Gary's Page

THE WATSON SOCIETY

The Watson Society

has great pleasure in inviting

Mr James Spedding

to its annual induction and awards ceremony

at The Connaught Hotel

‘It is an acknowledged fact that certain men and women endure a shadowy, clandestine existence in order to safeguard our world from those who would do it, and ourselves, irreparable harm.

            I am not referring here to spies and Whitehall mandarins whose existence, although shrouded in secrecy, is nonetheless a matter of public record.

            No, I am referring to those intrepid individuals who embark upon a personal crusade, for reasons of their own, without official resources or support of any kind. The gifted, dedicated amateur whose methods range from the cerebral to the visceral, but whose efforts result in a palpable evil being stymied or removed from this world. They toil without reward or recognition for the benefit of us all, in all but one regard.

            A surprising number of their kind find their exploits detailed, under heavy disguise it must be admitted, in the realms of fiction.

            The Watson Society collects and collates these diverse exploits, along with original source material kindly donated by individual authors, so that, should it ever be deemed necessary, these gallant few may one day receive the accolades they so richly deserve.

            It may come as no surprise to learn that The Watson Society has had among its members, Sir Arthur Conan  Doyle. A charming man with a wicked sense of humour who could not resist immortalising the Society’s work by utilising our name for his surrogate in the Sherlock Holmes chronicles. Other luminaries whose names you may be familiar with include Fleming, Christie and the Baronnes Orczy.

            The Watson Society, however, serves a far more complex purpose that that of a mere literary archive. Given the world we live in, I am sure you would agree, it may be prudent to know where all the real bodies are buried.

            And who buried them.’

            

THE NANCY BOYS

ONE

The all-night launderette shed the only grubby light in an otherwise darkened street. Ryan sat in the cab of his van and watched it intently. He was parked on the opposite side of the street, two shops down, beneath a conveniently blind street lamp. Not that one of those was hard to find in this neighbourhood. He checked his watch. 1:15 a.m. Nearly twenty minutes since the last customer had entered. A small group. Two youths and an older man. Ryan wondered briefly if the older man might be ‘him’. Unlikely. ‘He’ wouldn’t have to demean himself with this sort of sordid transaction. The three of them had approached together. Walking slowly past the lighted window of the Wash-a-Rama, glancing briefly inside. They stopped outside a closed and shuttered newsagents to share a cigarette. Threw the butt into the gutter. Satisfied that no-one else had entered, they walked back, an increased sense of urgency in their stride. They stepped inside and closed the door behind them. The last one in had turned the shop sign to CLOSED. Ryan waited patiently, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Then, a movement. Shadows approaching the glass door. The three men left the Wash-a-Rama, walking briskly. Ryan caught a snatch of conversation. Too far away to make out any words. They walked to the corner, paused briefly, then, as if at some unseen signal, walked off in different directions, swallowed quickly by the night. Ryan waited another five minutes. Three cars went by. None of them stopped. No foot traffic. Satisfied that it was as safe as it was ever going to get, Ryan clambered down from the cab, shut and locked the door behind him and stuffed the key into the front pocket of his jeans. He zipped up his windbreaker, stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed the road.

            As he approached the door, he could feel his heart speed up. The sign still read CLOSED. Ryan peered inside. Two rows of washesr and dryers flanked a central aisle. At the far end the aisle turned left, an area out of sight from the street. That’s where the girl must be. Ryan had seen her enter the Wash-a-Rama over an hour ago. She had no washing with her and she hadn’t re-appeared. There could be a rear exit he told himself, but if there was it was probably locked. Besides, if the girl wasn’t there, what had those three guys been doing in here all that time?

            Ryan glanced quickly left and right. No-one in sight. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, then pushed open the door. A bell rang as he entered, making his heart race even faster. The noise elicited no response and Ryan closed the door quietly behind him. He moved quickly forward until he reached the end of the aisle. He glanced to his left. Almost opposite him was a door labelled Staff Only. The rest of the alcove was taken up by three large dryers with a wooden bench facing them. The girl sat, slumped, on the bench. She was young. Sixteen? Seventeen? Maybe as young as fourteen. She had a mop of muddy blonde hair that fell forward, covering her face. She wore scuffed and stained Doc Marten’s, cut-off denim shorts and a denim jacket under which was a purple tee-shirt with the slogan “Rude when Nude” in black letters. Ryan watched her for a few seconds. She was breathing heavily and every so often a small tremor made her limbs twitch. Slowly, as though an invisible chain was keeping her gaze pinned to the floor, she raised her head and stared at him through the curtain of her hair.

            ‘Hi,’ she mumbled, her voice slurred and indistinct. ‘Know what you want,’ she said, laboriously. ‘But can’t.’ She stopped to lick her lips with a dry, smacking sound. ‘’m buzzin’ too much already. Can’t take no more.’ Her head lowered and came up again. ‘Try Danielle over at the multi-storey. She’ll see you right.’ Her head went down again and stayed down this time. Ryan moved forward and picked up one of her hands. She made ineffectual flapping motions to try and pull away but finally gave up. Ryan pushed the sleeve of her jacket up to the elbow. He had to be sure. There, on the inside of her arm, was all the proof he needed. Three straight cuts, each about two inches long, still seeping blood, the skin smeared crimson. He stood up and let go of her hand. It sank back down to her lap in slow motion. Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out a flick knife. The sound of the blade clicking into position made the girl raise dull, disinterested eyes once more. ‘I already told you, I’m all tricked out.’ Her head sank back and she slumped forward. She would have fallen onto the tiled floor if Ryan hadn’t placed his hand on her chest and pushed her back until she leant against the wall. She stared up at the ceiling, oblivious and uncaring about what happened next. Ryan moved forward and began cutting away her clothes. When all her clothes had been reduced to tattered ribbons, he began cutting her flesh.

TWO

The basement was long and low ceilinged, lit by sporadic fluorescent tubes. Crammed full of broken chairs, tables and metal racking. Every available flat surface was crowded with cardboard boxes and piles of paper. Winkle sat at the centre of this steel and paper web, waiting like an overweight spider for an unwary fly to enter his realm. In his youth, Roy Pilkington had been nicknamed ‘Winklepicker Roy, because of his fondness for pointed Italian-leather shoes. Over the decades that followed, his taste in footwear hadn’t changed, but his nickname had. Nowadays everyone just called him Winkle. Even the old lags whose collars he used to feel on a regular basis hadn’t called him Detective Constable Pickering. It had always been: ‘All right, Winkle, I’ll come quietly.’ Not that Winkle had arrested anyone in…how long had it been? Years. Winkle had lost count. Not since they had assigned him to the basement that ran the full length of Peel Street Station. Everything is being computerised, they had told him. All the paper files have to be scanned and input onto a database. But we don’t want to keep any old rubbish. That’s why we need someone with experience and professional judgement to go through everything and weed out what we need to keep and what we can chuck out. That’s why we need you, Winkle, they said. It was a life sentence, Winkle knew that. No way would they let him back out on the streets, but what choice did he have?

            Now, as he sat staring at a file mouse bitten and mildewed with age, Winkle heard the rattle and clang of the freight lift as it crashed to a halt. The screech of the rusty doors as they were forced open and the protesting squeal as they were slammed shut again. He heard heavy footsteps advance on the concrete floor. Heard a thump and a muttered oath as the newcomer stumbled over one of the numerous boxes that littered the floor.

