Stories
The stories are freely available to read as word files. However, they are subject to worldwide copyright and may not be reproduced by any means without the explicit permission of the author.
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THE GATE
A rural tale of change and consequence. This story was first published in Northern Short Stories 6 as a winner in the Northern Short Stories Contest.
BRI
A tale of urban dysfunction and a prize-winner in Writers' Forum Magazine.
LOOKING FOR LUCY
Fictional presentation of a real event. This was published in Scribble Magazine in 2004.
THE BEST POSSIBLE TIME
This short story was the original first chapter for my novel, BREAKING FAITH, before I made changes to both plot and character names. It was first prize winner with Writers' Forum July 2007.
CHANGING VIEWS
A bit of fun, entered for the Words Magazine 'Ghosts' contest and, although not a winner, published in issue 57 in 2005.
F.R.I.G.H.T.
A chiller published in the Winter 2006/07 issue of Isthmus. This is an invitation only magazine published through the auspices of Ouse Valley Poetry, a charitable organisation running writing contests to raise money for medical charities, e.g. Multiple Sclerosis. If you're a writer who would like to participate, or you would simply like to donate, please contact me for details and I will forward your request to the organisation.
THE GATE
‘Winter’s out.’ said Joe
Greening hedgerows slid by, filling his view from the passenger seat.
George considered budding twigs, damp verdant verges. ‘Mebbie.’
It was as much as they’d said all afternoon. Silence between them was understood, accepted, welcomed even. Their response to imposed solitude. Silence was companionable and voluntary and, like their habit of equality, marked their interdependence.
George pulled off the lane and slowed to avoid potholes and ridges marking the farm track. The suspension no longer reduced these shocks of the rural and he was sensitive to the older man’s painful limbs. He’d no wish to aggravate joints already inflamed. Concentrating on the road immediately ahead, George missed what Joe couldn’t avoid as they approached the house.
A shiny, new, red car was parked in front of the dilapidated farmhouse.
‘Representatives.’ muttered Joe.
Belatedly, the bright red gleam arrested George. He grinned at the sheen; incongruous against dun weatherworn bricks. ‘Fool’s errand.’
Joe relaxed: George would keep the salesman waiting until they’d seen the cows in and milked. Afterwards he’d tell the lad they wanted nowt. The flash youngster would go, disconsolate. And George would get supper ready as usual whilst Joe gathered the chickens into the henhouse.
George allowed the battered bumper of the Land Rover to kiss the saloon’s smooth red plastic. Gentle as a cow’s tongue at its calf.
As they were getting out, the stranger approached through the side gate, mud and muck clinging to his suede shoes.
‘Townie!’ Joe was contemptuous, and loud enough to reach the young man.
George said nowt: he halted in his tracks and stared at the newcomer in silent disbelief.
Smart, confident, the young man ignored Joe and stepped eagerly up to the farmer. ‘Hiya, Dad.’
‘Michael!’ George welcomed him with a warm embrace.
The lad glanced at Joe; they nodded.
* * *
Alone, Joe finished milking. He urged Betsy from the stall, recalling how he and George had spent four hours rescuing her as she lay on her back in a ditch. They’d saved her newborn calf that day.
George, his favourite briar trailing fragrant blue smoke and signalling an end to his day’s labour, trod too carefully into the cow shed. He looked at the soft-eyed cows and avoided Joe’s stare.
‘Haven’t seen Michael for years. Ten years. Mebbie more.’ George was aware that Joe knew this. ‘He’ll likely be stoppin’. For a while.’
Joe nodded but refused to return George’s unfamiliar parting smile.
Alone, he hushed and heyed the slow cows from the shed. They wandered along the track, spilling into the lane before Joe urged them into the field opposite.
The gate was still bad. George would’ve lifted and closed it with one hand. Joe’s rheumatic limbs hauled it over cloying, hoof-churned mud until it was a few feet from the post. From there he had to stop it swinging back open before he secured it. The loop of faded orange baling twine was split, threatening to give again. Joe tied yet another knot, hoping it might hold for one more night.
In the kitchen the food smells were unfamiliar. Joe looked forward to the fry-up that always followed their visit to market. But Michael had the stove, his back to Joe, talking to George.
Joe took a step from the worn doormat.
‘Boots off.’
He raised eyebrows at the unfamiliar demand and watched the familiar face colour with embarrassment. He crouched painfully and worked at the string, covered in cow muck, that formed the laces.
‘Michael, say hello to Joe, son. You’ve known him long enough.’
The outstretched hand was clean, manicured but open enough. Joe stood, free of one boot, and wiped his hand on the seat of his green corduroys before clasping the other. Both tested for grip: Joe’s stronger, in spite of age and rheumatism. Michael washed his hands before returning to the food.
‘Used to bounce you on me lap when you were a lad.’ Joe recalled, bending with difficulty to his other boot.
George nodded his fond memories.
‘Used to.’ Michael reminded them.
‘Michael’s fetched his own ‘erbs and things to meck us a fine supper, Joe.’
Joe nodded and tried not to let his disappointment show.
For ten years they’d eaten together in silence. Never a need for words. With Michael, George was all talk. Joe half listened. His other half sought the customary silence of companionship.
Neither father nor son mentioned letters never written. Each understood the other wouldn’t write. And the farm managed to remain unconnected to the world by wires. Michael lived a hundred miles away with wife and child and work.
Until the previous day.
‘And now?’
‘Divorce is absolute now, Dad. I stayed with her until then. Promised her I would. She’s got Carol so she’d best have the house as well. It never had a hold on me anyway. I’m free now. No ties.’
‘Stay with us as long as you like, Michael. The place’ll be yours when I’m gone anyroad. Might as well get used to it.’
‘I disappointed you by going out of agriculture, Dad, I know I did. It’s not too late. I can learn.’
‘Not that easy. For a townie.’ Joe voiced thoughts George’s love wouldn’t express.
‘Give the lad a chance, Joe. He were born to the land. Likely he’ll pick it up quick enough.’
Father and son talked into the night; through hours George and Joe had shared at chess and brag and gin. Their words droned into Joe until the sound of his exclusion drove him to his early bed with no more than a mumble. They barley paused to reply.
* * *
Later, out of pitch black, and through siling rain, a knock came unfamiliar at the front door. Local callers, friends, used the back door. A stranger, drenched and savage, cursed the cows that had him off the road and almost in the ditch. George nodded an apology and smiled the driver off. He yelled for Joe to help him get the herd back into the field.
Michael lit the gateway with the static car but refused its dry interior. He bore the soaking with them as they hushed and shushed the herd out of the lane and through the open gateway. To Joe’s surprise and George’s admiration, Michael played a useful part.
‘You should’ve made the gate secure, Joe. The times I’ve told you.’
Joe allowed the unjust rebuke to pass; said nothing of the untold times he’d badgered George to fix the gate.
Michael fiddled with the broken twine to no avail. ‘This should’ve been fixed ages ago.’
The look of accusation he shot at Joe, under harsh glaring headlights, didn’t go unnoticed by his father.
George walked back to the yard, found a better piece of twine and secured gate to leaning post.
* * *
Dawn, damp with early mist, saw Joe milking morning cows alone for the first time since he’d nursed George through a fever, seven years before.
In the kitchen, eggs that George invariably fried were scrambled healthily by Michael; seasoned with dried herbs from his collection. Joe declined the speckled pale concoction and broke three fresh eggs into aromatic fat. Used thickly buttered slabs of crusty white bread to soak the golden yolk, the clear beef dripping, from the plate.
‘Scrambled eggs contain less cholesterol, Joe.’
George nodded, his son’s knowledge wanting agreement, and watched Joe’s feast with envy hidden. ‘What’s so wrong with Michael’s cooking you’re forced to do your own?’
‘Piss pale mush! You know how I like my eggs.’ He stabbed one harshly, pointing at the yellow bleeding, dripping from the bread. ‘Like that. The way you do them.’
‘He’s stoppin’, so you’d best get used to it.’
‘Ay.’
Michael, sensitive more to his exclusion than the tension, intervened. ‘It’s not important, Dad. I’ve no wish to impose my own ideas on either of…’
‘Impose is right.’ And Joe stalked into growing sunshine to make good the repair on the gate before he said too much.
‘Teck no notice, Michael. It’s just change: he feels threatened. Give ‘im time and ‘e’ll get used to you as a man. He were fond enough on you as a lad. Bound to come to terms with you in time.’
‘Is he? It’s my experience that men who don’t like change are generally stubborn and narrow-minded. It might be worth considering how efficient he is. Does he make a contribution worth having?’
