Jack's Wish

Jack’s Promise

‘Go on Tommy – tell Santa what you want for Christmas’

Tommy gave no indication of hearing his mum. He sat at the kitchen table and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He clutched the pen in his hand. His brows were knitted in concentration, his mouth pursed and his tongue poked out.

He wrote ‘Dear Santa’ at the top of the page in large wiggly letters – not too bad for a seven year old.

He leant forward and covered up so that his mum couldn’t see what he wrote next. All his mum could see was the top of his head.

She heard the slow scratching of the pen and his phonetic mumblings as he struggled to spell out the words. He looked up. 

‘Mummy, how do you spell ‘together’? He spoke hesitantly, trying to sound-out the difficult word; ‘Ti Gi – ether’?

She showed no surprise but a frown creased her brow as she spelled the word for him.

Tommy put the pen down and sat back. She could see his large wiggly writing:

Dear Santa

For Christmas I want Mummy and Daddy back together

 ‘Can you send it to Santa?’ This was the magic mantra; send it to Santa and all Christmas wishes would be granted. Santa always came through. Why should this year be different?

How could she explain to her seven year old son? 1940 would go down in history as being very different. Jack, her husband, had been conscripted. She had no idea when he would return home, or even if he would return…or even where he had been posted. The last letter she had received from Jack had been heavily censored. It upset her to see her husband’s delicate handwriting scored through with ugly black lines. His location had been a secret and now his whereabouts were even a mystery to the Army.

Her last letter was from the war office. It was an official statement. Private Jack Peterson was listed as missing in action.

How could she explain that to her seven year old son?

She remembered Jack’s parting words ‘Don’t worry luv, I’ll be back no matter what’

Even at the time it seemed like a rash promise. Now it seemed like a desperate fantasy. How could Jack escape the horrors of war unscathed?

All she could do was pray for her husband’s safe return. And she did post Tommy’s letter to Santa, maybe the GPO would have an answer.   

Flares sent up into the sky illuminated the harsh desert landscape for a moment and then the comforting darkness returned.  Private Jack Peterson was hugging the ground, if barren rock and sand could be called ground.  Over to the right, a stone’s throw away was the crumpled body of an old school mate, hit by a piece of shrapnel and now curled up as if asleep. 

Jack had not dared to move now for several hours.  In the distance and sometimes not so far away was the occasional sound of machine gunfire and a stray shell sometimes passed overheard, before landing somewhere in the rear. Some seemed to scream far overhead, others followed a lazier trajectory and landed with a bang somewhere nearby.   But the firing seemed most intense when a flare went up, hence Jack’s hatred of that brilliant though mercifully brief light. 

Just a week before it had all seemed so different.   So easy.  Like a Sunday stroll in Lambeth. 

They had sat in a briefing tent listening to the C/O drone on.   This was a surprise offensive, a winter attack, designed to catch the Italians off guard and drive them from this toe-hold they held on Egyptian soil.  The Italians it was widely believed were not first class soldiers, certainly less fearsome than the Germans.  The C/O, a smirking old Eton gent with a handlebar moustache painted a picture of pressed and comical Italians, throwing away their rifles and running at the first appearance of the British. It would be all over in hours. Jolly good show.  The Italians it seemed were not equipped to fight.

Nevertheless an Italian bullet or shell could send you to the next world just as quickly as a German or British bullet, the Italians also had the very irksome habit of firing back it seemed, despite their poor reputation. 

And Jack had no idea whether the offensive had been a success.  Had British troops driven the Italians back or were British troops driven back to Egypt?   ‘Operation Compass’.  Jack laughed at the name.  How he wished for a compass now! A week or more wandering in the flat, featureless desert.  An immense expanse of scorching nothingness.  Why fight the Italians over mile after mile of scorching nothing?  The reason for the war, Poland, seemed so
far away from this burning desert.  

Jack’s thoughts inevitably wandered home.  How he wished to be home for Christmas, to spend Christmas with his wife and son, rather than here, hugging the sand and trying to stay alive.  

‘Home for Christmas’, a phrased he repeated to himself just to keep himself sane as the shells and bullets continued to whizz past him. 

All of a sudden a silence fell over the area as the bombardment ceased. The quiet was so loud that it buzzed in Jack’s ears. Was this the beginning of an offensive? Were the Italian troops about to attack? Jack’s thoughts raced through his mind as he prepared for the worst to happen.

But nothing did. It seemed as if the Italian gunners and the army had just stopped and gone home for the night Maybe now, thought Jack, I can get back to my battalion.

But which way? Jack looked all around at the undulating sand and confusing landscape. He had been on a reconnaissance mission when the bombardment had started and he had been pinned down for days, creeping forward by inches and then huddling down in some shell crater or dip in the sand.

Jack had been one of ten men that had made up the‘recce’team.

They had left from the Front and entered ‘No man’s land’ about a week before. Jack was the only one who had survived and Lieutenant Royce, just before he died due to a bullet wound, had entrusted to Jack, a document upon which he had recorded details of the enemy’s strengths and locations of heavy machine gun batteries.

“Get back to the battalion, Jack,” he had spluttered. “They need this information!”

Jack’s rations had just about run out and he only had a small amount of water left. Now, he had lost the way and had only his intuition to guide him back to his men.

Slowly raising his head he squinted into the desert. If the shells had been falling over towards a small ridge of sand dunes, did that mean that he should make his way in that direction?

It was a ‘six and half a dozen’ situation. Whatever he decided, thought Jack, he had a fifty /fifty chance of being right.

Jack had crawled, scuttled and slithered for about a mile when he heard something ahead of him. Instantly he dropped down flat and lay still. A light desert breeze blew some sand into his face and he licked his parched lips. Had it been a sentry that he had heard? And if so, was it one of his or one of theirs?

“Ohhhhh!” a voice moaned out from somewhere ahead of him. Someone was in pain. Could it be a British casualty? He would have been caught in the last barrage of shells. He may have been out looking for me and the rest of the group. Jack crawled forward a little bit more and found himself looking down at an Italian officer lying in a shell crater. The man was covered with blood and his eyes were shut, but Jack could see that he was still alive as he gave another moan.

Making sure that the man had no visible weapons, Jack slid down the side of the hole and at the noise of stones and sand being dislodged, the officer’s eyes opened in fear and he shrunk back.

“Don’t be afraid,” whispered Jack. “I won’t hurt you.”

Jack unpacked his water bottle and held it to the officer’s lips. The man drunk greedily, but Jack pulled it back to save some of the liquid for later.

“You’ll get more later, mate,” Jack said. “Can you speak any English?”

“I have a little English,” the Italian replied. “Have you any food? I have been out here for long time.”

Using sign language and the little English that the Italian officer had, Jack was able to piece together why the officer was caught in the shell hole.

The man had been an artist before he was seconded into the Italian Army. His father was a prominent citizen in Italy and had managed to get his son a commission.

With all the slaughter due to various battles he had been given ‘battlefield promotions’ as his superiors had been killed and now he commanded the battalion that had been bombarding the area that Jack had been pinned down in. Assured by his officers that the area had been ‘sterilised’ due to the shelling, he had decided to go out and make some sketches of the desert. During the campaign the Italian officer had made many basic sketches of places and buildings that he intended to paint as and when the fighting ceased.

“I was not seeing the hole that I fell into and hit this” the officer said shaking his head and pointing at a large piece of rusty metal.