            ‘Winkle!’ a voice shouted. ‘Where the hell are you?’

            Winkle smiled to himself. ‘Take a left, then second right and straight on till morning,’ he said.

            After several seconds and several muttered curses, Detective Inspector ‘Dick’ Tracey arrived at Winkle’s desk, a heavy-set man in a lightweight suit. ‘Bloody Hell, Winkle!’ he said. ‘It’s like a bloody maze down here.’ He gestured to the acres of stacked boxes and toppling paper. ‘Is this lot safe?’ he asked.

            ‘Don’t know,’ Winkle said. ‘Had a chap from Health and Safety come down here once to assess it.’

            ‘And?’

            ‘I can still hear him sometimes. Over in that far corner, weeping quietly and moaning.’

            ‘Very funny.’

            ‘He doesn’t think so. What can I do for you, Dick? Or is this just a social call?’

            Tracey ran a finger round his collar, looking uncomfortable. Then he took an envelope from his inside pocket. ‘You’ve got a letter,’ he said, and placed the envelope on the table in front of Winkle. ‘It’s from HRM.’

            Winkle’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Her Royal Majesty? Why would she be writing to me?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I know. It’s that knighthood I applied for. I sent off the right number of box tops and everything.’

            ‘Human Resources Manager,’ Tracey muttered.

            ‘Oh. That HRM.’ Winkle stared at the envelope for several seconds.

            ‘Well?’ said Tracey. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

            ‘Why don’t you tell me what it says?’

            ‘How would I know? It’s personal and private.’

            ‘And they didn’t send you a copy? How remiss of them.’

            Tracey sighed and reached into his pocket again to pull out a single sheet of paper. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If that’s how you want to play it.’

            ‘I do. And don’t bother with all the jargon. Just give me the bare bones.’

            Tracey cleared his throat. ‘You know you could have retired ten years ago, Winkle,’ he said.

            ‘Yes. I was aware. I was going to as well. But then…’ he trailed off.

            ‘But then your wife died.’

            ‘Freda,’ said Winkle softly.

            ‘Yes, Freda. And at the time, the Chief Super, Mr Marx…’

            ‘Dear old Groucho. A true gentleman if ever there was one. Not like the current incumbent. Sour faced old hag that she is. If she smiled it would crack her face.’

            ‘Yes, well, be that as it may, at the time, Mr Marx gave you special dispensation to stay on. Help take your mind off things as it were.’

            ‘A noble gesture, much appreciated.’

            ‘But it was only meant to be temporary, Winkle. A couple of months at most. Not a sodding decade.’

            ‘I thought they’d just forgotten about me. I kept turning up and they kept paying me. Nobody seemed to mind.’

            ‘Well, they mind now. Human Resources may work with the speed of an arthritic tortoise, but even they figure out what’s going on eventually.’

            ‘And what is going on, Dick? Precisely.’

            ‘You’re an oversight, Winkle. Have been for ten years. But not any more. With all these budget cuts they’re desperate to save money.’

            ‘So?’

            ‘So it’s time to retire. No ifs or buts. You’ve got a birthday coming up next month. They’ve given you until then. But after that, you’re retired.’

            ‘Happy Birthday to me. I’m surprised they didn’t wrap it in a red ribbon.’

            ‘Come on, Winkle. You can’t like being stuck down here all the time.’

            ‘I’m doing very important work. Something only someone with experience and professional judgement can do.’

            ‘Bollocks. We’ll get a couple of bluebottles down her and have the place cleared in a  fortnight. You know that as well as I do.’

            Winkle sighed. ‘I suppose. ‘

            ‘Come on. It’s not that bad. Get out of here, Winkle. You’ve done your time and more. Go and get a life.’

            ‘Doing what?’

            ‘I don’t know. Anything. Go on holiday. Climb a mountain. Scuba diving. Anything you fancy. Just live for a change.’

            ‘Thanks for letting me know, Dick.’

            ‘We’ll talk later. Organise a bit of a ‘do’, eh?’

            ‘Sure. Why not.’

            Tracey turned and made his halting way back to the lift with only three wrong turns. Winkle stared at the white envelope, so clean and pristine amongst all the mouldering pulp, as he listened to the clangs and rattle of the lift as it groaned its way up to daylight. He stared and stared and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

THREE

On the first Tuesday of the month, Winkle visited a Chinese prostitute called Peggy Li.

‘Not Peggy Lee the singer,’ she’d told him when they had first met. ‘Peggy Li the Hong Kong good time girl.’ And she’d laughed, a musical, embarrassed giggle that made Winkle smile every time he thought about it. Not that Winkle made a habit of visiting prostitutes. A bit of a conflict of interest there you might say, given his profession, but it had been his wife’s idea. Sort of. On one sunny Sunday afternoon, close to the end, Freda had taken his hand and squeezed it with all her might. He could barely feel it. Like a cobweb brushing against his skin.

            ‘I don’t want you to be lonely,’ she had whispered. ‘When I’m gone, I want you to go out and find someone. Someone who can make you happy. Promise me you will.’

            Winkle promised. At that point he would have promised her the world on a silver platter if she’d asked him for it. Two days later, she was gone. Winkle didn’t think about that conversation again for several weeks. Weeks in which he’d barely left the house except to attend the funeral. Weeks in which the pile of takeaway cartons formed an ever growing mountain on the dining room table. Weeks in which every cup, spoon, plate, knife and fork found their way into the kitchen sink, but none of them had seen a drop of water. Weeks in which every drop of alcohol in the house had been consumed, the empty bottles overflowing the much put-upon dustbin. Winkle simply woke up one morning, looked at the gathering detritus of his life and said to himself: ‘Freda wouldn’t want this.’ And he set to. Tidying up, cleaning, polishing, washing, shopping. It was as he was putting the last of the groceries away that he remembered their conversation. He tried to ignore it, but it kept nagging at him. He knew she was right. Solitary by nature, taciturn and sarcastic by design, Winkle had few social skills. He hadn’t needed them. That was Freda’s department. For thirty years she had been his rock, the sole purpose of his existence, he never wanted nor needed anyone else. Until now. But how to go about it? Too old for disco’s, he told himself. Too scruffy and too poor for casino’s. Too scared for on-line dating – too many weirdo’s. So, how to go about it?

            The answer, when it came, was startlingly simple, if deeply flawed. When you want to learn to drive, he told himself, you take lessons from a professional driving instructor. When you want to have a relationship with a woman, you practice on a professional whose job it is to boost your confidence and who is paid to like you no matter what. Just temporary, he promised himself. Just until I get up enough nerve to try it on a civilian. And that is when Winkle started combing the small ad columns for escorts. Of course, they were expecting him to have sex with them. He never told them he was a copper and they would have been suspicious if he’d refused. But things did not go well on the carnal front. His first encounter left him confused and nervous. Her name was Avril, a buxom blonde with a small scar above her right eye. As he watched her undress, Winkle couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When did pubic hair go out of fashion? he asked himself. It just wasn’t natural.  And it wasn’t just Avril. The next three were the same. Bald as an egg between their legs. It made them seem too naked, too vulnerable, too…alien. And when he saw his first piercing he nearly bolted for the door. He couldn’t perform and he couldn’t tell them why. He was about to give up and slouch back into an existence of slovenly solitude when he saw Peggy’s advert.