‘Joe’s experienced, lad. He’s utterly dependable, you know….’
‘That’ll be why we were chasing cattle in the pouring rain at midnight.’
George wanted him to know the gate was his responsibility; that Joe had tried to get him to repair it. But this proud young man admired him and the father welcomed respect from the son. Joe was broad backed enough to take a little blame. It’d do no harm.
‘Just one of those things, Michael. Could’ve happened to anyone. It’s not important.’
‘And if the driver had been killed?’
‘Look, Michael, me and Joe have worked this place together for most of our lives. We’ve done it on our own since you left and your mother… passed away. I’d be lost without him.’
‘Will the farm support three of us?’
‘It supported your mother and you for long enough. It supported a family.’
‘I’m talking personal income, Dad. Not pocket money and housekeeping.’
Michael had left behind his home and family in expectation of finding something new and lasting on the farm.
‘No wages here, Michael. Never was. We have what we need. Rest goes back into the land.’
‘Subsistence farming, Dad? I always imagined the place was a little gold mine.’
‘Never was. Never will be, Michael. Land’s marginal. Sorry, lad.’
Michael knew enough to recognise the truth. Truth, after all, had ended his marriage after his undisclosed affair. He trusted his father; understood there was no subterfuge in what he’d told him.
The father saw the son’s dilemma, realised the gulf between their disparate needs, dreams and hopes was unbridgeable, gave his lad the means to leave.
‘When will you move on, Son?’
‘It’s not just the money, Dad. It’s... well, I need something a little more… you know.’
‘Up to you, Michael. There’s room enough. There’s food, a bed and work. Always plenty of work.’
‘I don’t think so. Not for me.’
‘Mebbie.’
There seemed no reason for him to stay. He was intruding, and there was nothing for him on the farm.
‘No time like the present, eh?’
‘So they say.’
* * *
Joe returned up the track. He’d fixed the gate with timber borrowed from the hayloft, a bolt found in the workshop. The herd would stray no more.
The red car approached, slowing. Michael opened the window. ‘I never intended to cause any ill-feeling between Dad and you, Joe.’
Joe nodded, touched his cap. He turned to follow the car out of sight.
In the kitchen George wiped his eyes. ‘You and your bloody eggs!’
Joe put the kettle on.
‘You can cook your own damn breakfast in future.’
Joe waited, wondering if the change was permanent. ‘Gate’s fixed.’
George scowled at him, recalling how he’d let Joe take the blame. It would be hard to forgive him the reason for the lie. ‘About bloody time.’
Joe poured water on the tea in the pot.
‘Touch of Spring about this mornin’.’ he said, recalling soft morning air, hoping things might return to normal.
George stared at him in hostile silence and Joe knew things would never be the same.
©
Stuart Aken 1994
BRI
Bri laughed as the cartoon mouse hacked the cat into a thousand, bloody slices. Brisbane was his real name but no one ever called him that. Most people called him anything but his name; the fouler, the better, it seemed. Except Mrs Jordan. She said nothing at all but she smiled at him. Mrs Jordan didn’t call anyone anything. Dumb, she was, but nice. He’d pop down in a bit and go for her shopping, like he always did on Wednesdays.
He upended the can of cheap lager from high over his open mouth and spluttered, as the last gulp of liquid hit the back of his throat. The tossed can bounced off the top of the overflowing litterbin by the widescreen TV. It skittered noisily across bare concrete until it rolled to a halt against the girl.
Unhurt, the cartoon cat collected the slices of itself and stuck them back together. Bri puzzled over the mystery that made the cat whole again but kept the girl on the floor. The cat had been sliced. He’d only hit the girl with a bat. All the cat’s blood returned to it. Why did hers stay in a pool around her head? It shouldn’t be like that.
He flicked channels, skipping rapidly past the live stuff and pausing at each animation until he found a cartoon he liked. That was better. Popeye and Bluto were stretching Olive Oyl into a string until she quivered like the black lines on that guitar Woody Woodpecker plucked in that other toon. He knew this Popeye one. It felt good to watch it again, knowing the ending.
Mel moaned softly from the other side of the closed bedroom door. He heard her but shrugged. What could he do? Was it his fault she was ill? Anyway, her bedroom stank. Every time she spewed it went on the floor and the bedclothes. Hadn’t been out of bed for three days. If he gave her another drink, she’d only piss the bed again. No, he’d leave her be. She’d be all right soon. She always had been before.
The girl on the floor had stopped whimpering.
‘Get me another beer.’
But she stayed where she was. He wanted another beer but this was the best bit of the show; where Popeye squashed the can of spinach into his mouth, then battered Bluto with fists that turned into steam hammers.
‘Get me a beer.’
She stayed in a heap on the floor. Once the show had finished, he’d sort her. Mel moaned again; called his name.
Mel. Funny, he never called her anything else. Should have called her Mum or something like that but she never wanted it. Mel. Short for Melbourne, from the soap she watched. That’s why he was Brisbane. She said the first time his father, whoever he was, had fucked her she’d been watching the soap and that was why he was Brisbane.
He left the couch and scratched inside his boxers until the itch had almost gone. The girl didn’t even moan when he kicked her arse. ‘Bitch.’
The fridge door was open from the last time he’d grabbed a beer. There was water on the floor and he slipped and cracked his elbow on the tabletop. Pain shot up his arm and he felt tears start in his eyes. Mel would make it better.
He kicked the fridge door shut and opened the can, swigging the cool liquid as he walked to her bedroom. It stank. She had sicked up some more green stuff and it made him want to puke. It beat him why she didn’t get up and do something about it.
‘Get me a drink, Bri.’
He passed her the open can and she drank greedily.
‘I banged my elbow.’
She sighed. ‘Let me see.’
He poked it close to her face and she struggled up to look, her covers slipping to reveal the pallid skin that so revolted him.
‘You look fuckin’ awful.’
‘I feel terrible. You called the doctor?’
‘Said they was busy and they’d send someone soon.’ The lie didn’t matter. She’d be up and well again in a day or so.
‘I think I’m really ill, Bri. I think I need an ambulance.’
‘Who’ll look after me if you’re not here?’
‘Ask Addy. She’s a nice girl. I really think I need…’
‘Addy’s on the floor, sulking. Never got up after I bashed ‘er, lazy bitch.’
‘Why’d you bash her, Bri?’
‘She wouldn’t.’
‘She would’ve if you’d asked her nice.’
‘I did. She said not even with a barge pole.’
Mel emptied the rest of the lager into her dry mouth and lay back again. He looked down at her and sneered at the slack flesh. Avoiding the soiled bits, he pulled the cover over her but she threw it off. ‘I’m too hot. Open the window.’
He wandered across the room, stepping on abandoned clothing and the wrapping paper from the fish and chips they’d had three days ago. The curtains were stiff on the brass rail and he tore one as he pulled it aside. The crack in the glass had grown longer, running from the bottom of the pane almost halfway up. He pushed the window open and leant out to catch it before it bashed against the concrete wall. Four floors below, the kids were wrecking a pale blue car on the patch of grass.
The air was cold and damp with drizzle and a threat of real rain to come. He breathed in deeply, hawked and gobbed at the kids, missing by miles. One of them heard him and lobbed a snapped off wing mirror up at him. He backed away and then scowled as he heard the splintering of glass from old Mrs Jordan’s below.
‘You bust ‘er window an’ I’ll break your bloody necks!’
The kids just gave him a finger and went on wrecking the car.
Bri turned back into the room just in time to see Mel spew the lager, stained green, onto the cover, the floor and the wall. ‘Fuck me, Mel! You might’ve waited till I’d gone.’
He glanced at her bent back as she retched at the floor and saw how the flesh quivered and trembled, sweat making her skin gleam in the light from the window. He shuddered and left her to it.
He remembered the early days when she had looked good, even as his mother, and the men had bought her presents, given her cash. So many uncles in those days. Day after day, night after night, sat in front of the telly watching cartoons whilst she gasped and moaned on the far side of the door, sometimes on the floor behind the sofa.
The girl was where he’d left her. ‘Get up, you lazy cow!’ But she never moved. He kicked her and saw the impression of his foot remained in her flesh. He frowned and bent to touch her and quickly pulled his hand away from the chilled skin. From his room, he grabbed a blanket and tossed it over her, to hide her rather than to keep her warm.
Outside Mrs Jordan’s door, he smoothed back his hair and tucked his shirt into his jeans before he knocked. She opened the door a slit on the chain, saw him and opened it fully to let him in with a smile.
‘Them kids smashed yer winder, Mrs Jordan?’
She shook her head, making the tight white curls tremble, and pointed at the pristine netted window with the row of family photographs in pine frames on the clean white sill.
