropped him at the road end.

Number 5 was a small bungalow that sat in a beautiful garden full of flowers.

Eric ran to the front door and rang the bell as well as banging on the door. No one came so he ran around to the back door where he found Mrs. Boyle and her daughter clearing the snow from the back path.

“Your house is on fire!” he shouted and both Mrs. Boyle and her daughter looked at the house in surprise. There was no smoke or fire showing. Everything seemed normal ….until suddenly…there was an explosion from within the house.

Smoke began to pour out the door and Mrs Boyle wailed.

“I left the chip pan on the stove. The fat has caught fire!” She and her daughter made to run into the house but Eric grabbed them both and held them back.

“No,” he screamed. “If you go in there you will die!”

 Mrs Boyle looked at him. She looked scared. “How do you know that?”

“I …have seen fires like this before,” he blurted out and as if by magic it was confirmed when thick, greasy smoke started to pour out of the house.

The fire engine left. The firemen had doused the burning house until every part was saturated. Mrs Boyle and her daughter had been taken away by the police to stay with Mrs Boyles’ sister. Eric was left to the mercy of the Press.

“No, I am not psychic,” he said to a young reporter.

“But… Mrs Boyle said that you just turned up and stopped them going into the house!” said the youth.

“I must have seen smoke…” Eric began to say, but was interrupted by the pressman.

“But… Mrs Boyle said the fire didn’t start till after you arrived!”

Eventually Eric got back to his booth. Jaded Jim and Big Sam had been ‘holding the fort’ and in gratitude Eric gave them both a hand out to compensate them. They were both embarrassed and tried to refuse citing all Eric’s previous kindness to them.

“No,” said Eric firmly. “You must take it…you never know when I might need you to fill in for me again.”

This turned out to be prophetic as the following day another mysterious piece of news appeared on the top newspaper in Eric’s booth.

Yesterday, toddler Jimmy Graham today fell from a third floor window to his death. The youngster had been playing with the window handle in the lounge, his mother said, when the window opened and he fell out. Mrs Graham is staying with friends and was not available for comment. The flats in Orchard Street, Branton have been selected for future refurbishment and the windows were to have ‘safety clips’ fitted to the handles. Sadly, this innovation would have prevented Jimmy of Number 12, Orchard Street, from being able to open the window.

Eric quickly checked the date. It was indeed that day but only an hour hence. He checked the street up and down but there was no sign of his two stalwarts. Eric knew that time was the essence so he flipped the front shutter down and locked it wasting valuable seconds fiddling with the padlock.

Orchard Street basked in the afternoon sun. A fat dog lay on the pavement asleep. Flies buzzed busily over a smelly dustbin that had tipped and lost its lid. All seemed quiet and serene, but Eric knew that this was set to change in…less than ten minutes!

Eric pushed the bottom door of the tenement. A smell of urine and disinfectant assailed his nostrils as he climbed floor upon floor. Number 12 had to be on the floor above; Eric thought as he pounded up the stairs. He only had minutes left.

Eric reached the front door of Number 12 and knocked hard on it and kept knocking until the door opened. A bedraggled woman stood there looking perplexed. She had obviously just climbed out of the bath and was none to happy.

“What the hell do you mean by hammering on my door…” she started to say, but Eric pushed her out of the way and ran to where he thought the lounge would be. He threw the door open.

Little Jimmy Graham had just swung the handle of the window up. He had spotted a friend of his down on the pavement and he had often seen how to open the window when his mother called down to someone on the street. Imagine his shock when the window swung out and he felt himself falling out into space.

Eric grabbed the boy just as he began his descent and pulled him back into the lounge into the arms of his mother. As mother hugged her son crying and scolding simultaneously Eric quietly let himself out of the flat and made his way back to his newspaper booth.

“Where have you been pal?” Jim asked, sounding decidedly worried. He was standing by Eric’s place of business and had been looking up and down the street.

“I had to go on an …errand,” replied Eric.

“Not another mysterious, disappearing item of future news?” Jim asked.

Eric looked sheepish and nodded.

“Where did you read it?” he said picking up a newspaper from the pile.

“There…in the middle,” replied Eric indicating the area on the paper.

“But…” spluttered Jim. “It’s an advertisement for frigging Butlins!”

As the sun set over Branton, Eric told Jim and Sam about the accident that had almost claimed Jimmy Graham’s life.

“But why is it happening?” asked Sam. “Why does it vanish after it alerts you?

“I don’t know,” replied Eric holding his hands up in exasperation. “But what can I do but try and stop it happening?”

The next day it was snowing as Eric opened up. The weather forecast was for snow flurries, leading to blizzards later on in the day.

I think I may close up early today, he thought; get home before it gets too bad.

Eric carefully cut the band that held the plastic wrapper round the papers and laid them on the counter. Reaching down he picked up his stone paperweight and laid it on top of the pile. Just like a light coming on a news item appeared on the front cover of the top newspaper.

Well known news seller gunned down. Eric West was today shot dead during a robbery………….

Eric didn’t read anymore, he stood immobile. The news item referred to HIS death this time. How was he to do anything about this?

“OK matey,” growled a voice from outside the booth. “Just hand over your money and no one will get hurt!”

A man with a handkerchief covering his face stood there holding a revolver pointed at Eric.

This was what the news item was all about. His own death, thought Eric. It was about to happen…

“Hurry up!” snarled the man. “I ain’t got all day!”

“I’ve just opened up,” said Eric. “I don’t have any money.”

“Have it your own way!” shouted the-would be robber and pulled the trigger.

The bullet shattered the stone paperweight and ricoched striking Eric in the heart. The pain was excruciating.

The shock of the fatal injury made him jump and his head rammed into the roof of the booth. This dislodged the heavy wooden shutter which swung down and cracked the thief on the head. He ran off screaming, the robbery forgotten, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his temple.

Eric felt at peace. He had some how got the strength to pull himself out of the booth and lay bleeding at the edge of the street. The snow was falling a bit heavier and soon Eric was clothed in what looked like a white cloak.

“Get up Eric!” came a strident voice from across the street. Eric opened his eyes and saw the man with the hunchback. As he watched the man stood erect and the black coat slipped from his shoulders revealing – a pair of golden wings that spread wide above the man.

“The stone… you gave me…it was magic,” spluttered Eric.

“Only to those with unblemished hearts,” the angel said. “Now, the world has need of you, get up and join me.”

“What can I…do?” Eric asked feeling strength suddenly start returning to his body.

“More of the same, Eric,” said the heavenly messenger. “More of the same.”

Eric got up and instead of the snow falling of his body it transformed into a gleaming garment and from his shoulder blades appeared a set of silver wings.

………………………………………+………………………………………………