Discrete Asian lady offers personal

service to mature gentlemen.

There was a phone number and Winkle decided to give it one last try. Peggy lived in a small semi on a quiet road in a respectable neighbourhood. She met him at the door wearing a silk kimono and when she smiled, Winkle felt his nerves melt away. The real test of course was still to come. He remembered sitting on the side of her bed, watching as she slowly untied the sash of her kimono. She turned her head slightly to one side, as though embarrassed at her own behaviour as she slowly slipped the gown from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, unveiling herself to him. Winkle took in the smooth, ivory skin, the straight, jet black hair that fell to her waist, the delicate upturned breasts with the dark, protruding nipples, the flat belly and slim waist, but most of all, nestling between firm, but shapely thighs was a nest of neat, black hair. And not a piercing or tattoo in sight. Winkle sighed. It was like coming home.

            After that, it had become a regular event. They didn’t always have sex. Sometimes they just talked or watched TV, just like a real couple. It’s just business, Winkle kept telling himself. I’m paying her to like me. It’s just temporary, until I get up enough confidence to try my luck in the real world. But it didn’t seem like business. It didn’t seem temporary. Unless you call nearly a decade of Tuesday afternoon’s temporary. What it was, was comfortable. Winkle had found a safe haven and he was in no hurry to change.

            He sat now, in Peggy’s bed, in his vest, pants and socks, dunking a ginger nut in his tea as Peggy moved around the room, picking up his discarded clothes and folding them neatly.

            ‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he said. ‘I’m twice the copper these new fast track brown-nosers are and they’re just kicking me to the side like a worn out shoe.’

            ‘But you hate your job,’ Peggy said, folding Winkle’s creased and faded corduroys into a semblance of neatness. ‘You always saying it a waste of your time.’

            ‘Well,’ said Winkle, ‘it is, but there are some interesting cases down in that basement. They go back to the year dot and I’ve been absorbing all the investigative know-how of over a hundred years’ worth of top coppers. I’m like a human storehouse of police tactics and skill. I’m like a coiled spring, just waiting to explode.’ He finished his tea, placed the cup and saucer (it was always a delicate bone china cup and saucer with Peggy, never a mug) on the bedside table and brushed crumbs from his vest. A large ginger tom cat sat curled up comfortably by his side. This was Chairman Meow, Peggy’s constant companion. ‘He was little ball of fluff when I first got him,’ she had told Winkle. ‘He could fit into one hand easy.’ Times had certainly changed. Now, the Chairman was overweight and anti-social. His belly hung almost to the ground and woe-betide any unwary newcomer who dared to stray into his territory. Winkle and the Chairman had hit it off right from the start. Winkle reached out and tickled the ginger monster under the chin. He purred like a jet plane waiting to take off.

            Peggy finished folding Winkle’s shirt and placing it on top of his trousers. She hung his jacket on the hook behind the door and placed his shoes neatly under the bed. Then, she moved smoothly and delicately into Winkle’s line of sight, toying with the sash of her kimono as she turned her face shyly away from his gaze. Winkle felt his heart beat faster. It was always the same. A ritual unveiling for his pleasure. Ever since that very first time, Peggy had performed for him, just like this, sensing that it was somehow special and important to him to see her unadorned body in all its natural glory. She slipped the silk from her shoulders, feeling a delightful shiver as is slipped down her back. She paused, naked, letting him drink her in with his eyes. It was something he never got tired of. Winkle had never been rude enough to ask Peggy her age, but ten years had done nothing to diminish her beauty. She was still as trim and firm and smooth in all the right places as she had been all those years ago, and if there was maybe a strand or two of silver in her ebony hair, it only added to her allure. Winkle licked his lips. Peggy waved her hand and the Chairman waddled to the side of the bed and launched himself to land with a thud and a disgruntled meow on the floor. Peggy climbed onto the bed and snuggled down into the crook of Winkles’ arm. She kissed him softly on the lips and reached across him, slipping her arm beneath the waistband of his shorts. As she did so, Winkle saw a plaster on her forearm. He frowned. It seemed to be a frequent occurrence these days, some small injury or blemish. It worried him.

            ‘What have you done there?’ he asked.

            She looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I just get clumsy sometimes. Opening a tin of cat food maybe.’

            ‘Funny place to cut yourself opening a tin of cat food. It’s not one of your clients is it? He’s not roughing you up is he? Because if he is…’

            ‘Shhhh.’ Peggy tilted his face towards her and kissed him again, more deeply this time, her tongue snaking into his mouth, her hand reaching further into his shorts. Winkle groaned.

            ‘There’s my nice big policeman’s truncheon,’ she whispered, and giggled. She worked him free of his underwear and slid down the bed. He felt her warm breath and the tip of her darting tongue, her expert fingers caressing and arousing him. He closed his eyes and abandoned himself, all copper’s instincts forgotten, all curiosity abandoned. If there was anything wrong, she’d tell me, he decided. It was a decision Winkle would regret for the rest of his life.

 
LONDON’S TOWN

SYNOPSIS

Danny London. Born 1927. Rebellious child, always in trouble, always fighting, but when the War started, rules didn’t apply and Danny was left to run wild.

After the War and before he was called up for National Service, he was a promising amateur boxer. Planned to go professional after his stint. Something went wrong. He boxed for his unit. Got a reputation. On a weekend pass he got into an argument with a civilian. A fight started. Danny battered him unconscious. The man died. He had a weak heart. Danny didn’t know, but he was charged with manslaughter anyway. The Army gave him a dishonourable discharge. The Judge gave him five years.

1953. Where our story begins. Danny’s first day back home after being released. Everyone is watching the Coronation. His Dad has disowned him. He’s arranged for him to get a job on the buses but as soon as he’s earning, he wants him to move out.

Danny tries to track down his former girlfriend, Sylvie. He thought they were in love but she didn’t write or visit when he was inside. He finds out she’s now a stripper in seedy bars and clubs. He also finds out that she has had her face slashed by a razor. She won’t tell him who did it and wants nothing to do with him.

Danny tries to get back into boxing, but he can’t get a licence with a criminal record. He investigates the unlicensed scene. He needs money and he doesn’t fancy the buses.

He meets up with Valerie Barrow. Much older than him, he lost his virginity to her during the War. She has twin sons Danny’s age, Frankie and Lloyd. They were evacuated during the War but now they’re back and setting themselves up as ‘businessmen’. Danny knows what that means and wants nothing to do with them, but, as Sylvie doesn’t want him, he starts a clandestine casual affair with Valerie.

As he tries to sort out his life, he asks around, trying to find out who attacked Sylvie and why. Vague thoughts of revenge pass through his head. He meets a down at heel private eye called Stan Laurel who offers him cash in hand to do a few jobs. Stan specialises in divorce cases and spends a lot of his time trying to get incriminating photos of straying spouses. He’s currently working for the wife of the local Councillor. She thinks he’s having an affair. Stan wants Danny to trail him to an out of the way hotel. Expecting to find him with some floozy, Danny bursts into the room, camera at the ready. To his surprise, he finds the Councillor in bed with Lloyd Barrow.

If it gets out that Lloyd is gay, his and his brother’s reputation as hard men will be shot to pieces and the Barrow Boys will do anything to protect their growing empire. Danny sees a way to use the situation to his advantage. In exchange for the negatives, he wants the name of the man who attacked Sylvie. Thanks to Valerie’s influence, a deal is struck and an uneasy truce is brokered.