‘Must’ve just been the mirror glass I ‘eard, then. Just as well. I’d tan their backsides if I thought they had. Want owt from the shops?’
She nodded at him and smiled as she passed him a list and gave him money from her purse.
‘I’ll not be long. Lock the door behind me. You never know what sort’s about in these flats, Mrs Jordan.’
She nodded and passed him a crumpled white bag. He took a lump of broken toffee and slipped it into his mouth. ‘Ta.’
He waited until she had locked the door and then set off for the corner shop. The kids were still wrecking the car as he passed and he picked up the fallen wing mirror and tossed it at them. ‘Do that again an’ I’ll fuckin’ skin yer.’
They jeered and gave him the finger and went back to their play.
Mrs Jordan let him in as usual when he returned with the shopping. She checked her change and gave him some silver for his trouble. She nodded her thanks and let him out.
The girl was still under the blanket and felt no warmer when he shook her to get her up. Mel was paler still in her stinking room, her breathing shallow and wet, her skin shining with sweat. He got another can from the fridge and sat down in front of the telly. Bugs Bunny was tying a bundle of dynamite sticks to the tail of a wolf. Bri laughed, as the explosion changed the wolf into a smoking black skeleton that collapsed into a heap of ash as soon as it moved.
He glanced at the girl on the floor, uncovered since he’d tried to rouse her. He shrugged. Let her freeze if she couldn’t be bothered to get up. Beyond the door, Mel coughed fit to choke and then went quiet. He’d go in to see her when the next toon finished. Maybe call the doctor in the morning, if she wasn’t any better.
(c)
Stuart Aken
2003
Looking For Lucy
I could hear Flight’s message, even from the far side of camp. ‘Right, lads. Job to do. Kid lost in the hills. We’re gonna search. Normal programme’s suspendI ed.’
Jock, the drill corporal, had woken us only seconds before with a screeched, ‘Out o’ your pits an’ get up!’ and had continued up the line with his wake up call.
I found the hurricane lamp and dredged matches from a plastic bag. The flame revealed five youthful bodies; only one clad in regulation pyjamas. Gilling remained in his pit. Always letting us down, he was the proverbial pain for me as squad leader: silent, withdrawn, hard to know, sullen to command.
Different story with the girls. Rumour was that Frank Gilling had sampled five of the local delights in the fortnight before we set off for camp. More than the rest of us put together.
‘Up, Gilling!’
He grunted but stayed put.
‘Listen, man,’ said Geordie.
We listened and heard Jock fading, Flight approaching.
‘Jock’s yelling. So what’s new?’ Frog asked.
‘No, man. Listen!’
We listened.
‘Flight?’ I offered.
‘It’s not raining!’ Geordie pointed out.
I joined four grins as they widened with pleasure.
We struggled into yesterday’s damp clothes, cursing as elbows, knees, and feet made contact in the confined space.
‘Kick Gilling out of his pit.’ I urged.
They all kicked, with varying degrees of malice and he moved at last.
As we squelched toward the trucks, the field muddied freshly bulled boots, splattered Air Force blue with dull brown. In the dim, May dawn I sighed relief at Flight’s nod acknowledging we weren’t last, for once.
The initial burst of questions found no response from Flight or the morose Jock, so we settled down quickly. The trucks hacked like early morning smokers, coughing black fumes into the still clear air as they lurched from the field onto the narrow, steep lane. We crested the hill and began the plunge down the other side, engines screaming in protest.
‘Anyone know what that is?’
We followed the pointing finger and watched the blushing sun rise unclothed above the horizon. Everyone cheered at a sky devoid of cloud. May had arrived in the hills at last.
For three days, we had endured monsoon conditions under canvas. Our first camp, made late in the afternoon following four hours of jolting and jostling in the trucks, we’d abandoned even before we’d got it erected. The farmer’s prediction, that the field would be waist deep in water by morning, had proved true. The sun was a welcome sight.
Flight’s estimated hour’s journey ended at four fifty in a farmyard bathed in gold. Fifty-nine lads, sixteen to seventeen years old, struggled from the trucks and stretched after the cramped journey over twisting mountain roads.
‘Right, lads, local police are running the show. They’ll be joining us.’
The senior copper stood on a farm wagon, flanked by the girl’s distraught parents on one side, a man in a dog collar on the other. Her mother struggled to hold back tears as we listened. Lucy was three and a half. The family had moved into the farm a week earlier. She’d gone missing during the evening.
Gilling’s eyes never left the mother’s face, real concern on his face.
Lucy’s dad stepped half a pace forward; drawn and exhausted. ‘I want to thank you all so much for coming to help us out...’ It was all he could manage before he stepped back into his wife’s embrace. They clung to each other for support, isolated in their desolation.
A uniformed copper led each section and ours took us to the nearest field. Fanning out across damp grass, we covered the meadow from hedge to hedge. I teamed up with Gilling, at the very edge, searching bushes as well as grass.
That first field took just minutes to eliminate. Three more pastures followed before we started working in half circles, spreading out with the farm as centre. Gilling and I remained on the extreme end of the sweeping arm.
A small river, crossed by a wooden bridge, bisected the farm and I volunteered the pair of us to follow it as far as the next bridge. I’d have preferred Geordie but took Gilling in the hope I might get to know him better.
‘Watch yourselves near that river; fall in and you’re a dunfer.’
Swollen by three day’s continuous rain, the river was a narrow, raging torrent with spray creating deceptive rainbows. The exposed rocks in its craggy bed would tear a body to shreds in seconds.
‘Close on four mile to the bridge.’ Flight nodded me closer and handed me a bag of rations. ‘Sure you want Gilling along?’
‘Might get a chance to break through, Flight.’
‘Good lad.’ He nodded his approval and went off to distribute bags to the others. I looked in mine: Sandwiches in a brown paper bag, a couple of wrinkled apples and two cans of coke. I trotted across to where Gilling was staring forlornly at the water and showed him our rations.
‘I’m starving; have one now?’
We breakfasted, hardly tasting the farmhouse cheese and home made, crusty bread as we scoured meadow and bushes for the little girl.
‘Hope we don’t find her in this lot.’ I offered.
‘Me too. Poor little Lucy. Must be scared out of her wits.’
The remains of the food went in my pack, as we left that strip of water meadow for the next, struggling through a gap in the hawthorn hedge.
‘Lucy!’ Gilling’s voice carried in the silence.
No response, but every few minutes one of us called her name into the warm, soft wind.
Our route took us downstream between steep hills of rough grass. Field after field we checked bushes, stunted oak and ash, unkempt hedgerows, rocky banks and, with dread, the raging torrent itself.
No sign of Lucy and we were far from her home. Chances of finding her alive at this distance were slim. It seemed pointless searching anything but the river. She couldn’t have walked so far at night, alone but the river might have taken her body this far. The task became one of seeking something we desperately hoped not to find.
‘You there, boyos! What you about in my fields?’ A little wiry man, ragged as a tramp, shambled toward us over the pasture as we searched the riverbank. We waited for him and his demoralised sheep dog to catch up with us.
He stopped a few paces away, a crooked stick in his gnarled hands, hostility and deep suspicion creasing his face. ‘You’re trespassing, now, you know. Private land this is. No footpaths across here, boyo. What you after, then?’
‘Thought you’d have heard, sir. There’s a little girl lost from Lladrytsyb Farm up there. We’re in the search party.’
He eyed us in silence for a moment and then nodded slowly as belief overtook suspicion. ‘She’s in there, she’s dead,’ he observed in a tone that sounded like satisfaction.
‘We’re hoping not to find her in the river,’ I said, taking an instant dislike to him.
‘Keep away from my beasts,’ he warned and set off back the way he’d come, without a backward glance.
‘Let them know if you see any sign of her, won’t you, sir?’ Gilling tried.
The farmer continued walking away and made a grudging gesture with his stick.
‘Miserable sod.’ Gilling offered.
‘It’s the rain, you know, boyo, seeps into their brains and turns them soggy.’
He gave me the benefit of a brief grin. ‘That, and the sheep, of course.’
We returned to our job; looking for Lucy.
‘What’s that?’ Gilling’s question made my heart turn.
I followed his gaze to a bundle of clothes, bobbing in the swirling water and caught on the roots of a mountain ash near the bank. We approached hesitantly, not wanting to find what the evidence threatened. Closer, we saw a multi-coloured knitted jumper, a white skirt beneath.
Gilling tore his gaze from the object and looked at me, stricken. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘Jumper, skirt, white socks.’ I bit my lip, closed my eyes, breathed deeply. ‘Give us your hand.’