Jack was astounded that anyone with a military background could still possess an eye for the beauty of nature, after all the fighting, the shelling and the deaths. Was this man real? Wasn’t he living in a fool’s dream? He was in command of a human wave of destruction, yet was able to switch off and return to his former life by the drawing of various lines on a bit of paper.

“My wife and bambinos,” muttered the Italian, proffering a snapshot from his wallet. “They live in Roma.” Jack took the photo and

saw a black and white picture of a dark haired woman with two chubby children.

“They all look very happy,” said Jack, unsure of what to say.

“I also, will be happy to get home,” the man replied.

Jack pulled his wallet out and carefully plucked a photograph from one of the pockets. “My wife and …bambino.”

The Italian looked at Jack’s family and slowly raised his head.

“We are both…very lucky. Are we not?”

It was at that moment that Jack heard an angry whine and knew that a shell was on its way in. Quickly he covered the Italian’s body with his own and felt the sand and debris rain down on his back as the shell exploded.

“It is not our guns,” spluttered the officer.

“No,” replied Jack. “It’s ours.”

For the next hour barrage after barrage pounded the ground around them. Each time the men heard the noise of an approaching shell, they thought that their time had come.

Then as before the shelling stopped and silence enveloped the area.

As Jack moved off the top of the injured Italian officer, he was shocked to see that the man was unconscious. Gently he nudged the man until his eyes flicked open.

“Thank you,” said the officer. “But I don’t think that I am long to live.”

Jack loosened the officer’s jacket and pulled his shirt open revealing a deep, bleeding wound. Upon falling the officer had impaled himself on the metal debris. Quickly Jack went into his kitbag and pulled out a field dressing which he pushed against the officer’s damaged chest.

“We have to get some help for you,” Jack hissed, as he carefully wound bandages round the Italian’s back. “You will bleed to death otherwise.” Jack jumped to his feet and began to climb out of the shell hole.

“No, no!” the Italian officer replied. “You will be killed.”

As Jack reached the rim of the crater a shot rang out and a bullet struck him in the thigh. Instantly Jack was thrown back into the pit. As he lay bleeding a voice rang out.

“Braccia su!” It was an Italian demanding that Jack raise his hands.

A face looked into the crater and surveyed the two men laying wounded. It was an Italian soldier.

“Capitano!” said the man as he recognised his officer.

Quickly the man signalled back to his comrades and ten minutes later a stretcher was brought and several Italian soldiers began to

lift the Italian officer onto it.

“No!” said the Captain angrily. “This man will go first.” He pointed at the injured Jack.

Eventually both wounded men were brought into the Italian camp where both received treatment from the doctor.

On the Captain’s orders, they both lay side by side like comrades. Jack slipped in and out of consciousness.

The next day under a flag of truce the Italians prepared to deliver Jack, the sole survivor of the original reconnaissance team, back to the British lines.

As Jack was lifted onto the stretcher a medical orderly helped the Italian captain to Jack’s side. Lifting Jack’s hand, the officer shook it gently.

“Thank you for my life,” he said. “I must know your name.”   

“Jack Peterson,” stammered Jack. “…sir”

The Italian captain stood shakily to his feet and saluted.

“It has been a privilege to know you, Jack.”

 As Jack was carried out into ‘No man’s land’ towards his men he shouted as loud as he could,

“Sir, I must know your name! Sir…please!”

The mists were rolling over the area and they were being turned blood red by the dying sun. As Jack began to make out the British lines the Italian officer’s voice rang out loudly with a name that sounded strange to a British ear, but particularly special to Jack’s.

Tommy sat and gazed down the road as the sky began to darken.

“Aw Mummy, its Christmas tomorrow and Santa hasn’t granted my wish.”

“Never mind Tommy,” replied his mother, sadly. “Santa is very busy at this time of year, so he may have forgotten us. Still we have each other.”

Tommy ran over to his mummy and cuddled into her.

“Yes I know,” he said wistfully. “But it would have been so nice to have Daddy home for Christmas.”

As Tommy’s mummy hugged her son her gaze wandered to the window, to the road outside, to the large figure who was hobbling up the pavement…

“Tommy!” she screamed with delight. “It’s your Daddy. Santa has given you the best present in the world!”

All three of the Peterson family sat in front of a roaring fire that night and awaited the arrival of Christmas. Jack had explained that he had been invalided out of the Army due to the damage done to his hip bone by the Italian bullet. They, as a family would have to tighten their belts until Jack got a job that his disablement would allow, but they were back together.

“Good old Santa,” whispered a very sleepy Tommy.

“What’s that all about?” asked Jack to his wife.

“Oh, all Tommy asked Santa for this Christmas was for you and me to be together again.”

Jack laughed and gazed deep into the fires blazing heart.

“Do you know what the Italian officer’s name was, who got me safely back to my troops?”

“No?” said Tommy and his mummy together.

“Salvato da Santa!”* he laughed and hugged his dear wife and son close to him.

*Salvato da Santa is rough Italian for ‘Saved by Santa’

Call Me Morgan

“Morgan Hi . . . Hallo Morgan?” 

I ignored him. I didn’t even raise my eyes from the pint glass in front of me. No one knew me by that name, not anymore. To tell the truth no one really used it even back in the day.

“Morgan?” He persisted.  “I’d know you anywhere, even without your old stage tash!”

I put my pint down, wondering vaguely how many I’d had, but the night was young so I couldn’t have had many . . . I was still sober.

Only one person knew me by that name.

“Fergus?”

But it couldn’t be. He was dead. I’d read his obituary.

He sat down at my table and stuck out a hand. We shook. It was him alright, only older, but with the same canny smile and a twinkle in his eye.

 “How are you?” He grinned, his charm undimmed by time, even if his debonair looks had gone. Was I being harsh? Maybe. I was no spring chicken myself.  I suppose Fergus passed as distinguished, whereas I was old with no redeeming qualities.

“Are you a ghost?” I said, only half joking. For a moment he looked very serious.

“Ah, rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated!” It was the same old jovial laugh, the easy confidence that had made him a success on stage. And yet . . . there was something different, something lurked in the eyes . . . and then it was gone.

“It’s a long story, Morgan, we –“

 “No one calls me Morgan now” I interrupted.

“You changed your stage name?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I just dropped it, no one knows about the old shows”

“Yeah, changed days  . . . so what do I call you?”

“Don’t you remember? - David, David smith is my name”

He chuckled. “Yeah David. . .” He seemed to be trying it out, or maybe he was remembering “It doesn’t seem right. I prefer . . .” He paused for effect and waved his hands in a familiar stage gesture “Morgan . . . the . . . Magnificent!” I had to laugh, I hadn’t heard the old stage routine for many years. He had me down pat. He’d always been a good mimic, it was part of his charm.

I never learned any more about his obituary, though I pressed him for an explanation. He never gave a straight answer. He hinted vaguely about a publicity stunt that went wrong. ‘I’ll tell you my secret later!’ was all he would say.

As far as his personal history was concerned he was evasive and preferred instead to reminisce about the so-called good old days. That wasn’t how I remembered them but old men get nostalgic about their lost youth.

We‘d been friends since uni.  One afternoon I’d observed Fergus in the Refectory surrounded by a growing crowed. He was performing one of his ‘tricks’. And he was laying on the patter, a natural showman even then. The actual trick was a run of the mill card number, but his showmanship was accomplished, to give him his due. Like an old carney pitcher He skilfully played the audience and at the finally received the pay off - enthusiastic applause! Someone even shouted “Bravo!”