The man responsible for attacking Sylvie is Trevor Sharp, a local pimp. Nasty piece of work who preys on vulnerable young women. When Sylvie declined to join his stable he took revenge by slashing her face. Sharp is currently under the protection of rival crime family, the Mason’s. If anything should happen to Sharp, suspicion would fall on the Barrows. They don’t want that sort of grief, so, to make it worth their while, they have one condition. Before they give him the name, Danny has to compete in an underground boxing contest. Big money will change hands. The Masons have the current champ on their payroll. If Danny wins, the Barrow’s win, not just cash, but the chance to lord it over the Masons. As a bonus they will even take care of Sharp. That way, Danny doesn’t have to run the risk of being implicated. Not really having a choice, Danny agrees.

Danny wins the fight. Barely. The Barrow Boys arrange a meet for Danny to hand over the negatives. Sharp is there. Tied to a chair, beaten to a pulp. Lloyd hands Danny a gun and tells him to do whatever he wants, they’ll clean up the mess. Although tempted, Danny settles for inflicting a similar scar on Sharp and telling him to disappear.

The Barrow’s offer Danny a job. He’s tempted, but refuses. Instead he goes to Stan and asks if he can have a permanent job. Stan agrees. Now all Danny has to do is make it up with Sylvie.

Instead of being grateful, Sylvie is furious. She doesn’t want someone who thinks with their fists. Her life is messed up enough as it is. She thinks Danny is trouble and she doesn’t want to be around when it catches up to him. The news of his new job fails to bring her round and Danny is left facing an uncertain future, but at least he has a future, one of his own making.

LONDON’S TOWN

CHAPTER 1

There were two good reasons for a right royal knees-up in 1953. Princess Elizabeth became Queen. And Danny London came home.

                I didn’t expect much of a celebration really. It’s not as if I was coming back from climbing Mount Everest, like that Edmund Hilary bloke. But I did expect something. A kiss from the girl I left behind maybe? Fat chance. She didn’t write or visit me once in the five years I’ve been inside, so why should she bother now?

                A handshake from my old man would have been nice though. Mum waiting on the doorstep, waving and smiling as her little boy strolled down the street maybe. Instead, nothing. Like a bleeding ghost town. Not even next door’s ginger tom to welcome me back.

                I pushed open the gate. It still squeaked. Five years and the lazy bugger couldn’t be bothered to give it a drop of oil. ‘I work hard to put food on the table,’ he always said. ‘When I come home I want a bit of peace and quiet.’ If he’d oil the bloody gate it would be even more quiet and he wouldn’t have to spend so much time down the Anchor. Quietest pub in town apparently.

                I raised a hand to knock on the door, then thought better of it. This was still my home, still the place where I lived, I shouldn’t need to knock like a bloody door to door salesman. I fished my key out of my pocket and let myself in. The passage was just as dingy as I remembered it. The rose patterned wallpaper was a few shades yellower, the paint a bit more chipped and the same smell of cabbage hung in the air like a bulldog’s fart. I could hear voices coming from the front room. I pushed open the door and looked in.

                I’d never seen so many people crammed into our front room. Not even at Christmas when all the rotten relatives came round. Most of them I recognised. Neighbours from up and down the street, faces from the pub. The kids were sitting on the floor, the grown-ups on the sofa, the two armchairs and as many kitchen chairs as could be squeezed in. They were all staring at a tall, walnut cabinet in the corner. In the middle of the cabinet was a small, glass panel. Behind the panel, like fuzzy grey goldfish, Her Majesty was getting herself crowned. Television. First and only one in the street by the look of it. Typical of the old man to get one over on the neighbours. I looked at it for a second or two. It was all right I suppose, but it would never replace ITMA.

                ‘That’s new,’ I said and they all jumped like someone had fired a starting pistol. Mum was the first to react. She gave a little squeal and pushed herself up from the crowded sofa like a cork being shot from a bottle of plonk. She did a curious sideways shuffle to avoid the many pairs of feet and the sprawled kids until she was close enough to throw her arms around me and give me a big hug. That was more like it.

                ‘Danny!’ she said. ‘You’re back.’ Always quick on the uptake was Mum. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home today?’

                ‘I did. I wrote you. Didn’t you get it?’

                She shot a quick glance at my old man who was giving me a look that would sour milk. ‘Didn’t want to get your hopes up,’ he said. ‘Thought he might change his mind and sling his hook.’

                I felt my blood start to boil. ‘You poisonous old…’

                ‘Never mind that now.’ Mum the peacemaker, like always. ‘You’re home now and that’s all that matters.’

                There was movement from the huddled masses. I saw Mrs Armitage from two doors down reach into the scrum of kids and drag her two, Charlie and Susie, out. They must have been ten or twelve now, I barely recognised them, and they weren’t too chuffed about being hauled away from the miracle of modern science.

                ‘I want to see Princess Elizabeth get crowned,’ Susie wailed.

                ‘Yea, me too,’ Charlie chipped in.

                ‘We all wanted too,’ Mrs A said sternly. ‘But we all must make sacrifices.’

                ‘Now Edith,’ her husband, Stanley said, which surprised me because I don’t think I’d ever heard him speak in her presence before, not without permission anyway. ‘Can’t we just…make the best of things…for the children’s sake?’

                She gave him a look that would strip paint. ‘It’s for their sake I’m doing it,’ she said. ‘At least one of us has to show some backbone.’ She hustled her brood towards the door. As she passed she stared up at me. ‘You’ve got some nerve, coming back here after what you’ve done. After the shame you’ve brought to your poor Mother and Father.’

                I could feel Mum shiver like a terrier who’s been left tied up in the rain. I wanted to say something, to fight back, to tell Mrs High and Mighty  Armitage exactly what I thought of her, but I held my tongue. My ‘poor Father’ who I’d supposedly shamed so much, didn’t seem to give a toss and had already turned his attention back to the television. Mrs Armitage gave my Mum a pitying look. ‘You’ll be in my prayers,’ she told her, as though that would be of some comfort and out she swept. Her kids trailed reluctantly behind her, leaving Stanley to bring up the rear. As he passed, he patted my arm. ‘Welcome back, son,’ he said softly and then disappeared after his wife.

                For a second, it was a toss-up between me and the Queen. The pomp and ceremony of the royal occasion soon won out and those that remained turned back to the screen.

                ‘Why don’t you go on up to your old room?’ Mum said. ‘I’ll bring you up a cuppa.’

                ‘Don’t miss the coronation on my account, Mum. You stay and watch.’

                ‘Kings and Queens come and go all the time,’ she said. ‘But it’s not every day I get my son back. Go on. I’ll be up in a minute.’