He faced away, arm outstretched to anchor me as I reached into the rushing torrent to grab the sodden clothing.
‘I can’t reach.’
He gritted his teeth and faced forward, grabbing the trunk so he could lean out over the water. The extension allowed me to step on the roots with one foot and crouch to get hold of the bundle. I disentangled it and heaved it up the bank.
‘It’s all right, Frank. Just a fertiliser sack and an old sweater; far too big for a kid, look.’
He examined the find, now I’d discovered it held nothing to appal us. We laughed at our fears, embarrassed by our display of emotion.
Straightening up, he kicked at the sodden bundle. ‘Chuck it back.’
‘And let someone else suffer the same mistake?’ I left it on the bank.
That shared experience helped erode the barrier that had begun to crumble after our meeting with the ragged farmer. I hoped I might make him part of the section at last but I knew I had a long way to go before I found a real solution to my problem.
Further down the river we came to a gorge, where the water plunged over a fall into a deep, boiling pool. Clambering down was hazardous: my fear of heights increasing my sense of peril. I slipped on the wet rock. Inexorably, I slid toward the witch’s cauldron below, helpless against the force of gravity. The churning pool threatened. I yelled my alarm. Frank grabbed my pack. For a moment I hung, suspended over the void. He heaved me up and I found purchase with my feet. Miraculously, I was back on solid ground. At the bottom, I waited for my heart to slow before I thanked him.
He shrugged. ‘Food’s in your pack, Ken. It would’ve got wet.’
Shivering in spite of the warmth, I helped him search the edges of the foaming pool and the detritus gathered by the outlet: Nothing.
A dozen more fields, some dotted with sheep or cattle, took us to the bridge. We clambered onto the parapet and sat under a hot sun on cool stone to eat the rest of our meal.
We’d spoken little, concentrating on the task, using our voices to call Lucy’s name in the hope of a response.
‘Girl’s parents looked devastated,’ I observed.
‘Mother must be at her wit’s end. Nice looking woman.’
I recalled the tear-stained face distorted by sadness and wondered what he’d seen that I’d missed.
‘Like women, don’t you, Frank?’
‘Love ‘em. Don’t you?’
‘I’ve got Jean, at home, you know.’
He nodded, slowly. ‘Miss her?’
‘Loads. You really like female company, don’t you, Frank?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
There was such feeling in those three words, but I wanted him to volunteer the rest, rather than drag it out of him. That he preferred the company of women to that of men was suddenly obvious and presented itself as a reason, perhaps, for his reluctance to be one of the gang.
The sun had grown uncomfortably hot and I stripped off my battledress jacket and tie.
‘Improperly dressed, Alderson. ‘Ave you on a fizzer, laddie!’ Frank’s impression of Jock was close enough to have me smirking. He grinned and followed my lead, tying his jacket round his waste with the sleeves.
We set off again, following the narrow country lane across the hump of the bridge. The break had raised our spirits and we walked with more speed and less sense of defeat. The opportunity seemed right to try again.
‘You’re not alone, you know.’
He looked at me, frowning until the penny dropped. ‘I can see you feel the same, Ken. But the others…you’d never guess, the way they talk about women.’
‘Lowest common denominator: I don’t think they actually see women in that way. We’re all still finding our feet; there’s pressure to conform and brag a bit, you know?’
‘I’d rather act than …’
‘I know. But we don’t all have your charms, Frank. I mean, how many women are going to fancy Frog?’
He nodded, a reluctant smile curling his lips.
‘You get to make the moves, so there’s no need for you to boast. I’ve got Jean. The rest of them, well, what they don’t have they’re bound to make up, aren’t they?’
‘I hadn’t seen it like that. Perhaps you’re right, Ken.’
At the waterfall, we scrambled and clambered up the rock face to relatively level ground. It was a heart-pounding climb for me, the memory of the descent still fresh. We paused to get our breath back.
Frank glanced at me. ‘Yeah, mebbie I’ve been a bit… you know?’
I grinned; shrugged my understanding. He relaxed and I felt I’d grown as close to success as I could with just the pair of us. It was up to Frank to demonstrate a change in attitude if he were to mix more readily with the rest of the squad.
More fields followed and it was clear we weren’t going to play the parts of the heroes who found Lucy, as the farm grew close again. On the hill beside us, a sheep muttered in the slight breeze and I stopped, just taking in the peace before we opened the gate to cross the river again, by the farm bridge.
It was then I heard it. ‘Listen.’
‘What?’
‘Listen.’
Frank followed the line of my gaze, away from the farm and toward a small thicket set in a dip in the ground. I heard the sound again and Frank started to run.
It had been used as a tip; not far from but well out of sight of the farm. Old tyres, a cooker with no door, empty oil drums and fertiliser bags littered the narrow spaces between ancient, stunted trees in the bottom of the dip. It was the obvious place to look.
Lucy stared at us; a mixture of fear and hope in her wide, sky-blue eyes. Mouth half-open for another call of ‘Mummy!’, she was sitting half within a cardboard box lined with polystyrene. Her shelter had once protected a TV. Under her was an ancient, stained mattress, rusty springs poking through faded stripes. Her left foot was hooked within the rusted coils of a spring, the sharp end penetrating her grubby sock and cutting into the skin, trapping her.
Frank reached her first and gentled the blonde curls as she gazed up at him. ‘Hi, Lucy. Have you out of there before you can say, “Blue bananas”.’
I watched him tenderly disentangle her from the spiral of metal, taking great pains to prevent it cutting further into her skin. He checked her ankle and foot for damage before rolling the sock back up her leg.
‘No real harm done,’ he told me.
She cocked her head on one side and frowned at him. ‘Bananas are yellow.’
Frank picked her up, held her close and whispered something in her ear. She laughed, actually laughed and then became abruptly serious. ‘I done a pooh in my pants.’
‘Never mind.’ He shifted his arm. ‘Let’s get you back to your mum and dad, shall we?’
‘I’m hungry!’
‘Me too!’
We entered the farmyard to find the rest of the group assembled, eating sandwiches and drinking tea.
‘About bloody time!’
A constable spotted Lucy and dashed off to find her parents. Cheers went up as the rest of them noticed Lucy and saw she seemed unharmed. I fielded questions, as the crowd mobbed us, and asked why no one else had looked for her in that most obvious of places. It turned out to be one of those organisational cock-ups: everyone thought everyone else had done it.
Frank shielded Lucy as she began to cry, frightened by all the noise and excitement. Her parents arrived within seconds and found us, the crowd parting to let them through.
Frank nestled Lucy in her anxious mother’s arms. ‘She’s not hurt.’
She kissed him gratefully and embraced her child. The father shook Frank’s hand, gratitude and relief mingling on his features.
We all smiled at the family reunion.
‘Well done, Frank,’ Geordie offered.
He shrugged, slightly embarrassed.
‘Join the rest of the section, shall we?’ I suggested as Flight approached us.
Frank surveyed his erstwhile persecutors, queuing to congratulate him. ‘Yeah, about time, I s’pose.’
I urged him to explain how we’d discovered Lucy and glanced up to see Flight nodding with satisfaction at me, watching the section come together at last.
©
Stuart Aken
2004
The Best Possible Time
For twenty three minutes, the ancient longhouse capping the head of the narrow lane had intimidated Charity, staring down through its fringe of skeletal trees. Reputation oozed from stonework a shade paler than the winter sky. Gossip whispered among naked branches, pointing fingers of guilt, complicity and envy, condemning and praising her planned audacity.
‘I shouldn’t be doing this: it’s foolish, dangerous.’ Her breath veiled her vision with soft white clouds as she voiced fears she felt compelled to overcome.
So, she awaited the appointed time.
Stamping her small feet failed to alleviate creeping numbness. Third hand walking shoes, bought for next to nothing from Oxfam, gave scant protection against wind blown snow seeping in to freeze her toes.
She drew a white fist from the copious pocket of her outsize coat, bought from the same shop. Dragging back the frayed cuff, she checked her watch; the only present Mother had ever given her, and that only so she’d never be late.
It was time.
Pushing a wayward strand of hair, dark as shadows, back beneath the woolly hat, she inhaled cold courage and moved. Small, dark footprints marked her route across the rutted road to the opening opposite.
As if approaching execution, she trudged the sinuous strip of virginal snow leading to the gates of Longhouse. Within, lurked Will Thakeston.
‘Why am I doing this?’
The question was redundant. She knew why: few opportunities in the area for a woman lacking transport, her desperate need for employment and, not least, her yearning to push hard against the door of Mother’s cage. Should she become his helper, Mother’s constant nagging and whining would make living at home intolerable. The wage would make escape possible, removing her excuse of poverty to keep her home. Was she ready for such upheaval? Ready to abandon the only way of life she’d ever known?