But he messed up at one point. It didn’t really matter though, no one else seemed to notice.  Fergus was a master of misdirection. He caught my eye and winked a conspiratorial wink as if to say “it’s our secret, don’t tell”. I’d watched the performance with growing admiration and, I must admit, a stirring of jealousy. I could have done better! Or so I thought at the time. Now I’m not so sure.

After the performance Fergus came over to me. “You spotted it, didn’t you – the switch.” He was very matter-of-fact about it.

I admitted that I had and was surprised at his delight in this. “You got me!” He said. “Glad someone was paying attention!”

I’d found a kindred soul, someone who shared my passion for all things magical. We became fast friends.We started to try out some of my routines together. I showed Fergus the conjuring techniques that I had been practising. Back then I did hand exercises every day. It was the only way to improve.

In return Fergus shared his performance skills with me. The main thing he said was “to keep talking and keep them guessing and confused!” Easy for him, he was a natural. I had to work a bit harder – really quite a lot harder. But we sort of complimented each other. He helped me with the presentation aspect, the showman side of things and I helped him with the practical practice, the technical training. We became inseparable and our friendship grew stronger.  But I had a feeling that it couldn’t last. Those first stirrings of jealousy were growing. Funny how admiration can turn to envy and friendship can turn to rivalry.

In the beginning I convinced myself that I really did not mind. So what if Fergus was getting all the attention. He was a popular guy on campus. I couldn’t hold that against him. At least he seemed to value my friendship as well as my conjuring talents. He was never grudging with his praise and when it came to his own talents he was always self-deprecating. He couldn’t be faulted. He would often say that “he could not do it without me“. I was flattered.

But after a while the flattery wore thin. I had to admit that I was under his shadow. I was merely seen as the warm up act. No one seemed to notice that I was technically more adept, technically the better conjurer.

So what if Fergus appreciated my talents, what good was it if no one else recognised my ability? I couldn’t pretend any longer that I didn’t mind.

Inevitably we argued. The partnership was strained, it wasn’t working. We decided to call it a day before things became more acrimonious.  I wanted to do my own thing anyway, to try out my own solo act. From then on we became rivals.

I did okay at first. I had a lucky break, an agent head hunted me. He loved my act. There was just one thing: the name. David Smith! It had to go! That’s when I became Morgan the Magnificent! It seemed a bit corny at the time but it worked. Soon I was in demand up and down the country. My agent did a great job with publicity.  In those days that meant posters! I had posters everywhere.

One day Fergus came to see me. He had one of my posters with him.

“This is you!” he said. I nodded. I must have looked a bit sheepish, I was still a bit embarrassed about the hyperbole, even though it was just a stage name.

“It’s brilliant!” was all He said. I was pleased. Somehow it meant a lot coming from Fergus.

He’d come to bid me farewell before he set off abroad. He had a notion about doing research in the Far East. When I asked what he expected to find he just laughed and said “I've really no idea!” I didn’t think he was telling the whole truth but I didn't press him.

I wished him luck on his venture. That was the last time I saw Fergus. Some months later I received a couple of post cards. One was from Kabul and one was from a remote village in china. He said he was on the trail of something . . . he never said what exactly. It was all very cryptic.

A year later I received a post card in an envelope, which also contained two tickets for a show. All it said was “I’m back – come see me” scrawled in Fergus’s nearly illegible handwriting.  The tickets’ proclaimed the ‘Illusionist’ to be the most sensational show to hit London.

I was intrigued but unfortunately I couldn’t attend; I was performing myself that night to a full house in Edinburgh and it was at one of my favourite venues; The Kings Theatre.

If the reviews were to be believed then I really had stiff competition with the ‘Illusionist’. Fergus seemed to have come up with a whole new approach. I didn't recognize any elements of the performance. There was no conjuring such as Fergus and I used to practice, none of the basic tricks which were part of my repertoire. Instead the performance sounded more like a mix between a spiritualist act and a more traditional magic act. He apparently called upon spirit entities to help with his illusions. And he also seemed to use hypnotism.  One critic claimed that the whole theatre must have been hypnotised, which I thought at the time was crazy; anyone in the business knew how hard it was to hypnotise one person, never mind hypnotising a whole audience.  But now I’m not so sure, these days mass suggestion and crowd forces are an accepted phenomenon.  

I felt the old rivalry and the old jealousy reactivated like a dormant tropical disease. Somehow I had been one- upped. The same reviewers who declared the Illusionist as an innovation in magical performance, pronounced my show as passé. I was devastated.

It all happened so quickly. Overnight I was washed up, declared obsolete. My agent informed me that some of my shows were being cancelled and bookings were no longer being renewed. Soon I was back where I started, performing in working men’s clubs and small venues. My agent said I was lucky to get even that.

Some months later Fergus contacted me again with tickets for his show. He was appearing in Edinburgh at the Kings Theatre!  I was furious! That should have been my show! This time he also had the gall to offer me a job! He could use me in the illusionist if I was interested? Yeah I bet he could. I had memories of the old days where I was merely Fergus’s warm up act. I couldn’t face being under his shadow again.  I knew that I should have at least considered his offer - that would have been the sensible thing to do. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Fergus’s rise to fame was meteoric. After a while I stopped reading the reviews. In fact I had to stop reading the papers too. He was everywhere. On billboards and bus shelters, on the covers of weekend supplement’s, even on talk shows. And of course the papers couldn’t get enough of him. It was sickening.

Over a year later one of my few remaining friends showed me a newspaper with Fergus’s obituary, a double page spread no less. The paper was a week old. I was in shock.  I had mixed emotions but I had never wished Fergus any harm, maybe a slight reversal of his fortunes but never any real harm. Now he was dead. My old rival was dead. It was hard to accept.

 And then there was the strange manner of his death. The newspaper accounts varied but they were all literally quite incredible and very disturbing. One memorable headline read:

THE ILLUSIONIST BRINGS THE HOUSE DOWN IN LAST FATAL PERFORMANCE.

No one seemed able to make sense of the events. Speculation ran wild in the tabloids. One theory was that a freak earth quake had somehow localised on the theatre. Strangely no other buildings were effected. The epicentre seemed to be on the stage itself or rather under it. Eyewitnesses testified to seeing Fergus consumed in a weird electric field. Then he disappeared amid all the rubble and smoke of the ‘quake’.  His body was never found.

And now here he was. He leaned forward and handed me a fresh pint.

“Cheers!”

“Cheers!” I took a sip.

We’d run down on the ‘old times’ conversation. Fergus swallowed a mouthful of beer and cleared his throat. Suddenly he looked dead serious.

“I’ve got a confession to make”

Oh no! What now, I thought. Fergus leaned forward, placing his pint carefully on the beer mat. I had no idea what to expect.

“You know I’ve always been jealous of you David” I certainly hadn’t expected that! Fergus Jealous of me?

“You must be kidding!” I said.

“I’m serious, you’ve always had a talent . . . a gift really, when it comes to conjuring”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t believe it. “You can’t –“

“No let me finish. I don’t have much time. You see I always had to work a lot harder, it never came easy to me”

“Well your hard work certainly paid off!” I said. I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“If only that was true. You see I cheated! That is my confession. I cheated to up stage you”

I couldn’t think what to say. I didn’t feel comfortable cast as the father confessor. Was I supposed to absolve Fergus for his transgressions? Say three Hail Mary’s and all is forgiven. . .