                The room was just as I’d left it. Cramped, untidy, with a lumpy single bed. The only window looked out over the scruffy patch of garden that Mum sometimes called a ‘lawn’ if she was trying to impress her sister, Dot, who only had a back yard. Nothing grew out there except weeds and cat shit. During the war it had been dug up for vegetables. A few maggoty spuds was the most we ever got out of it. After five years staring at blank walls, it looked bloody marvellous.
                I could hear muted voices from downstairs. I began pacing the floor. I was feeling itchy, fenced in. The cramped room reminded me too much of my cell. I looked at the titles on the lopsided bookcase. Mostly dog-eared paperbacks, westerns, science fiction, crime. I chose one at random, lay down on the bed and began flicking through the pages. It was called ‘The Terror of Tinseltown’. Some yank rubbish about a private eye. I tossed it aside, unable to concentrate. I laced my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling. The same cracks in the plaster welcomed me home.
                ‘I’ll make up the bed later with fresh sheets.’
                I started. Without realising it, I had almost dozed off. Mum put a cup of tea down on the bedside table. She dipped into her apron pocket and put a packet of ten Woodbine and a box of matches next to it. ‘Thanks, Mum. Is it all over down there?’
                She waved her hand. ‘It’ll go on for hours yet,’ she said. ‘You know what these royals are like.’
                I grinned. The way she said it, you’d have thought we were forever popping over to Buck House for a cuppa and a natter. She dipped into her apron pocket again and came up with a ten bob note which she pressed into my hand. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to.’
                ‘I want to,’ she said. ‘No arguments. Drink your tea. Then I thought you might like to go for a nice walk. Have a pint maybe. Get used to being back. Give us chance to get rid of our visitors. Then we can have a talk. About what you’re going to do next.’
                I nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ I said.
                She reached out and cupped my cheek in her hand. ‘It’s so good to have you back,’ she said. Then she turned and hurried back downstairs before I could see the tears start to fall.

 TWO
‘Bloody Hell, look what the cat dragged in!’
                ‘Good to see you too, Lenny.’
                I stuck out my hand and Lenny smothered it in both of his, pumping my arm so hard I thought he would dislocate it. ‘Good to see you, son, good to see you.’ He released my hand and I flexed my fingers to make sure they still worked. He looked me up and down with a bloodshot but practiced eye. ‘You look in good shape,’ he said.
                ‘Not much else to do inside,’ I said. ‘It helped to pass the time.’
                Lenny nodded. Mine wasn’t the first story he’d heard like this and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last. I looked around me. Before I was called up, this had been a second home to me. Just a falling down gym in a shabby, bombed out side street. The walls mildewed with sweat, the floor rough and stained, the ring canvas scuffed and patched. I drank it in like nectar. It may be basic, and that’s being kind, but it held the promise of glory for those that made the grade. I’d not been too shabby either. Had hopes of going pro after my stint. Still did.  That’s why I was here. My first port of call after a sea of trouble.
                ‘I don’t mean anything fancy, Len. No special favours or nothing. I’d start at the bottom. Work my way up.’ Lenny clapped a hand like a shovel on my shoulder and gently disabused me of that notion.
                ‘You’d never get a licence,’ he said. ‘Not with your record. Sorry, son.’
                ‘Oh, well. No harm in asking, eh?’
                ‘No harm at all son.’ He paused for a second and I could almost hear the gears going round in his great football of a head. ‘Remember Norman?’ he said.
                ‘Sloppy Norman? The ring man?’ Everyone called him Sloppy, not because he was clumsy, but because he was in charge of the slops bucket.
                ‘That’s him,’ Len said.
                ‘Course I remember him. How’s he getting on?’
                ‘He’s dead.’
                ‘Oh! Sorry to hear that.’
                ‘He took bad last winter. It was his chest that did for him. I’ve not replaced him and the place could do with someone.’ He looked around as if the deplorable state of the décor was somehow due to the lack of care and attention Sloppy Norman used to lavish on the place. It looked the same to me, but I said nothing. ‘I couldn’t pay much, but if you’re interested. Cleaning up the locker room, mopping the floor, ring man on match nights, that sort of thing.’
                I knew he was trying to be kind, but carrying the spit bucket for young chancers who I know I could beat with one hand tied behind my back wasn’t exactly the career path I had in mind. I know beggars can’t be choosers but there are limits.
                ‘That’s real nice of you, Len. I appreciate it, I really do. Let me think about it, okay. Got one or two other irons in the fire. Just need to see how they work out. I’ll let you know, all right?’
                He nodded and smiled, but I could see from the look in his eyes he knew I was bluffing. I suppose I never really thought it would be that easy. I just wanted everything to be the same as it was, but I was starting to realise that it never would be, ever again. We shook hands and I left. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t stand to.
                You get to Lenny’s Gym down a long, dark corridor. A flight of stairs on your right-hand side lead up to the second floor, but I’ve never known what was up there. I was almost at the street door when someone shouted, ‘Look out!’ and something the size of a sofa knocked me flying. As I picked myself up and looked round I saw that it really was a sofa that had hit me. There was a clatter of footsteps from up above and a skinny individual about my age came and peered at me over the upturned sofa. ‘Are you all right?’ he said. It had only been a glancing blow, but I made a show of checking for life threatening injuries just the same.
                ‘Looks like I’m all in one piece,’ I said. There was a time I’d have let my fists do the talking for me, but I’d changed a lot in the last five years. The little bloke came around the end of the sofa and I saw that he was limping heavily on his right leg. ‘You look like you’ve hurt yourself thought.’ He glanced down at his leg like he’d only just noticed it and gave me a sheepish grin.
                ‘When I was six,’ he said. ‘Jumped off a roof.’
                ‘Why?’
                ‘Just to see if I could. It’s not all bad, though. Kept me out of the army.’
                ‘So what are you now? Some sort of removals man?’ I nodded towards the sofa.
                ‘That? No. I got it cheap down the market. I was taking it up to my office but it sort of got away from me.’
                ‘Office?’
                He pointed up the stairs. ‘Up there. I just moved in today. I did have a place over the fishmongers, but the smell kept putting clients off.’
                ‘And you think this place smells any better?’
                ‘Maybe not, but it’s cheaper.’
                ‘I didn’t know there was anything up there.’
                ‘Oh, yea. It’s quite roomy. You can have a look if you want. That is, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand with this first.’ He grinned and pointed towards the sofa. I sighed. Well, I had nothing better to do, so I hefted one end and pushed as he guided the other end up the stairs and round the corner into a large, open room that was nearly as big as the gym itself. Apart from the sofa, there was a desk with a telephone, a filing cabinet and two chairs.
                ‘Not bad, is it?’ he said. ‘Lenny used to keep all his old punchbags and stuff up here, but he got fed up carrying them up and down the stairs, so he rented it out.’
                ‘That was handy. What sort of business are you in anyway?’
                ‘Didn’t I say? Where are my manners.’ He wiped his hand on his coat and held it out. ‘The name’s Stan. Stan Laurel.’
                ‘Stan Laurel?’
                He shrugged. ‘My Mum was a big fan. My Dad says it was because I was conceived in the back row of The Roxy during a Laurel and Hardy double bill.’
                ‘A double bill? He must have some stamina, your dad. But you haven’t said what sort of business you’re in.’
                He began patting his pockets. ‘I’ve got some business cards here somewhere.’ He finally pulled a card out of an inside pocket and handed it to me. ‘There you go. Stan Laurel, Private Investigator. Pleased to meet you.’