She must face the man described by most as a promiscuous philanderer, by a few as the area’s most eligible bachelor. Neither description held appeal for her; inexperienced as she was. Her determination threatened to melt into panic.
Everyone knew he was a photographer who took pictures of women with nothing on. Suppose he asked her to take off her clothes? Suppose he didn’t?
She knew how people described her; scruffy, an idiot. But, under the cast-offs and hand-me-downs, she was a woman, like any other, and unique. Her clothes made her stupid: old women’s clothes Mother bought from charity shops for modesty and cheapness.
Almost at the five bar gate, she halted as the central door opened on its secrets. But the mystery of the house was forgotten as a tall man emerged, yawned and stretched on the doorstep. In spite of the cold, he was in shirtsleeves; bare arms strong and tanned.
He stepped into wellingtons and walked toward the gate, surveying the landscape behind her. They reached the gate almost together.
‘Hello. I expect you’re Charity.’ He extended his hand over white wood in welcome. ‘Will Thakeston at your service.’
Charity’s cold fingers were lost within his warm, firm hand.
‘Your tiny hand is frozen.’
The reference meant nothing to her.
‘Come in and get warm.’ He opened the gate. The latch snapped shut behind her. No turning back, now. She heard his feet scrunch soft deep snow as he followed and she felt renewed anxiety at the prospect of entering his den.
On the threshold, she hesitated. She could run back home. This priceless opportunity would be gone forever and Mother would laugh with habitual scorn. ‘Told you so.’ And Charity would continue her existence of abuse and shame beneath Mother’s domination without hope of escape.
Will made the choice for her a split second before she decided. ‘In you go. Ma’s got the kettle singing for a cuppa. Come on, she’ll have my b….give me what for if I let the heat out.’
She stepped into warmth that was overpowering after her long wait in the bitter north-easterly. Will slipped his feet out of rubber boots and into soft moccasins as he shut the door. And she was in the beast’s lair.
‘Whoa! No further in your outdoor shoes, Ma’ll skin me alive!’
The idea of a woman having power over this big, craggy man made Charity smile. But the notion of removing her shoes and exposing darned socks left her paralysed. The heat made her dizzy and she looked in panic for a place to sit.
‘Ma! Fetch that coffee, will you?’
Charity felt the room swimming, watched it darken. A buzzing in her head increased, muting other sound. The man said something she couldn’t hear. Colour dimmed as contrast drained into uniform blackness.
She came round on her back with her feet in the air. Whiteness overhead, bright as snow, made her think she’d collapsed outside. When her eyes found focus, she saw the ceiling. In the same instant, she was aware of warm hands rubbing and massaging her cold bare feet. Skin sensual on skin.
‘I…I’m so sorry…’ She was mortified at her condition and suddenly anxious that more than her shoes and socks might’ve been removed. But only her heavy coat was missing.
‘Lie still. Give yourself chance to come round properly. I told you this room was too hot, Ma.’
Ma floated into view and Charity recognised her. Everyone knew Ma Hodge, Will’s housekeeper, and how solid and down to earth she was. It was comforting to have her present.
‘Come out wi’out breakfast?’
‘I didn’t want to be late.’
‘Had time to give your good-for-nowt mother breakfast in bed, though.’ It wasn’t a question and Charity felt disconcerted that her home life was such common knowledge.
Will rubbed her feet, bringing them back to life. The sensation mixed unfamiliar pleasure with customary pain. The return of feeling brought a hot ache with pins and needles but Will’s gentle hands gifted a sense of security and care she’d never known. She felt more confused than ever.
Looking up, along the length of her legs, she saw her skirt had revealed her knees. And from where Will stood, he might see more than he should. That he was studying her face reassured her a little but she must escape this vulnerable position.
‘I’m fine now, thank you’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
Will eased her feet to the floor, stretched out a hand to help her up. ‘Careful. Let’s get you into a chair.’
His kindness and concern could be a ploy to put her at her ease so he might take advantage of her later, as Mother had warned. But it didn’t feel that way. He seemed genuine.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Thakeston, I don’t know what you must think of me. I don’t normally do this sort of thing.’
‘Faint at men’s feet? Happens to me all the time.’
She felt he expected her to respond but lacking experience of such banter, she simply frowned.
‘Worry not. And it’s “Will”, please. I hate the Mister bit; makes me feel a hundred.’
‘And he’s only ninety seven, you know,’ Ma chirped in.
Charity placed him between twenty-eight and thirty-five. He made a wry grimace at Ma’s comment. It was a form of humour Charity had experienced, so she dared join in. ‘I’d have placed you much younger than that, Will.’
His face lit up.
‘No more than eighty eight.’ She prayed she hadn’t made a mistake in this new game.
Ma glanced surprise at Will. ‘Cheeky little madam, isn’t she?’
‘And obviously fully recovered,’ Will shook his head in mock despair.
Charity sighed relief.
Ma poured hot drinks, offering alternatives. She’d made coffee, so Charity accepted that, in spite of her preference for tea. Cups and biscuits dealt with, Ma gave her a quick appraisal to make sure she was comfortable and returned to her kitchen.
Will sat back in his leather swivel chair, feet stretched out in front of him, and studied her over the top of cupped hands. ‘Not too hot in that jumper?’
Underneath the homespun Arran sweater, she wore a white blouse, laundered for the occasion. Would he ask her to take off anything else? But it seemed a shame to waste her preparation, and he might’ve asked simply out of concern for her comfort.
‘I may be more comfortable without it. Do you mind?’
He shrugged and gestured his approval.
Apart from her coat, she’d never removed clothing in front of a man. She wasn’t sure she should. Mother would disapprove, but that was the best reason for going ahead. She stood and pulled the heavy cream sweater over her head, praying the blouse would remain tucked into her ankle length skirt and her long hair would fall back tidily.
Will looked her up and down. ‘Much better. A significant improvement.’
Natural modesty and Mother’s strict, puritanical upbringing vied with the sense of value and worth she experienced in this man’s eyes, leaving her confused how she should and did feel about his admiration. Mother had told her no real man would give her a second glance but Will looked at her with undisguised pleasure.
To her relief, the blouse stayed put. She sat demurely after folding the sweater. When she turned to place it over the arm of the chair, she saw her tatty socks steaming in front of the fire and blushed.
Here, in this house that could swallow Mother’s cottage four or five times, she recalled her true situation in life. The furniture in this room alone must be worth more than everything her mother owned. The evidence of her poverty emphasised the gulf between her ambition and experience. She sighed resignedly at the hopelessness of her quest.
Picking up her coffee, she drank slowly and decided she might as well be herself and bring the interview swiftly to its inevitable conclusion. A man like Will Thakeston was unlikely to employ a simple, ignorant country girl like her. Her acceptance of likely failure decreased her anxiety and allowed her to relax a little. She was used to rejection; Mother had ensured that.
‘So, Charity. I may call you Charity, I suppose?’ His tone made refusal seem churlish.
She nodded.
He smiled encouragement and then became quite serious. ‘Tell me, what makes you think you can be my Girl Friday?’
That was the term that had caught her eye on the postcard in the village Post Office. She’d discovered a “Girl Friday” was a female employee with a wide range of duties, usually including secretarial and reception.
Charity looked into his face to find a clue to the real man and found she was unable to choose between the evidence of her eyes coupled with recent experience, and local rumour. The fact that he wasn’t treating her like the village idiot she was so frequently labelled gave her some hope.
She decided on frankness and honesty. ‘I’m the best you’ll get round here for the money you’re offering.’ She was incapable of making anything up anyway.
He laughed out loud. ‘Well, I like straight dealing, so that’s a good start. Can you type?’
Charity had expected this.
The ancient manual typewriter, parked on a table in the corner and half hidden under a collapsing pile of glossy magazines, she’d initially assumed to be some sort of museum piece. But there was no PC or electronic typewriter.
‘On that?’
‘It’s all there is.’
Recalling the computer, with its sophisticated software, that she’d used at the cheese factory until Mr Barnard’s wandering hands had made her leave the office, she shrugged, ‘May I?’
He gestured toward the table. An antique, ash, dining chair stood there. She pulled it out and dragged the typewriter forward. Taking a photographic magazine from the pile, she flicked through, trying but failing to ignore the naked women, and found a passage of prose. Quickly she typed a copy on one sheet. One reason to thank Mother: she’d forced Charity to learn to type on an even more antediluvian machine at home.