Fergus looked very penitent. “I can’t explain it all now – I wanted you to know before it’s too late . . . you were the best, you were my inspiration”

I was still taking in the idea about cheating. “What do you mean you cheated?”

“Well that’s probably a very British way of putting it. I . . . I suppose. . .” Fergus seemed to falter. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small black book.

“Here take this – it should help explain everything. . .” He handed the book to me. It was a very battered looking old journal. I looked at it doubtfully, started to flick through the pages.

“Don’t read it now” Fergus said. He looked disturbed. The strange presence which had lurked behind his eyes was back. . . He was scaring me.

I dimly heard the tinkle of the bar bell, followed by Bill the barman bellowing:

“Last orders, drink up!”

Fergus seemed to snap back to himself. He looked at his watch and then stuck out his hand. He grasped my hand warmly.

“Adios Morgan! I must be going. . .”

“Let me get you one for the road” I said. He hesitated. He had a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

“There’s nothing I’d like more, unfortunately my times up. . .”

He seemed remarkably sober as he headed through the door. I’d stood up to say goodbye so I had a clear view of him silhouetted against the street light as he passed the window.  He stood stock still and appeared to be looking up at the stars. I’d swear that he started to glow. Then there was a sort of crackle and a flash – then darkness. Even the lights in the pub had flickered out. There were some exclamations and curses. Someone had spilled their drink.

“Don’t panic it’s just a power cut” said Bill the barman. There was a musical tinkling sound, which grew louder and louder. All the glasses at the bar were vibrating. The barman’s face flared into view as he struck a match. He lit a candle.

Through the window I saw some street lights flicker back on. Where was Fergus? I couldn't see him at first. Then I spotted a dark shape. He was on his knees. He appeared to be praying. There was movement above him like a dark swarm of flies. The swarm seemed to descend. Fergus waved his arms in a parody of my old routine. The sound he made will haunt me forever. I couldn't see him anymore.

The lights were back on in the pub and the tremor seemed to have passed. Bill was replenishing drinks.

“Don’t worry about last orders. One for the road David? ”

I was in a state of shock. If there was ever a moment when I really needed a drink in was right then.

“Thanks Bill but I think I’ll pass – I seem to have lost my thirst and from now on you can call me Morgan”

"Morgan" He seemed to be trying it out. "Okay - It suits you"

The End

Death and Daffodils

"Mrs Etchels passed last night" breathed Nurse Edmonds.

"Aw, not another,.............. what is going on around here?" whispered Nurse Mitchell.

"That's four in three weeks!"

"The poor dears"

Strathblane Community Hospital was being hit hard. It was 1955, and the country was still reflecting some post war traits.
But overall, medicines were better, cures were more common and.......... people didn't just die anymore.

The elderly wing of the hospital was under the guidance of Sister Dickens. She ran it lovingly but firmly. Perfect for the job and well respected by her nurses.

It was a warm and welcoming place for something so clinical, small compared to the modern hospitals sprouting up in the cities and highly thought of by the small surrounding population.

But as of recently, patients were dying! No rhyme or reason, no warnings!
Just death..........stiffs, corpses, cadavers........



Nothing had changed, no major epidemics were around, Cholera, Tuberculosis, Malaria and the likes were of no threat here, not even flu,....... nothing.
Nothing could be blamed!

Even the staff were familiar, the doctors, nurses and auxiliaries, cleaners, drivers and porters. For the past few months, the visitors had remained much the same too, as did the Minister (Bob Robbie). 

There was a new face around though, he was an insurance man......
Or so everyone thought.....

But the patients had all met their end differently, with different symptoms.
Cancer, heart failure and aneurysms all played their parts............ well!

Seems an open and shut case....eh?

So....back to the insurance man, appearing around a month ago. He sells life insurance to the elderly and was granted access by those above Sister Dickens. He was pleasant, always had a smile and always carried flowers, cut Daffodils, bright yellow cut Daffodils.
Mr Black was his name.

Life insurance to the elderly, how does that work? 
He claimed :-
The elderly get the cover they wanted and needed.
Funeral cover (plot, directors fee, flowers and coffin).
Gives them and their families peace of mind for little money.

Granted, he was a happy little man, who made it simple for them, left them feeling safe and secure under his care?
Took them into his realm....you might say....ahem.
And always brought them flowers,..........cut Daffodils....always cut Daffodils.

What did he get from it all?.......no one knew.
The money didn't balance, it couldn't, not in such a short time.
And often it was very short...........like hours.....

The Daffodils were there, on the window sill, in the jug half full of water. They were a sure sign he'd paid his visit, done his work and left.
The bed was empty, the body gone, the belongings packed away, the name plate down,........but the Daffodils were still there, like a signature on a painting after the work is done!



It was always the same for him.....once he'd covered the elderly wing, he was gone, onto another!
The policies in place, all signed and sealed, his work was finished.

He left in his wake,......... corpses, confusion and....... cut stalks in the local cemetery where the Daffodils once grew.

................................................

So......... if you're contemplating putting an elderly relative into the hospital for care............check the Daffodils in the local burial ground first.............




They may be cut.........................


The End

Sacrifices

Doctor Douglas Watt looked up from his desk as his first patient came into his room.

“Good morning Mrs Heskith,” Douglas said rising to his feet to usher the old lady in. “How are we feeling this morning?”

“Oh, doctor,” wailed Mrs Heskith. “It’s me lumbago. It’s playing up something cruel!”

Doctor Watt grimaced behind the old lady’s back. Oh Lord, he thought. How many hours till I start my holiday?

The morning surgery went by quickly with its long list of ailments. Rheumatism, sickness, diahorroea, flu jags and of course, the inevitable case of ‘I just feel out of sorts, Doctor’.

Soon, it was over and Mrs Jennings, the office manager came in to collect the patients’ files.

“Well, Douglas, you’ll want to get away. When does your plane leave?”

“Ah, Gloria, I was just daydreaming. The plane leaves at five o’clock and hopefully arrives at Joball four hours later. I just can’t wait. Sand, sea, and sangria, what more could a man ask for?”

“You just watch out that you don’t bring any strange, exotic bugs back with you,” admonished Gloria, wagging her finger at him. “I need you back here, ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’, in two weeks.”

Douglas stood up and raising his right hand said loudly, “I promise that I will behave myself.”

Gloria gave a smile and left the room humming the tune to the song ‘That’ll Be the Day’.

The plane roared down the runway at Heathrow and Douglas felt as he always felt at times like this – scared!

I hate these bits, the takeoff and the landing, he thought. Don’t mind the bit between though.

The plane gave a lurch and suddenly they were up in the air and the air hostesses were moving down the aisle giving out drinks.

Douglas must have fallen asleep for he found himself experiencing a very pleasant dream, or rather it began pleasantly enough, but the end was not anything he would have wanted.

The scene was a hotel room somewhere that he did not recognise. It was very warm and the maid or someone had left the window open. The net curtains moved in and out like someone breathing and Douglas could feel the cool breeze.

The room was very well furnished and everything looked very expensive. Oil paintings hung on the wall and ornate light fixtures gleamed brightly.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Douglas moved across the room to open it. As he neared the door a feeling of terror suddenly overcame him. It was if he instinctively knew that there was something, which would harm him, on the other side of the door! He stepped back quickly and searched the room with his eyes, to find somewhere to hide, but as he deliberated the door suddenly burst in towards him and a darkness poured into the room, engulfing him totally!