 THREE
If being able to talk nineteen to the dozen is a prime requisite for a Private Eye, Stan Laurel was going to be one of the best. By the time I left, I’d heard his life story ten times over. Seems the rising divorce rate alone is going to keep him in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life, especially as Private Eye’s are practically unknown in this country. ‘It’s an American thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve only got to watch the films to know that. I’m getting in on the ground floor.’ I told him that if he was on the ground floor it would have made moving that damn sofa a lot easier. ‘Yea, but then we wouldn’t have met, would we?’ he said. ‘It’s fate, that’s what it is. I’ve got a feeling our paths are going to cross again very soon, you mark my words.’
                I left him with his feelings and went in search of a drink. It was just past opening time when I got to the Black Bull. I could have gone anywhere, but the Bull was special. Or rather someone who lived there was. I didn’t recognise the face behind the bar, but that wasn’t too surprising. I ordered a pint and when he served it, I asked him: ‘Is Sylvie about?’
                ‘Sylvie?’
                ‘Yea. Sylvie Barton. The landlord’s daughter.’
                ‘Don’t know her, mate. Landlord’s called Makepeace. Has been for the last three years or more.’
                He moved off to serve another customer and left me pondering over my pint. I’d known Sylvie since infants. Her Dad had always run the Bull. He gave me my first sip of beer one bank holiday when my folks weren’t looking. And Sylvie…well, I always thought Sylvie was ‘the one’. I’d had other girlfriends. Course I had. A lad’s got to sow a few wild oats. But I always came back to Sylvie. That’s why I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t written or visited me these last years. Though in some ways, why should she? It had never been formal. No ring or anything. And it had never been anything more than platonic. Kiss and cuddle in the back row, that sort of thing. Not for want of trying on my part you understand, but she always told me if I wanted that sort of girl I should go down the Horrors. That was what we called Holloway Road. It ran like a scar across the face of the city, starting at the docks, taking a dog-leg around the park and ending up in the posh part of town, before petering out at Ludlow Hill. A Chinese businessman called Tony Yong owned most of it. He used to tell everyone he was the King of Holloway Road, but with his accent it sounded like he was saying ‘Horrorway Road.’ It wasn’t long before it got shortened to ‘the Horrors.’ Not a bad description of most of it either. Down by the docks is the red light district, has been for hundreds of years. All the randy sailors would come streaming off the boats and straight into the bedrooms of the doxies who lived in the Horrors. Their pimps would grow rich and the houses would be left to rot because nobody lived there long enough or cared enough to do anything about it. Tony Yong was just the latest in a long line of pimps growing fat off the backs of the Holloway whores. Except he called himself a landlord. The dock end had been bombed to buggery during the war, but a lot of the houses were still standing and still doing a thriving trade. Further up it became more genteel. Shops, houses, local flea pit, that sort of thing, but it could never quite shake off its evil reputation and living on the Horrors was to risk forever being sniggered at.
                All these thoughts were running through my mind when a voice behind me said: ‘I heard you were out.’
                The owner of the voice was a short bloke in a trilby hat and a raincoat. I recognised him at once.
                ‘Sergeant Pilkington. Nice to see you again. This the formal welcome home committee is it?’
                ‘It’s Inspector Pilkington now,’ he said, and I couldn’t miss the note of pride in his voice.
                ‘Going up in the world, eh? Richly deserved, I’m sure.’ I was only half joking. Sergeant Pilkington, as was, was one of the ‘good’ coppers. Not a soft touch by any means, but fair. Many’s the time he’s let me off with a clip round the ear when he could have marched me straight down to the nick and my old man would have done a lot worse when he got me home. He ordered a pint and took a long pull on it before speaking again.
                ‘How you been keeping, Danny?’
                ‘Mustn’t grumble. You?’
                ‘Not bad. Promotion.’
                ‘You said.’
                ‘Got a nipper now, too.’
                ‘Yea? Congratulations.
                ‘Three months old. Called him Roy.’
                ‘Good for you.’
                The conversation lagged a bit after that. Five years inside doesn’t do much for your social skills. If he had a point, I knew he’d get to it.
                ‘Didn’t think we’d see you round here again,’ he said.
                ‘Bad penny, that’s me.’
                ‘How bad?’
                ‘I’m not going to cause a ruckus, if that’s what you mean.’
                ‘It’s not what I mean that matters. It’s other people. Trouble follows you round like a bad smell. Always has done.’
                ‘I’m a changed man.’
                ‘I hope so. If not, we’ll be meeting again under more official circumstances.’ He finished his pint and made to leave. ‘Stay lucky, Danny,’ he said.
                ‘Before you go, Sergeant…I mean, Inspector Pilkington.’
                ‘Yes?’
                ‘Bloke behind the bar tells me Fred Barton’s moved on.’
                ‘You could say that. Heart attack. Three years ago now.’
                ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What about his wife, Florrie?’
                ‘Florrie wasn’t strong. Never had been. Ended up in a nursing home somewhere.’
                ‘And Sylvie? Thought I might look her up. Any idea where I might find her?’
                He paused for a moment and a strange look came over his face. He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead he said: ‘Try the Anchor. I hear she’s working there tonight.’
                ‘Thanks. I will.’

FOUR
The Anchor used to be called the Hope and Anchor, but there’s been bugger all hope around here since the war, so they changed it. Near the docks, but not on the Horrors, not that that made it any better. The floor was sticky lino and if the beer looked cloudy, it was probably the glass. Working behind a bar was an obvious job for Sylvie, but if she was working here, times must be hard. Why she hadn’t stayed on at the Bull was a mystery. Everybody knew her, everybody liked her. Maybe the new landlord was one of these new broom types. Not my business anyway. I just wanted to find her. It hadn’t exactly been a happy homecoming so far and I needed to see her. Needed to see if she was still my girl. Needed to find out why she hadn’t been to visit. So many things I needed to do. So many things I needed to ask her. But mostly I just wanted to see her. To see her face. To see her smile. If I could do that, I’d know I was home.
                I ordered a half and asked the bloke behind the bar if she was working tonight. He nodded towards the door to the saloon bar. ‘Through there,’ he said. I could hear music coming from the next room. Must be a party. I moved towards the door. A big bloke in a badly fitting suit with a face to match blocked my way.
                ‘Tanner,’ he said.
                ‘London,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
                He didn’t crack a smile. ‘Tanner,’ he repeated.
                ‘Just to go in? I only want a word with the girl behind the bar.’
                ‘Tanner.’ I didn’t think the conversation was going to get any more interesting so I dug in my pocket and handed over a tanner. He pocketed it and stepped to one side. I opened the door and went in.
                Once inside, I could see what the tanner was for. Some tables had been pushed together to make a sort of stage. A Dansette record player was perched on the bar which explained the music I could hear. On the stage a stripper had her back to me. She was tall, with nice legs and long, dark hair. She was wearing stockings and silky knickers. She had her hands behind her back, fiddling with the clasp of her bra. I took a quick look behind the bar. No sign of Sylvie. Seeing as I’d paid to get in, I thought I might as well get my money’s worth until she showed up. The place was crowded, but after five years without seeing a real woman with no clothes on, I figured my need was greater than theirs and I managed to work my way close to the stage. The stripper unclipped her bra and turned back to face her adoring public. She crossed her arms and pulled the bra away, tossing it aside in one smooth, practiced move. The crowd gave a cheer. Well deserved too. She was a big girl, but not top heavy. Nicely rounded they were and they bounced nicely as she shook her shoulders to the beat. She shimmied her way down the table-top stage until she was right in front of me. She looked me straight in the eyes and I grinned like an idiot. And then the grin froze on my face.
                I can’t tell you how many times in my life I’d imagined seeing Sylvie’s naked breasts. Just the thought of them had got me through many a cold, lonely night over the last five years. But I never thought when I did finally get to see them, it would be in a room full of sweaty dockers. She recognised me at the same time as I recognised her.
                ‘Sylvie!’ I said.