Will took the sheet she handed him with the magazine. As she returned to her seat, he scanned both.
‘Impressive. Short hand?’
‘Try me.’
He handed her a notepad and pencil from a drawer in the leather topped desk. The letter he dictated flowed easily off his tongue and she concentrated hard to keep up.
‘Read it back.’
She was word perfect, in spite of the technical language, but had the temerity to suggest a couple of changes to his phrasing. He considered these and nodded.
‘Dealt with suppliers?’
‘Yes.’ Rather than make him dig for her experience and qualifications, she gave a brief overview.
‘Excellent. I have to admit, Charity, I’d heard rumours and gossip and expected you to be a hopeless dimwit. Your manner on the phone impressed me enough to give you this interview. Your performance so far has backed up that impression. But I was hoping for more glamour. You’re a hell of a lot better looking under that dreadful coat than could be guessed, but you’re not miniskirt and exposed cleavage, are you?’
She reddened as she sat with her hands primly in her lap as Mother had taught her. ‘Is it a condition of employment that I display my limbs and my…er, my upper body?’ She knew she was being ridiculously coy by modern standards but Mother had made her very private about her body.
Will considered her question. If he said it was, would she bow to his wishes in order to get the job? She had no answer.
‘Hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. I just like attractive women around me.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘No, it’s not a condition of employment.’ He laughed; a warm, friendly sound that made her comfortable even though she couldn’t share the joke.
There was something else she must know, in light of the rumours. There was nothing for it but to ask. ‘Would you expect me to take off my clothes so you could photograph me?’
He considered her question for such a long time that she began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
‘You’re potentially a very attractive woman, Charity. Do something with that gorgeous hair, replace those hand-me-downs with proper wrappings, apply a spot of make-up and you’d outshine many professional models. Touch too thin for me but you’d probably make a lovely subject.’
She felt admired rather than stripped but how could he tell when she was fully clothed? She felt crimson flood her skin and daren’t look at him.
He carried on, apparently oblivious. ‘I’ve never expected, let alone asked, any woman to do anything against her will or her nature. Physically, you’d be fine as a photographic model, but spiritually, emotionally, you’d be useless.’
She wasn’t sure whether she was flattered or insulted by his frankness.
‘In any case, I don’t do many nudes now. I take portraits of women, faces only or clothed bodies, except for commissions and girlfriends, for my personal collection.’
‘Apart from secretarial, and reception, what other duties are there?’ She cringed as she realised she was asking as if he’d offered her the job.
‘Occasionally I need help in the studio; it’s part of the house, by the way. And from time to time I’ll need help in the darkroom and finishing room, trimming prints, mounting, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve no experience of such work.’
‘I’ll teach you. Would you like the job?’
Charity stood and gazed around the room. He really was offering her employment. She was in turmoil. Mother would be astounded and dismayed, but mostly just anxious at what her rapidly diminishing bunch of cronies in Chapel might say. She’d have to choose between the job and Mother.
She went to the window, for breathing space, and because she wished not to look at him as she accused him of some of the gossip she’d heard. ‘May I ask you two very serious questions first, Will?’
‘Scary!’
‘Most people think it odd that you run a photographic business from up here in Longhouse. It seems remote, inconvenient and hardly sensible for your sort of business.’
For a moment he was silent, weighing up his response. ‘I inherited Longhouse from my Uncle Peter, who raised me after my parents died. He asked me to keep the house in the family, where it’s been since it was built. He wanted me to live here for the rest of my life. I’ve done that, in spite of disadvantages to my business. And I intend to keep doing it. Next question.’
He spoke with sincerity and a little hostility, as if she’d invaded his privacy. She believed him. In a way, her intrusion on his privacy made the next question easier.
‘Why are you willing to employ the village idiot?’
He laughed at that with genuine delight. ‘I might ask why a virginal, chaste and puritanical young lady, with undeniable charms, would risk her precious reputation and the wrath of her bigoted mother by entering the lair of a notorious womaniser and philanderer?’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘Reputations: strange, inaccurate and sometimes cruel. But folk will insist on believing them.’
‘Except those in the know.’
Looking out at snow covered fells and over the valley with its dry-stone walls and dark, tree-lined ribbon of river, Charity sought guidance. She’d made the appointment, undergone this interview with its attendant anxieties and risks, for many reasons. Now it was time to decide.
‘When can you start, Charity?’
She gazed at the beautiful view, aware of Will, waiting. The sun peeked through a gap in the clouds, briefly lighting up fells and river, making snow and water sparkle.
Charity smiled at the sudden transformation and found a symbol of her possible future. She turned to look at the man who might have the key to open the door of her cage and set her free.
‘Now seems the best possible time, Will.’
©
Stuart Aken 2007
CHANGING VIEWS
Changing Views
I heard them long before they came into view, approaching along the street like a mob. You’d never have thought it were Sunday morning; racket they were meckin’.
‘Hope they’re not coming to view,’ I said to meself. When you’ve been on your own as long as me, you start talking out loud to yourself. It’s a bit of company, like. I get lonely sometimes.
Anyway, they were; coming to view.
I made it to the top of the stairs, so I could see straight down, along the hall passage and through that new patterned glass to the path outside. I were anxious I might not make it downstairs in time.
A young man led them to the door. He crouched down to the letterbox straight away but he were right on the icy patch I’d made and it worked a treat. As I were easing meself down the top step, he went flying; base over apex onto the garden. Unfortunately, the snow and frost stopped him getting too much mud on his Sunday clothes.
I edged down as fast as I could; me legs ain’t so good now. The way they fussed over him: you’d think he’d broken a bone. Folk do make a palaver nowadays
They brushed him down and clucked over him like a lot of hens. Moaning about the puddle in front of the door; threatened to mend the path as soon as they could. Over my dead body! Cheeky devils, they hadn’t even set foot inside yet.
By this time, I were down the stairs. The lad were crouching again, steadied by a young woman and an older man. His fingers were through and on the string even as I hobbled along the hall. I soon put a stop to that! Stopped the key from moving.
‘It’s stuck on something,’ he told them. ‘I’ll take off my glove and try again.’
Couldn’t have been better. Exposed skin on such a cold morning. I waited for the unprotected fingers to come back through the flap, lifted it and then let it go. That spring’s quite strong and the flap snapped down with a right crack on his knuckles.
‘Bloody ding-dong!’ he yelled.
I used the manic laugh but the older folk were nagging him for swearing on a Sunday so no one heard.
He were a game young man, though: came back for more. Those fingers returned; this time I put a bit of resistance against the back of the flap. He pushed hard, weren’t going to give in easily. I stopped resisting and the sudden release made him stick his hand through the gap and crash into the door. I thought he were going to come through the glass.
Laugh? I damn near died.
And then, whilst me guard were down, the young whippersnapper got the key and let them into the house!
In they all trooped, bringing the frosty air with them. It’s not so much the cold I dislike: don’t feel it these days; it’s that sudden intrusion of the outside into the inside.
Proud young man he were, trailing wife to be, his mother and father, her father and mother, and, worst of all, a dog! A nasty cute-looking little mongrel.
They took no notice of me but the dog stood frozen to the spot in the open doorway and had to be lifted inside. At least I had it scared; it’s those that bark and slaver I can’t stand.
They all crowded into the hall passage, clapping their hands together and stamping their feet to get the snow off, making such a din.
‘Now, now, let’s not be grinding snow into this new carpet,’ said bride’s father.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed lad’s dad with a wink.
No idea what they were talking about. There are no carpets: never have been. The most that’s covered these floors is a few rugs and mats and the odd bit of lino. Bare boards when this mob arrived.
They sauntered into the front parlour and I followed, to keep an eye on things. The girl’s father noticed the damp patch under the bay straight away.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ young clever clogs assured him, ‘Estate Agent said the window broke and let the rain in. Get a bit of warmth in here and it’ll soon dry out.’
Fool! It’s the sill that’s rotten and letting the rain in. Still, they all seemed satisfied with his explanation.
I went right into the room. Being without Elsie for so long, I had a hankering for some close female company and the young wife were really pretty. As she turned from the window, I saw her better. Then I remembered them; they’d been once before, with the Estate Agent, a few days before.
‘Nice size room, for a couple, this,’ said the wife’s mother.
She meant the room were too small for her liking. Well, it would be. Never meant for such a crowd. When Elsie and I had it to ourselves, it were nice and cosy of a Sunday afternoon.
‘New floor boards in this corner,’ the wife’s father pointed out.
‘There’s odd new boards all over the house,’ the young man told them proudly, ‘Agent said it shows the place is well maintained.’
Well, if you’ll believe that…
‘Don’t think much of the décor,’ young man’s mother observed.