“Sir! Sir!” a voice sounded insistently, waking him from his nightmare. “You’re just having a bad dream. Wake up please!”

One of the air hostesses was gently shaking him by the shoulder and Douglas realised where he was.

“I am sorry,” he said, blushing. “ It was so real.”

After a stiff drink Douglas felt a little better, but he found it hard to shake off the feeling of misgiving that the dream had engendered. He gave a little shiver as he looked out of the aircraft’s window at the large fluffy clouds that surrounded them.

I must be more in need of a holiday, than I thought I was, he thought.

As the taxi moved through the little houses and shops that made up Tija, the main village on the island of Joball, Douglas felt all the tension of the flight drift away. He was eager to get to his hotel, unpack and get down on the beach for some much needed ‘R&R’. The sun was very hot and a gentle breeze moved the branches in the tall eucalyptus trees. The setting was idyllic and Douglas knew that here, he would get all the rest he needed.

The maid, a young dark eyed girl led him to his room in the hotel. As they climbed the carpeted staircase Douglas looked about him at the paintings and photographs that hung on the walls.

“It seems a very popular place,” he said to the maid. “Is this the busiest time for you?”

“Oh no,” replied the girl. “This is sort of ‘off season’. In fact we will be closing the hotel down in three weeks time. The weather will turn stormy soon and visitors tend not to come then.”

“That’s a pity for it is a lovely little island,” Douglas said. “Bur, I suppose you will all get a holiday yourselves then.”

As Douglas stepped into his room, he felt a slight pang of fear, when he recalled his dream on the aircraft. But, upon looking about him, he realised that this was not the room of his nightmare. He breathed a sigh of relief.

In fact, the room resembled several of the rooms that he had stayed in, during past holidays. It was furnished in a utilitarian fashion; wardrobe, bed, writing desk and ‘en suite’ bathroom. It was not as if he intended living in his hotel room!

Next day, Douglas spread his towel on the sand and rigged up his windbreak or suntrap as it was known as nowadays.

The beach wasn’t very busy and Douglas had had his pick for spots to sunbathe. He remembered what the maid had said about the resort closing down in three weeks and tried to imagine the beach being pounded by angry surf brought on by a storm.

Lying down on his towel, he opened the detective novel that he had brought with him. It was the latest in a series of crime stories by this author and Douglas had found the previous titles very exciting to read.

As the day passed and the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, Douglas realised that he had had enough heat for the day. No point overdoing it, he thought. It would just be like me to get sunstroke on my first day. It was time to sit on the hotel’s veranda and sip some cool drinks. He might be able to have a chat with some of the other visitors.

It was at the point when he was packing up he noticed a little figure moving slowly up the beach towards him. As the figure got closer, Douglas realised that he was a little boy and he was stopping to talk to some of the other sunbathers on the beach. In his hand he held a bag and what looked like a notebook.

As he approached Douglas he raised his head and Douglas saw, with a start, that the boy only had one eye. The other had been rather crudely sewn shut.

“Excuse me mister,” began the boy politely. “Do you want to go on a tour to the catacombs?”

“What…?” stammered Douglas rather taken aback by the boy’s disfigurement. “What happened to your face, son?”

The boy laughed and raised his hand to the injury. “I had an accident. The local doctor fixed it for me.”

“Not very well,” retorted Douglas angrily. “You really need plastic surgery.”

Looking down at the ground, the boy stammered,” my family cannot afford it, but it is ok. I can see just fine.”

Feeling a little ashamed of himself for embarrassing the lad he asked, “what was the trip you are collecting names for?”

“The catacombs mister,” the boy replied. “My father runs a bus to them. It doesn’t cost much.”

Douglas put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Put me down on your list. When does it leave?”

The boy pocketed the money and as Douglas spelt his name out, carefully wrote it down on his list. “Outside your hotel at three o’clock mister,” he said as he turned and made his way up the beach.

The bus had seen better days and Douglas wondered how far it was to the catacombs and whether the rusty vehicle would make it.

A few other residents from the hotel boarded after Douglas and as they took their seats nodded politely to him.

All at once a large, fat man got onboard. He was dressed in a vest and jeans and on his feet he wore flipflops. He was missing a hand and in its place was an evil looking hook.

Looking down the bus’ interior, he counted heads. “You all for the catacombs?” he shouted and upon receiving positive replies, collapsed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The route was by a cliff path which gave the passengers beautiful, if terrifying glimpses of the sea and coastline far below. The path itself was strewn with rocks and various bits of debris, but the physically challenged, bus driver drove faultlessly and soon the bus was making its way inland. The terrain was very rocky and the few visible mountain peaks looked volcanic in origin. The vegetation was very stunted up there unlike the more lush trees and bushes in Tiga. Skeletal trees stood about like spectres and tumbleweed blew about the road.

The approach to the catacombs was situated in a ravine and the path down was quite steep. The burial site had been chiselled out of the rock and must have taken many months to carry out with primitive tools. A wild, dusty wind howled through the rocky cleft plucking at our clothes.

Seven passengers, including Douglas, got off the bus and were herded towards a wide cave like hole in the cliff face, by the driver. Oil lamps hung from the wall and once out of the sun, the atmosphere felt damp and cold. The air in the catacombs smelt dank and fetid like a month old corpse.

“You alright, mister?” asked the driver as he noticed Douglas looking a little shaken. “The trip down to the burial niches will not take too long.”

“How did you lose your hand?” asked Douglas, hoping he was not causing offence. “Was it an accident?”

The driver lifted the hook on the end of his arm and laughed. “We all must make sacrifices,” he said enigmatically. “Now, let us go and visit our ancestors.”

“But, your son… his injury?” Douglas began to say, but the driver ignored him and began to shepherd the visitors down the narrow passageway.

They seemed to descend for miles, but Douglas knew that the combination of the conditions and the claustrophobic feel to the place would tend to dilate time.

Soon crude drawings could be seen on the walls. Stick like figures with animals, some looking like cows and horses. Another drawing showed a figure lying on a stone block with what looked like blood coming from it.

Eventually large niches began to be seen in the walls. Within the holes brown bones could be seen mixed in with rags of clothing. Amongst the remains, Douglas could see bits of pottery, flint knives and beads.

Douglas got quite a fright when the driver whispered right by his ear, “the living give gifts to their dead ancestors, mister.”

On and on they went, niche after niche, some with skeletal remains, others with mouldering humps of carrion, long mummified.

The driver then raised his hand and announced to the visitors, “That is the end of the tour. We can go no further.”

Douglas could see that there was a large wooden door set into the wall behind where the driver stood. The wall had a large painting on it. It depicted a large wave approaching a crowd of stick like people who were standing with their hands raised. It was very old and some of the paint had flaked off.

“What is behind the door?” asked Douglas loudly. “Can’t we have a look?”

The driver raised his good hand and made a sign in front of his face. “No, it is private. No one is allowed inside. Now let us return to the surface.” He began ushering people up the passage.

Douglas hung back and concealed himself behind one of the rocky pillars. He had decided that he would look whatever the outcome. He hadn’t descended a dirty, old passage to be turned back at the last moment. He would look behind the door. I mean what can they do to me, thought Douglas, hang me?