                She gave a little scream and stumbled back, clapping her hands across her chest, then she turned and scrambled down from the stage and disappeared behind the bar. I tried to follow, but several pairs of hands held me back. They weren’t too chuffed that I’d spoiled their show and before I knew it, the gorilla who had taken my tanner had be by the scruff of the neck and I found myself out on the street.
 

HALFWAY TO HELL

Ditzy dames and classy broads were always P.I. Mac Jordan’s weakness. When a damsel in distress asks for his help he finds himself up against a psychopathic society doctor, crooked cops and a masochistic wise-guy whose weapon of choice is a baseball bat covered in barbed wire. If he wants to survive, never mind crack the case, he has to confront the demons of his past and the ghosts of his future.

CHAPTER 1

She was the kind of blonde who made strong men weak and weak men strong. Her voice was like warm honey on cinnamon toast and when she said: ‘I need your help,’ I knew I was going to regret ever having laid eyes on her.

            I motioned for her to sit in the client’s chair. She crossed her legs with that soft, swishing sound you only get with really expensive stockings end even more expensive legs. She fixed me with those cobalt blue eyes of hers and leaned forward slightly as she told me her story.

            I nodded like I was really paying attention and asked a few questions along the way. When she was finished I told her my fee. She didn’t even blink. She gave me her number and as I watched her leave, I knew I was halfway to hell and I didn’t give a damn.

My first stop was Eddie Richmond. Eddie runs a pawn shop on Columbus and 3^rd.he’s a sawn-off runt of a guy with a bad back, bad knees and bad breath. He’s one of maybe half a dozen people in this world I call friend.

            ‘Hey, Mac, good to see ya,’ he said as I made my way up to the counter.

            ‘Eddie,’ I said in return. He was busy serving a kid in a brown leather jacket who didn’t look old enough to shave. The kid shot me a nervous look.

            ‘It’s okay, kid,’ I told him. ‘I’m not a cop.’ I used to be and maybe the smell still lingers because the kid didn’t look reassured. His eyes kept flicking between me and Eddie and back again.

            ‘Go on about your business,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait.’

            The kid licked his lips. ‘Maybe I should just…ah…’he said.

            ‘Maybe you should come back late,’ Eddie told him.

            ‘Yea, sure, I’ll do that.’ He practically ran from the store.

Eddie looked at me through the inch thick lenses of his bottle top glasses that magnified his eyeballs to the size of footballs.

            ‘Kids these days,’ he said, as though the word had a nasty taste.

            ‘He ain’t comin’ back,’ I told him.

            Eddie shrugged. ‘So maybe you saved him from a life of crime. Call it your good deed for the day.’

            I didn’t ask what the kid was after. That wasn’t how my relationship with Eddie worked.

            ‘What can I do for you, Mac?’ he asked.

            ‘What, I can’t just stop by for a chat with an old pal?’

            He snorted. ‘In a monkey’s tush you just want a chat. You got your game face on. What’s the deal?’

            I told him about my blonde temptress. He listened carefully and then gave a long, low whistle.

            ‘So what do you want from me?’ he said. I told him and he thought it over for a few seconds. Then he nodded and shuffled off into the back room. I heard a lot of banging and scraping and a few cuss words and when he came back he was carrying a small cardboard box. He slid it across the counter but kept his hand on the lid.

            ‘You sure about this?’ he asked.

            ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I’m gonna do it anyway.’

            ‘Fair enough,’ he said. He took back his hand and I pulled the box towards me. I lifted the lid, inspected the contents and replaced the lid carefully. I pulled out my wallet but Eddie waved his hand in front of my face.

            ‘Just bring it back when you’re done,’ he said. ‘If you’re still alive.’

            I told myself he was joking, but the look on his face didn’t make me want to laugh.

            ‘Take care of yourself, Mac,’ he said as I headed for the door.

            ‘I always do,’ I said.

            ‘Yea, right,’ he aid but something in his tone said he didn’t believe me.

            I pulled the door closed behind me and got back into my car, the cardboard box on the seat beside me. The kid in the leather jacket was hanging around on the corner, waiting for me to leave maybe, trying to get up the nerve to go back in. I shrugged. None of my business whether he does or not. Either way, it’s his funeral.

            I pulled out into traffic. The solid rain that had been pouring down for the last three days had finally eased off. A watery sun was poking through the clouds and there was a fresh, clean smell in the air. It was a nice day, I told myself.

            A nice day for a murder.

CHAPTER 2

Stan Rosenbaum was a good doctor but a bad example. He chain smoked constantly. Even when he was with a patient.  Lighting a new cigarette from the still smouldering butt of the last one. And the extra strong mints he sucked couldn’t mask the stink of whiskey that undercut his tobacco breath. Every time he opened his desk drawer you could hear the chink of bottle and glass. But, hey, the man had saved my life so I wasn’t about to get on his case about his poor bedside manner.

            We met during the ‘Big One’. I had what you might call a bad war. Not that I’ve ever heard of a good one. I joined up in ’42, all full of vinegar and patriotic pride determined to strike a blow for freedom. It didn’t take long for Uncle Adolph’s jackbooted pals to knock those half-assed notions out of my head. Mostly, it was just about survival. Something I almost didn’t achieve.

            When they wheeled me into the field hospital I was more dead than alive. Stan was the medic on duty. He took six bullets out of me and patched up a dozen other scrapes and contusions, including one that left me with a second parting in my hair. A slug had grazed my skull leaving a six inch line of puckered skin that wouldn’t grow hair anymore. I think it looks kind of stylish, but if he’d aimed a half inch to the left, that would have been all she wrote.

            While I was waiting to be shipped home, me and Stan got to talking. Seems we came from the same neighbourhood. He’s ten years older than me so our paths never crossed. Scuttlebutt has it that he only joined the Medical Corp to get out of a bad marriage. That seemed to work out for him because he’s been single ever since. Nowadays he prefers a string of girlfriends. Emphasis on the ‘girl’. Stan like ’em young. Too young for their own good and his. But, like I say, the man saved my life and as long as no-one complains…

            He opened his desk drawer – chink-chink – and pulled out a prescription pad and began to write. ‘Still getting the headaches?’ he asked.

            ‘Yea.’

            ‘And the blackouts?’

            ‘Sometimes.’

            ‘The pills still working?’

            ‘Seem to be.’

            ‘Good. Keep taking them.’

            He tore off the script and handed it to me, stubbed his cigarette end out in the overflowing ashtray, took another one from the pack, flipped it into his mouth, lit it. I folded the script and put it into my pocket.

            ‘Been a while since we had a drink,’ I said.

            ‘Maybe for you,’ he replied.

            I grinned. ‘Socially, I mean.’

            ‘You asking me on a date, Mac?’

            ‘You’re not my type, but there is one other thing.’

            He laughed. ‘There’s always one other thing with you, Mac. What is it this time? A teenage redhead whose shouldn’t be pregnant, but is? A guy with too much lead in his system who needs patching up? Or maybe a stoolie who needs to lie low for a while?’

            I shook my head. I sometimes forget that Stan knows almost as much about my cases as I do. If I wasn’t such a straight arrow, it would be enough to get him whacked.

            ‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘I just want your professional opinion about a doctor.’