Now, until she said that, she were the only one I had any real time for. I could tell she had it worked out; knew about me. Too wise to say anything just then, of course, but she knew all right.
Still, I don’t see why I should care what she thought of the decoration; nothing to do with me. The builder who bought the house did that and I were none too fond of it meself. But you tend to get protective about your home and any adverse comment’s like a criticism of you, not just the house.
‘Elderly couple had it before,’ the young man explained. ‘Soon get decorated in a more modern style.’
Nice. Not only do they not like it, but they blame me! Still, I had to smile; the way that paper had been put on those walls it would fall off soon anyway.
They all filed into the sitting room. Much bigger, and full of light now the sun had emerged from the clouds.
‘This room’s got real potential.’ Wife’s mother were ecstatic. ‘You’ll be taking that awful old cupboard out, of course.’
If they did, they’d have to plaster two walls.
Wife’s father were at the back window, looking down the garden.
‘I do like sash-cords,’ he told us. ‘Nice, old-fashioned windows.’
Yes. Wonderful. Let in the draughts in winter and impossible to open on hot days. Lovely.
In the kitchen, they admired the big new window, blissfully ignoring the view of next door’s blank brick wall.
When the wind’s in the northwest, the rain runs down the outside of the house and into the kitchen through the gap at the top where the builder couldn’t be bothered with sealant.
At last, the young wife made a comment, heard only by her man, and me, as she whispered into his ear. If I could, I’d have blushed. I mean I’m as broadminded as the next man but, well, the young hussy! Mind you, she were right, she’d not be overlooked. Of course, he were beaming all over his face as he led the party out and up the stairs.
By the time I got up there, they’d done the tour and were congregating right there on the landing. In my place. My final resting place.
The dog were in a real state as I moved towards them. And the lad’s mother were getting more and more agitated as I built up my annoyance. I’m sure she were about to say something to put them off.
But then I took to considering the wife’s suggestion in the kitchen. There were no doubt it’d be more interesting to view than the brick wall.
‘Long way from the bathroom to the bedroom,’ his dad observed.
‘Wrapped in a towel,’ the lad whispered in the bride’s ear.
‘Or less,’ she giggled. Right forward she were, not like women in my day.
‘Just have to warm each other up when we get into bed,’ he whispered back.
Shocking. Bad as each other.
Then I thought of her passing by every day; fine young lass. It’d be compensation for the intrusion and loss of privacy. And it were quite ironic that I were on the same journey when me heart finally gave out and I collapsed on the landing. Mind you, I were wearing pyjamas.
They moved my body, of course, buried it someplace. But there are rules about that sort of thing. Wherever you draw your last breath, that’s your base for eternity. No choice. You can wander a few dozen paces this way or that but there’s no leaving. That’s why I feel so sorry for my Elsie; she drew her last in a hospital bed. Heaven alone knows how many other poor souls passed on before her in the same space. It must be so crowded in there!
I can’t really complain about my spot; at least it’s mine. And with these two living here, I’d not be so lonely and there’d be something to amuse me.
‘Do you know?’ the lad’s mother observed, ‘I was feeling rather unsure about this place at first; there was an unwelcome feel to it.’
They all looked at her, waiting.
‘Funny, all of a sudden I feel quite certain this house will welcome you.’
With that, they all trooped back downstairs. I weren’t too sure about the dog, and it weren’t too sure about me. But, in a manner of speaking, I could live with that. I decided against the usual door slamming, moaning in the corridor and toilet flushing I’d employed to put off other buyers. I’ve been on my own too long. Anyway, it turned out the dog belonged to her parents so it weren’t likely to be about much.
In the hall passage, the two fathers had a quick discussion and announced they’d put up the deposit between them. It were settled; the party left in high spirits.
‘I like this house,’ lad’s mother said, ‘and I’m sure it likes you.’
From halfway down the stairs, I watched them as they carefully stepped over my patch of ice.
‘Oh well,’ I muttered, ‘I can’t have you, Elsie, but that young lass should see me through the next few years. And I can always haunt them from the house when I feel like a change of view.’
©
Stuart Aken
F.R.I.G.H.T.
F.R.I.G.H.T.
Foster sneered at the novel in front of him. ‘Writers! Shoot the bloody lot if I had my way.’ He leered at the scientist perched on the corner of his desk. ‘Who told him?’
The scientist inclined her head.
‘Not you was it?’
She bridled, crossed pretty legs sharply. ‘Would I have brought it to your attention if I had?’
‘Could be covering yourself.’
‘By drawing attention to myself?’ She stood, leaned over him and shook blonde tresses. ‘Foster, you’re a prat. All the secret service is moronic, but you’re the moron of morons. That why they put you in charge?’
Bartlett, looming in the corner, moved enough to remind her of his menace. Foster smiled as she quailed. ‘Double bluff. You won’t know about such things but I’ve seen it all.’
‘Only when it’s in your line of sight, like that book I just placed before you.’
‘Have to be an internal investigation.’ His eyes investigated the gaps in her lab coat and she squirmed.
‘I realise it’s beyond the wit of someone with the reasoning powers of an artichoke, Foster, but anyone with more than a dozen brain cells could work out the obvious answer.’
He waited.
‘I’ll spell it out. Ask the writer where he got the information, distorted as it is by imagination, to write his tedious work of fiction.’
‘Bound to come up with a name straight away, of course.’
‘With your powers of persuasion:’ she indicated Bartlett. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘He might be less willing than you expect. I’ll still have to probe the team in depth, especially you, my dear, as leader.’
‘Writers are hardly noted for their courage, Foster. A white-hot needle under a finger nail, a lighted match applied to a delicate part of the anatomy…’
‘Please. We’re not monsters.’
She glanced at Bartlett before she dared defiance. ‘Enforced immobility, coupled with exposure and threat: not monsters?’
Foreknowledge was a powerful tool in his armoury of persuasion and he had made his methods well known. Bartlett took a half pace toward her at his almost imperceptible nod. She paled and moved away, frowning with fear at Foster’s ghastly smile. But he let her go: she could wait.
‘When I need to investigate you, I know where you are.’
She understood and left quickly.
He made calls laced with menace: sent Bartlett on an errand. Twenty minutes later, Foster’s flat screen monitor displayed the most recent television interview with the writer.
The man was desperate for publicity. He had begun the story, he claimed, couched in the terms of a novel but subsequent press interest had forced him to reconsider and admit his work of fiction was based on fact.
When the interviewer asked him how he had come by his information, Garth Gainford, for that was his chosen nom de plume, coyly hinted he knew someone high in Government research circles.
Foster combined fact, suspicion, conjecture and desire to conclude that the scientist must be the source. She, after all, had developed the stuff and led the team in refining it to its current level of insidious perfection.
‘So, Garth, who gave you a Fright?’ Asked the interviewer.
‘Victoria, you know I couldn’t possibly place my source in danger. But she knows what she’s talking about.’
‘A woman, then?’
‘Naturally, I’m not persuaded by the other gender.’
The writer’s clumsy attempt at seduction irked Foster. The interviewer was married and respectable.
‘Tell me how you came up with the term, “Fright”, Garth.’
He smiled indulgently, leant forward and touched her knee. ‘Simple acronym, Victoria, derived from “Fear Releasing and Inducing Global Hyperactivity Therapy,”.’
Foster snorted; the real acronym was, ‘FeaR Instilling Great Horror Treatment’, which was accurate, if clumsy.
‘The Government seem reluctant to comment on your work of faction, Garth.’
‘Indeed they do.’
Foster snarled. The bastard had put them in an impossible position. If they denied it absolutely, the press would naturally believe it was true. Should they admit to it, the furore could bring down the political leaders as well as the scientific community. No, they were stuck with ambiguity: ‘No comment.’
‘In your novel, “Injection of Fear”, you describe the effects of the drug in detail. Could you give our viewers a taste, Garth?’
Foster watched the writer warm to his task. ‘Enjoy it while you can, you bastard. It won’t last.’
‘Certainly. The drug is best administered in food or drink. Clear, odourless and almost tasteless, it’s easily disguised. It can be injected, hence the title, of course. But injection is dangerous: requires the victim to be restrained and can be fatal. It’s undetectable by normal forensic tests, so finding evidence will be nigh on impossible.’
‘You bet your complacent arse it will, Gainford.’
‘And what does it do?’
Garth sat back in his chair, far too relaxed for someone about to describe something so horrific and terrifying. ‘Depending on the victim, the effects begin with mild tension and ill-defined anxiety. Fear of something specific can be induced by exposing the victim to an object or an idea at the time the drug’s administered. So, you might feed it into a town’s water supply and then show images of books. Hey presto, the whole town develops a phobia of books. Think of such a weapon in the wrong hands.’