The door creaked horribly as Douglas pushed it open. He looked up the passage in case the driver, upon hearing the shriek, realised what he was doing, but apart from the departing voices, he could hear nothing else.

Upon entering the area behind the door, Douglas was disappointed to see nothing more than a large stone block covered with rubbish and detritus. The atmosphere had a sickly, pungent small.

 The light from the oil lamps in the passage outside shone weakly into the chamber and it was not until Douglas was close up to the block that he realised what was covering its surface.

Hacked off arms, legs, fingers and toes lay rotting. Blow flies swarmed over the blackening flesh. Douglas felt his gorge rise and was sick on the floor. What the hell was this? he thought wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It looked like a butcher shop! Turning, his gaze fell again on the carrion as he made to leave the chamber, but the sight of several rotten eyeballs propped up on the bits of body, made his head swim and Douglas staggered back.

Clutching behind him he sought something to support him, when he felt a sharp pain in his hand. Warmth suddenly ran down his arm and he could hear liquid falling on the floor. He had cut himself and from the sound of it, he was losing copious amounts of blood.

Somehow he staggered through the door and began to run up the cramped passage.

He stopped partway to rip some of the mildewed rags out of a niche, to wrap round the wound, in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

Eventually he spotted the visitors being led by the driver; he screamed for them to help him and then collapsed on to the passage floor. Everything went black.

When Douglas regained consciousness, he found that he was lying on a stretcher in the reception area of his hotel. The concierge was kneeling by his side, looking very worried. “Doctor Watt! Doctor Watt! Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

Douglas opened his eyes and gave the hotel manager a rather sour looking smile. “So I made it back? Was it the driver of the bus who attended to my wounds? He raised his injured arm to see that it had been bandaged quite professionally.

“Yes,” replied the hotel manager, “he and some of the other visitors carried you out of the catacombs to the bus, where your condition was attended to.”

“I must thank them…” Douglas began to say, then again felt dizzy and lay back down.

“You will need attention, Dr Watt,” said the manager, “so we have moved you to another room. It will cost you no more, I promise you.”

Douglas lay on the stretcher and tried to remember what had happened in the catacombs. He remembered going through the door and seeing the stone block covered with…what was it? He couldn’t remember clearly. It was as if he had a blank space in his memory. How had he injured himself? He had clearly cut himself on something sharp as he remembered the sound of the blood dripping on to the floor. Oh well, he thought, I’ll just relax and my memory will return. I’m sure of it.

Douglas must have passed out again for when he opened his eyes he had been moved to his room, or more especially, his new room.

It certainly was very nice, much nicer than his previous one. There were oil paintings on the wall and bright, gleaming light fixtures. The window had been opened and a thin gauzy curtain swung to and fro with the incoming breeze. Suddenly Douglas knew that he had been in this room before! Of course, in his dream! And what had happened next? Someone had knocked at the door. Yes! That was what happened and he had gone to open the door…!

All at once as in the dream, a knock sounded on the door and once again, Douglas felt his hackles rise and his heart starting to beat in terror. He couldn’t let it in, he just couldn’t…!

“Go away!” screamed Douglas. “Go away please! Please!”

The door suddenly began to swing open and Douglas felt he knew what was about to enter. He lost control of his consciousness and sank into oblivion.

Douglas was a sad sight as he was transported off the plane at Heathrow in a wheelchair. The nurse that had been dispatched with him from the little hospital in Joball passed him over to a representative from a nursing home in Surry where he was being sent to recover.

“I don’t know the full story,” said the nurse from Joball. “He had been brought back from a trip with an injury, but after a few hours in his hotel room, he just lost the plot when the local doctor came to see him. He was found crawling over the floor screaming and shouting about something outside his door! Oh well, nice to meet you. I am on the next flight back to the island, so goodbye.”

“Oh you are lucky being out in all that sunshine,” said the nursing home rep. “ I wish I was working out there instead of in this cold, rain drenched country!”

It took six months of intensive care before Douglas was fit to return to his medical practice. He was taking pills for anxiety and panic attacks, but after all the therapeutic help, he was well on the way to recovery.

His partners were unhappy when he returned, telling him, he should take it easy for a bit. Some insensitive person suggested a holiday which caused Douglas to start shaking uncontrollably, but after recovering his cool agreed to work two days a week to start with. Gloria Jennings offered to sort all his appointments for him, to reduce any stress he may feel during consultations.

So the great day came when Dr. Douglas Watt stepped out of his car in the car park and entered his Medical Practice. The secretaries gave him a round of applause as he entered and a large bouquet of flowers sat on his desk next to a ‘Welcome Back’ greetings card signed by everyone in the building.

Shutting his office door Douglas sat down behind his desk and stroked its smooth top with the palms of his hands, “I’m so glad to be back,” he whispered to himself.

Looking down at the neat pile of folders on his desk he realised that his first patient was to be old, Mrs Heskith. Douglas thought about when he had last seen the lady and with a shudder promised that he would never tire of General Practice Medicine ever again.

The door swung open and Gloria led Mrs Heskith into the room.

“I’ll just be outside Doctor,” said his office manager and shut the door behind her.

“And how have you been Mrs Heskith?” enquired Douglas politely.

“Oh, not too bad, Doctor, if the lumbago would ease a bit,” replied the old lady. “Did you have a nice holiday? Where did you go?”

Douglas forced himself to reply, “I went to Joball, Mrs Heskith, you probably haven’t heard about it, have you?”

Mrs Heskith turned towards Douglas and as he watched the old woman’s eyes became black and glistening.

“Oh yes, the island of Joball, where the inhabitants make little sacrifices to please the Dead. Their ancestors intercede for them with the dark forces and prevent any repercussion of the tidal wave that hit the island three hundred years ago. Oh, I know of Jobal, Doctor Watt. And remember something else… We must all make sacrifices…”

Mrs Heskith’s jaw swung down and dislocated like a snakes’ and from her maw an oily darkness poured out and over Douglas totally engulfing him.

The last thing he heard on this earth was an echo of Mrs Heskith’s advice,

“We all must make sacrifices….!”

……………………………………………+……………………………………23/02/14 Cairniehill

North Wind Blowing

The wind had begun blowing quite hard as I stepped down on to the platform at Dounitch railway station. This was to be an interim stop on my route north. My connecting train wasn’t due until eight o’clock that evening and the thought of hanging around a draughty station was not my idea of pleasure, so I had decided to explore the town for the next four hours.

My journey had begun at Garthwood city where I had been living. The flat I had occupied was ‘bijou’ which meant that you couldn’t swing a cat round in it, but it did me as I was working down at one of the city’s eating houses. The boss was a fair man who cooked wonderful meals but paid minimum wage to his workers. Often I would wait behind after the restaurant had closed to get any of the left overs.

One morning when I had awakened, yet again feeling as if the walls were falling in on me and decided that this was my last day in Garthwood. Surely I could get a better job further up north where most of the country’s affluence was. I had collected a little bit of money from eating ‘left overs’ or not eating at all and I could live for at least a week on what I had. So… now was the time. Every journey starts with one step and other well known sayings.

My boss at the restaurant was not happy when I told him I intended moving on the next day, but eventually he gave me my pay up to date and grudgingly wished me good luck, for, as he added, I was going to need it.