‘I hesitate to suggest this, Garth, but aren’t you in danger from the Government agency responsible for developing this drug?’
Foster nodded agreement at Victoria.
‘How do you mean, Victoria?’
‘Suppose they find a way of giving the drug to you, giving you a Fright, so to speak?’
Garth’s expression betrayed, for a fraction of a second, that this danger had not occurred to him. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s likely. I mean, this is Britain, Victoria. We just don’t do things that way.’
Foster choked: was it possible the man was such a moron? He obviously wasn’t bright enough to have invented the idea, anyway.
‘So, Garth, Fright’s out there in the real world, waiting for its first victims. How should people respond to this threat?’
‘Make themselves familiar with the facts. And the best way they can do that is to read “Injection of Fear,”.’
Victoria turned to the camera. ‘I’ve read Garth Gainford’s book, “Injection of Fear,” and I can thoroughly recommend it.’
Foster turned the recording off and sat back to think for a very short spell.
He and Bartlett found the sixth floor flat with ease. Foster’s knock was soft, civilised. Bartlett remained a discrete ogre behind him: silent, as required.
‘Good evening, Mr Gainford. Like a word.’
Gainford knew the men in dark suits were not benign and tried to close the door. Bartlett thrust the writer to the far side of the room and swung the door back on its hinges. He closed the door behind them and ensured it was locked.
‘We represent HMG. A small organisation you won’t know. No names: no identity cards. We are who we are and you’re subject to our needs.’
Foster nodded in two directions in turn and Bartlett propelled Gainford into his upright carver and stood behind him. One at a time, as Foster put one gloved finger to his lips and then began to talk again, Bartlett taped the writer’s arms securely to the chair.
‘We prefer not to gag those who are about to help us. Make any inappropriate noise, Gainford, and my colleague will demonstrate his agonising method of ensuring silence. Understand?’
Gainford nodded vigorously.
‘Splendid.’ Foster examined the windows, noting they opened easily and were wide enough to admit a body. The fall to the paving slabs was fifty to sixty feet. Adequate.
Behind Gainford, Bartlett cracked his knuckles in a manner suggestive of breaking bones.
Foster smiled unpleasantly as the writer blanched. ‘Won’t waste valuable time, Gainford. Reply to my questions using your normal voice. Too soft and my colleague may think you’re trying to conceal something. Too loud and he may believe you’re trying to get help. Okay?’
‘Right. Right, what do you want, Mr…?
‘Who told you about Fright?’ He watched Gainford relax and was surprised by the man’s acting ability.
‘Is that what this is all about? I knew I’d caused a bit of a flurry around Whitehall, but it’s all just hype for the book, gentlemen. There’s no basis in fact for it. Entirely the workings of my febrile imagination. I know I’ve been a bit of a thorn in the sides of our political masters but no real harm done, eh? Always wanted a best seller and this one’s taken off like a rocket. Zoom!’
Foster nodded. ‘I see.’
Bartlett swung his arms wide and brought his leather-clad palms together very swiftly, with Gainford’s head in between. For a while, Foster was silent, knowing the writer would be temporarily deaf. The man certainly seemed dazed and perplexed.
‘I’ve no time for half-truths and lies. I require truth. Whole truth. Nothing but truth. Comprendi?’
Gainford nodded. ‘I thought I’d told you the truth. What do you want to know?’
The writer disappointed Foster by succumbing to fear so readily. Foster enjoyed a challenge, looked forward to peeling away defences and using his persuasive arts. Gainford was a pushover.
‘Name the person who told you about Fright.’
‘No one told me about it. How could they? It doesn’t exist. I made it up. Surely you don’t think…’
Gainford knew it was coming this time, seeing Foster’s brief nod. He tried to dodge the blow but succeeded only in causing Bartlett’s palms to slap the back of his head and his fingers to sting his ears. Foster considered; there would be pain and slight disorientation this time, but no deafness. He continued questioning.
‘You came across as an intelligent buffoon in your interview with Victoria. I’m a plain man. I deal with reality. The reality here, Gainford, is that I know the difference between truth and fabrication and you don’t. Who gave you the information?’
Gainford opened his mouth and closed it again for a moment’s thought. Foster conveyed encouragement.
Gainford opened his mouth again. ‘It was a woman, pretty and intelligent. I don’t know her name.’
‘You slept with this singular young woman without knowing her name?’
Gainford gave himself a split second to think. ‘It wasn’t that sort of transaction. She did it out of conscience.’
Foster nodded and Gainford threw his head forward swiftly but no contact was made. Bartlett understood the difference between a nod as a signal and one indicating agreement.
‘Conscience? An odd motivate for someone capable of developing such a weapon. What did she look like?’
Gainford was into description without hesitation. ‘Blonde, blue eyes, early twenties, petite with a good figure and full red lips …’
Foster might have recognised the stereotypical heroin of the romantic novel had he read any such books, but he saw only the scientist, in spite of the difference in eye colour. ‘Enough! Thank you, Gainford. The bottle.’
Bartlett poured a measure of the writer’s malt. Foster moved out of Gainford’s range of vision and passed Bartlett a small glass vial, which he emptied into the glass. ‘We should join Mr Gainford.’
He poured two more glasses and passed one to Foster. Untaping Gainford’s right wrist, he placed the appropriate glass into his hand.
Foster and Bartlett downed their drinks in one. Gainford knew it would be a mistake to delay and sank his own drink. He shuddered at the unfamiliar, bitter aftertaste.
Bartlett took all three glasses into the kitchen and washed them.
Foster took a small box from his pocket, opened it and flicked a tiny, wriggling creature into Gainford’s lap. The writer frowned and shifted in his seat.
‘An ant: carrying a deadly virus.’
Gainford watched the insect scurrying in his lap and began to struggle in an attempt to dislodge it without actually touching it.
‘They’ve improved the drug since you first heard of it. If the victim’s shown a source of fear at the time he’s given the drug, that fear grows rapidly as the drug circulates. In your case, I’ve chosen infected ants as the trigger.’
‘Infected ants….? You’ve given me Fright?’
‘Of course.’
‘But it doesn’t exist. You can’t… I made it all …’
‘Pointless lying now, Gainford. You’ve just drunk some.’
Gainford was silent as the penny dropped.
‘You’re going to frighten me into silence.’
Foster flipped another ant on Gainford’s lap. ‘You can’t really think the State would let you get away with your treachery.’
The writer slapped at the insect in panic then withdrew the offending hand. ‘You’re going to kill me?’
Foster dropped another ant from the box. ‘We’re using “Fright” to cause you to kill yourself. By the way, it works more quickly than your book says.’
‘I’ll scream my head off!’
‘By all means. Screaming will add to the effect.’
Gainford was clearly about to yell at the top of his voice but Bartlett’s massive hand sealed the orifice, stifling the cry at source.
‘Not yet, Gainford.’ Foster flicked a couple more ants into Gainford’s lap before signalling to Bartlett to release the remaining tape bindings.
Gainford was pale with terror, his eyes rolling, sweat dripping from his face. Too far gone to think clearly, his horror of the ants crawling on him overwhelmed all other sensations so he could no longer think. Escape was all.
Foster moved to the door and sprinkled more ants on the floor between himself and Gainford, cutting off that escape route. He tossed the open box of insects to Bartlett as he released the writer. ‘Just one bit of info. Any of those little critters touches you and you’re in for an excruciating death.’
Bartlett emptied the ants on and around the writer and opened a window.
They left the flat, closing the door behind them. The stillness was quickly filled by screams of terror. A final scream tailed off into silence.
As neighbours left their flats to investigate the cause of the disturbance, they discovered Bartlett and Foster, ungloved, approaching the writer’s flat. They knocked and rang the bell, but to no avail. Shrugging, they left.
‘You don’t think Gainford might’ve been telling the truth about coincidence and imagination, sir?’ Bartlett asked in the stairwell.
Foster smiled indulgently. ‘Bartlett, I think: that’s why I’m your boss.’
They glanced with appropriate concern through the small crowd on the pavement beneath the open window. The gathered expressions of revulsion, pity and schadenfreude confirmed his death.
Foster considered Bartlett’s shrewd assessment of the coincidence factor and shrugged. He thought about the power of suggestion for a moment and wondered what excuse he could have to broaden the investigation as he intended. But, as the pretty scientist trembled before his desk, he concluded that, in matters of State Security, whatever the outcome, whatever the known facts, the end always justified the means.
©
Stuart Aken 2006