Dounitch town looked deserted as I left the station after putting my bits of luggage into one of the lockable cabinets by the ticket office. A spoor of snow blew around the street and the trees by the road shook menacingly as an icy gust tugged at their branches. A bill board message warned of impending blizzards forecast for that weekend with an icy stretch of weather to follow. I realised that my proposed journey north should have waited for a few months. Ah well, I thought, too late now.

As I walked up the road I looked up at the houses on either side. Curtains were drawn and in some cases, storm shutters had been pulled across. It looked like a town in a state of besiege awaiting the arrival of an adversary. The shops were battened down and from what I could make out through the windows; the shelves were nearly empty of any goods. Surely, somewhere must still be open, I reasoned with myself.

A bit ahead I saw a long stretch of light on the road. It was shining from a doorway above which a rickety sign hung. The joints screeched as the wind plucked at it. It was weather-beaten, but a welcome sight. The King’s Head Public House. A harbour, for a wandering soul in need of shelter and some liquid comfort on such a night as this.

The door hinges creaked as I pushed them open and stepped inside. Ahead of me stood a bar behind which sat numerous bottles on shelves. Two or three optics hung at the end of the bar with several beer siphons at the fore. A man with a knitted cardigan stood behind the bar.

“Cold night,” I grunted to the man, whom I took to be the publican. “Can I have a whisky please?”

The man looked behind him and taking a glass drew some liquid from the optic.

“Will it be a large or small one?”  he asked.

“Better make it a large one,” I laughed, “I’m freezing.”

The fiery liquid coursed its way down my throat and I felt a warmth spread through my body. I had sat down at the nearest table and after removing my coat and scarf surveyed the scene about me.

The room had been some sort of old meeting room and the walls were covered with dark wood embellished with carvings. Rosettes, branches of ivy and egg and dart designs covered the walls and ceiling. An odour of antiquity permeated the surroundings and lent an ambience of past grandeur to the place

“What was this place originally, “I asked the landlord. “Was it a club house of some sort?”

He grunted and finished drying a glass before he replied.

“It was the meeting place of the Gentle. They were like the Quakers, went about helping poor folk who had fallen on hard times.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

“What happens to all those who try to fight against something larger than themselves. They realised that it was a ‘no win’ situation. Eventually they just moved on…somewhere else.”

The entry door squeaked as three burly men came in.

“Evening Jeb,” said one of the men to the barman. He was a giant of a man, at least 6 and half feet tall and built like a brick…wall. He sported a gold ring in his ear and a black beard. He glanced at me suspiciously.

“Hi there, Mory,” replied the barman. “Hell of a night!”

Mory and the two other men sat at a table over on the far side of the bar. They talked among themselves and then one of the other men, a small mousy looking creature approached the bar.

“I-I-I w-w-want t-t-t-two whiskies and a r-r-r-rum,” he stuttered painfully.

“Ok, ok, Guy, I’ll bring them over to you,” Jeb the publican replied, trying not to smile. He looked over at me to see if I found anything amusing, but I put on my disinterested, poker face and he returned to making up Guy’s order.

I sat gazing into space as I counted the minutes mentally before I could escape from this place where I felt as welcome as the Black Death and catch my train.

Checking my watch I realised that at least two of the hours had passed and with only another two hours, one hundred and twenty minutes, seven thousand, two hundred seconds, I could brush the dust of the town of Dounitch from my shoes and get on with my life, or so I thought.

“It’s a whiteout!” came a voice from the front door as it screeched open. A man rushed into the pub shaking snow off his coat. “At least two inches and a lot more to come!”

Jeb stepped forward and began drawing a beer for the arrival.

“Do you reckon it’ll stop the buses running, Saul?” he asked as the frothy ale splashed into the glass.

“Reckon everything will stop in an hour unless it lets up.” Saul said as he accepted his drink.

Jeb looked over at me.

“You got far to go tonight?” he asked not unkindly.

“I have a train out at eight o’clock this evening,” I replied. “I’m heading up North.”

A burst of laughter came from the three men at the far table.

“No way any trains will be running tonight, not with this snow.” chortled Mory.

“N-n-no way j-j-j-jose!” Guy mocked in a high pitched staccato voice.

The third man of the group stood up and came over to where I was sitting.

“Sorry, if we find your misfortune a joke, my friend,” he drawled. “It’s just we don’t get many strangers in our little town. My name is Eli Fallon and I’m the town’s undertaker.

He proffered his hand which I shook.

“I’m Joe Ritton, new in from Garthwood, but that’s ok, Mr Fallon,” I replied. “It’s just that it looks like I’ll have to spend the night in the railway station waiting room.”

Eli Fallon stroked his clean shaven chin and looked thoughtful.

“I think that will be the simplest solution,” he replied before going back to his table and sitting down.

I sat considering my options. I realised the bar would be shutting sometime near eleven o’clock. It would be the landlord’s discretion, but I couldn’t see good old Jeb, keeping the bar open for one minute extra than he had to. Sometime thereafter I must have nodded off. The whisky, the warmth and the mumbling of the three men at the far table had a strong soporific effect on me and I dropped gratefully into a welcome sleep.

Suddenly I was awoken by the clamour of people talking, arguing and making their points very loudly. The room was full of men dressed in dark clothes. Some of them sported bushy beards, but the most of them were clean shaven. The bar, the three men at the far table, Jeb and his customer had vanished and all I could see was a sea of faces.

All at once the men parted to let something come towards me. It was a female deer and her eyes were wide with terror.

“You must help her!” shouted one of the men.

“It is in your power to do it!” screamed another.

“Yes and we will aid you.” whispered a voice by my left ear.

The poor animal was terrified and did not know which way to turn to escape from the throng. I felt powerless to do anything except put my hand out and attempt to let it smell my scent in an effort to calm it.

“Sir! Sir!” a voice called out awakening me from my sleep. “Mr Ritton are you alright?” It was Jeb, he had come over to collect my glass when he had seen me in some distress.

“No…thanks, I’m fine,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. “I just fell asleep and had a cracking nightmare.”

“Well, you better prepare yourself for a shock, the snow is about a foot deep outside and I don’t think you have any chance of making it to the station tonight!” Jeb said.

“Well, I haven’t got much of a choice have I?” I grunted. “You’ll be shutting up soon, wont you?”

Just at that moment there was a loud scream from outside the front door of the pub. The door gave an almighty squeal and a loud thump resounded in the vestibule.

“What the hell?” shouted Jeb. “It looks like a woman.”

Mr Fallon jumped up from his chair and went across to where the person lay on the floor.

“You’re right, it is a woman and it looks as if she is injured!” he shouted.

Mory came over and looked down at her with distaste.

“It’s Skanky Eve from the caravan park. She has obviously fallen out with someone. She is bad news”

“Y-y-yes, i-i-its her,” stuttered Guy. “R-r-reckon you s-s-should k-k-ick h-h-her b-backside out o-o-of h-h-here.”

Saul helped the woman to her feet and sat her down at one of the tables.

“Can we have a brandy for her, Jeb? She seems to have had a bit of tussle with someone. She has blood on her face”

“And who’s going to pay for it? She won’t have any money on her if I know her of old!” Jeb grunted.

All at once I stood up and reaching into my pocket pulled out a five pound note.

“Here,” I said. “Take it out of this.”

Mory, Guy and Mr Fallon went back to their table and made ready to leave. They began putting their coats on and wrapping scarves about their necks.

Saul had gone to get some water to wipe the blood from Eve’s brow. It looked as if she would have a black eye in the morning.

I sat close to her not knowing what to say.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Eve asked.

“No,” I replied hesitantly. I just stopped off here on my way north.”

Saul arrived back with a damp cloth and between us we managed to make Eve look a little more presentable.

Mr Fallon and his two comrades paused at our table as they made their way to the door.

“I trust you have recovered my dear?” the undertaker said. Mory and Guy just glared at Eve.

Eve looked at the three of them and smiled. “Yes, thank you and I’ll get back to my part of town as soon as is possible,” she replied sarcastically.

Five minutes later the three men returned.

“It’s hellish out there Jeb!” said Eli Fallon brushing the snow from his shoulders. “It’s a foot and a half deep and the wind chill factor is in the low minuses. You could die out there!”

Mori approached the bar and looking at Jeb said,

“You can keep the bar open all night, can’t you? At your discretion?”

Jeb looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes I could, but my licence only allows me to serve alcohol until midnight.”

“A-a-all w-w-we w-w-want is s-s-somewhere w-w-warm to w-w-wait out the s-s-snowstorm!” pleaded Guy.

“We won’t trouble you for drinks after hours, Jeb,” Mr Fallon confirmed.

Eve had relaxed as the night wore on. Every so often someone would check outside, but the storm roared on unabated.

I decided to find out where Eve had come from that night and who had assaulted her.

“My boyfriend has been dealing in drugs and had just received a large shipment. I hid them from him and wouldn’t tell him where they were.” she confided to Saul and I. “He and his three buddies were roughing me up to give them the location of the drugs when I escaped and ran out into the storm. Lucky in a way it was so wild, I was able to hide from them.”

“But…won’t they be looking for you now?” I asked in a horrified voice.

“Nah,” said Eve disdainfully. “They are a load of pansies, scared to get their Gucci shoes wet or their hair blown out of shape!”

The evening rolled on and as the midnight hour approached Jeb announced ‘last orders’. I had a whisky as a night cap and Saul and Eve had a brandy apiece, paid for by yours truly.

The three men at the far table had dozed off and Saul had found a couch to lie down on leaving Eve and I sitting alone.

“Why is it no one seems to like you?” I asked.

“Ah… it’s because my family and our relations live on the east side of town in caravans,” she confided. “The town’s folk call us trash and no better than tramps, but we’re just not as well off as a lot of them.”

“What will happen when your boyfriend catches up with you tomorrow,” I asked, fearing the answer.

“He’s got to catch me first,” Eve laughed. “I’ll give him a run for his money.”

“But why did you pinch his drugs? Do you use them?”

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. One moment Eve was sitting quietly and speaking quietly then suddenly she was on her feet, her eyes flashing and angry.

“I have never done drugs! And I have no intention of ever taking them! My young brother died last year after taking one tablet! It destroyed my parents, Dad left home not long after. He felt somehow responsible!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! “I repeated over and over. “That was a stupid thing I said.”

Eve seemed to calm down and after a few minutes asked if she could lay her head on my shoulder to get a few hours of sleep. I gratefully agreed and soon her sweet warm breath was tickling my chin. I admired her secretly as she slept. Eve had long brown hair, green eyes and a pixie like nose. Truly a beauty, I thought as I too slipped into a doze.

Once again I was back in the room where the black clothed men gathered. The deer had blood on its body and was breathing in short gasps.

“She is in great danger!” one of the men shouted.

“You hold her fate in your hands,” another hissed.

“But what would you have me do?” I pleaded to the assembly as the wounded animal moved back and forward.

“Well, well, well!” came a loud braying voice. “Isn’t this cosy!”

A brutish looking young man stood just inside the door. Behind him stood three other thug like youths. I felt Eve awake and cringe as she took in the scene.

“Lommie!” she spluttered. “It’s not what you think…!”

“And what should I think my little beauty or should I say thief!” Lommie spat at her. “Where have you put my stash? Bommo said he left it for me and I still have to pay for it or else he will be looking for me like I have been hunting for YOU!”

“Lommie, you don’t need the drugs. Give them up!” Eve pleaded.

Lommie looked uncomfortable and glanced around the room nervously. “That’s right girl, involve all these good people. They don’t need to know anything! Get your coat on, we’re going!” Lommie looked around again, but this time with menace, daring anyone to intervene.

Mory and Guy looked down at their feet and Eli Fallon raised his hands in placation. Jeb and Saul looked on uncomfortably.

“No, Lommie. I want to stay here!” Eve shrieked.

A knife suddenly appeared in Lommie’s hand and he walked over to where Eve sat and grabbing her by the arm, yanked her to her feet.

“Please Lommie…!” Eve sobbed struggling.

All at once I heard the voice by my left ear whisper,

“Save her, she is in great danger!”

Lommie was dragging Eve to the door as I leapt to my feet. With a clenched fist I struck Lommie on the side of the face. He let Eve go and turned on me snarling like a wild animal. He swung the knife to and fro looking for an opening to stab me. I jumped back and began to step side to side in an effort to put his aim off.

“Right lads!” screamed Lommie to his three allies. “Get him, we’ll take ‘em both and have some fun!”

“Your not taking Eve anywhere!” I shouted as the three youths approached me in a pincer fashion. I can’t take them all, I thought desperately.

“And who’s going to stop us?” sneered brave Lommie as he and his ‘men’ prepared to take on one unarmed man.

“We will! Wont we guys?” came a loud voice from behind the group of four youths.

Mori and Eli stood shoulder to shoulder and all at once began to wade into the opposition. It was obviously a rallying cry for next Jeb and then Saul joined the fray. Even little stuttering Guy had been endowed with a solid right hook and knew how to use it.

Oh, Lommie’s gang were the typical bullies, plenty of bull but little bottle; but they bled and wailed like the rest of us.

Soon it was over and the four drugees turned and ran out into an unforgiving night where even Nature had turned on them.

Jeb opened the bar again and handed out drinks ‘on the house’.

We stood together like comrades after a long, hard battle and toasted each other’s bravery.

“These little buggers needed sorting out. They’ve ruined Dounitch with their blessed drugs. It’s time we all made a stand!” Jeb said filling up my glass for the umpteenth time.

Early that following morning the wind had dropped and a massive thaw was under way. We all felt like sole survivors emerging from a shelter as we walked out onto the street, but now with the snow only recognisable as little piles here and there, we realised that it was business as usual in Dounitch. The milkman drove by us in his van, the dustcart was collecting the bins and several of the inhabitants of the town were clearing slush from the front of their houses.

I had had an experience that I was not liable to forget in a hurry. As I remembered that assembly of men dressed in black, I wondered who they could have been. Could it have been a spiritual residue of the Gentles? Maybe they hadn’t just gone away as Jeb had said, maybe they were part and parcel of the fabric of the town of Dounitch in the background, but still influencing good in people. I like to think that was what it was.

The train pulled away from the station and I waved goodbye to my four new friends who had insisted they see me off. Did I say four friends? Well my fifth friend decided to come with me on my sojourn north. Until Lommie was sorted out by his supplier, Bommo and associates, Dounitch was not a place Eve wished to remain in and anyway I think something might develop between us – given time.

“Where did you hide Lommie’s drugs?” I asked my beautiful travelling companion.

“In the back of his mum’s fire,” she replied, looking at her watch. “The old girl will just be about to light it up! I hope there aren’t any birds by the chimney!”

Cairniehill

  31/01/14

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