            ‘You mean you want me to dish the dirt on a colleague, which is not only unprofessional it is also personally abhorrent to me.’

            ‘That about sums it up.’

            ‘What’s the scumbag’s name?’

            ‘Miles Anderson.’

            Stan made a grunting noise. ‘I thought you said he was a doctor?’

            ‘You mean he’s not?’

            ‘He’s qualified. On paper at least. But he’s not the sort of medic you want next to you in a foxhole when your guts are falling out and you have ten seconds to evac.’

            ‘He’s a quack, then?’

            ‘Yea, but a rich and successful one. Spends all his time passing out sugar pills to rich widows and their neurotic daughters. Which is about all he’s good for.’

            ‘Harmless then?’

            ‘The way a rattlesnake is harmless right before it bites you in the ass.’

            ‘How so?’

            Stan sighed and sucked deep on his cigarette. ‘He moves in rarefied circles, if you know what I mean. He knows some very important, and very dangerous people. If you’re mixed up with him, better watch you’re back.’

            ‘Thanks, Doc.’

            ‘Come back and see me in a month. If you’re still breathing.’

            I put on my coat and headed for the door. Stan hadn’t told me much I hadn’t already figured out for myself, but I trusted his judgement. Something told me things were going to get real nasty real quick. And they started as soon as I set foot on the sidewalk. A lard-belly cop name of Sullivan was leaning against a car. The car was leaning back but it was an unfair fight. I saw it rock as he levered himself away and came towards me. I deliberately turned in the other direction but he grabbed my arm.

            ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Where you think you’re goin’ Jordan?’

            I looked down at his hand on my arm. He was shorter than me, but then most people are, bald as a cue ball, with small, dark eyes hidden in rolls of fat. Our paths had crossed briefly when I was still a cop. I don’t remember doing anything to piss him off but he never seemed to like me. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep at nights over that. I didn’t say anything but he got the message and removed the hand while he still had full use of the fingers. I gave him my sweetest smile.

            ‘Just taking the air on this lovely sunny day, officer,’ I said. ‘What’s it to ya?’

            ‘Rafferty wants to see you.’

            ‘Tell him to call my secretary for an appointment.’

            ‘You ain’t got no secretary,’ he told me.

            ‘Say, that’s right. You must be one of the better detectives.’

            He scowled. It didn’t improve his looks. ‘Rafferty said to ask nice.’

            ‘This is you being nice?’

            ‘I ain’t gonna ask again.’

            I thought about calling him on it, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. I nodded and climbed into the back seat of Sullivan’s car. We drove for about twenty minutes and ended up in the old meat packing district. Lots of big sheds and the smell of bull’s blood in the air. We stopped in front of one of the older, more run down specimens. Squad cars and an ambulance were already there. Sullivan opened the door and I climbed out. He had a smirk on his face as he led me inside. We walked down a long, dark corridor. Noises were coming from the other end and I could make out lots of movement. We reached what used to be the business end of the operation. A large open space with moving belts to take away the flesh and big metal hooks hanging from the ceiling to carry the carcasses. I saw Rafferty talking to a couple of blue suits. He was a small man with black, slicked back hair. He was wearing a grey suit, brown shoes and a big, camel hair coat that swamped him. He saw us approaching and waved the beat cops away.

            ‘Jordan.’

            ‘Rafferty. You going into the meat business?’

            ‘You could say that. Follow me.’

            He led me deeper into the slaughterhouse to where a group of cops were standing round scratching their heads and generally trying to look like they knew what they were doing.

            ‘There,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about that?’

            He pointed up and I followed his finger. There, hanging upside down by his heels from one of the metal hooks, was a naked man. I frowned. I know some guys who would pay extra to be treated like that, but this guy didn’t look like it was his idea of fun. There were bruises and cuts all over his body and a large pool of congealed blood on the floor beneath his head.

            Rafferty looked like he was waiting for an answer. ‘Probably not suicide,’ I said.

            ‘Funny guy. Do you recognise him?’

            I tilted my head, trying to get his face the right way up. It was difficult to tell with all the dried blood and the way his nose seemed to be spreading across his face but he didn’t look familiar.

            ‘Nope,’ I said, truthfully.

            ‘Funny, because he had your business card in his pocket.’

            I looked at the corpse again. ‘I can’t see any pockets,’ I said. ‘Unless you mean he had it shoved up his…’

            ‘His clothes are over there,’ Rafferty interrupted. ‘Folded up neat as you please, along with his wallet, driver’s license and your card.’

            ‘If you have his wallet, you know who he is.’

            ‘Name’s George Carter. Ring any bells?’

            ‘Not a one.’

            ‘Then how come he had your card on him?’

            ‘I hand those out like confetti. Was he an elk? I worked a convention last week, maybe he picked it up there.’

            ‘I could have hauled you into the station for questioning,’ Rafferty told me. ‘Know why I brought you down here before we cut him down?’

            I hazarded a guess. ‘Some sort of new initiative to show concerned citizens their hard earned tax dollars at work?’

            ‘To give you a head’s up, that’s why. Because if you didn’t do this, you may be next on the list of whoever did.’

            We stared at each other for a long time. We understood each other. Not friends. Not even colleagues. But there was a certain professional respect.

            ‘Appreciate it,’ I said.

            Rafferty nodded. ‘Now get out of here before I change my mind and throw you in a cell just for the hell of it.’

            ‘Any chance of a lift back to town?’

            ‘Don’t push it, Jordan,’ he said. He gave a signal and the late George Carter headed for the floor with a screech of rusty metal.

            As I came out in to the sun I started to put together the pieces of the jigsaw. I’d told Rafferty the truth. I had no idea who George Carter was. But I had a damn good idea who might.

CHAPTER 3

Someone dropped a dime in the jukebox and some new kid called Presley started screeching about the Big House like he knew what he was talking about. They say it’s the next big thing but it’ll never replace music.

            The bar was dark, low ceilinged and full of stale tobacco smoke. Vague shapes moved through it like lost souls in a fog. I was in a corner booth, way in the back where no-one could find me unless they were looking

            When she slid in opposite me it was like a needle finding a vein. Clean, precise and possibly deadly. My heart began pounding just at the sight of her. She was wearing a long raincoat, dark glasses and a silk scarf that hid her long, blonde hair. It was her idea of a disguise. It was meant to make her inconspicuous, but, oddly, it had the opposite effect. It made her look mysterious and alluring. Then again, with this dame, she could wear a suit of armour and men would still look at her. Women too. Some for the same reason, some not.

            She fiddled with the knot of her headscarf, but didn’t take it off. Behind her dark glasses I could see her eyes darting this way and that, looking for danger. Looking for a way out. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘No-one’s going to recognise you in a dump like this.’

            She stopped her fiddling and looked straight at me. ‘Why did you need to meet with me Mr. Jordan? Couldn’t we have done this over the ’phone?’

            ‘You never know who might be listening. And the name’s Mac.’ I crooked a finger and the waitress sashayed over. She did it real good, like she’d been practicing. Her name was Cookie. She had a tight blonde perm that came out of a bottle, I knew that for a fact, and red, bee-stung lips. She looked like a female Harpo Marx, only better built. She chewed gum all the time, but she was a good kid. ‘I’ll have another beer,’ I said. She wrote it down on her pad.

            ‘And for your lady friend?’ she asked, but if there was any hidden meaning behind the word ‘lady’ or ‘friend’ I couldn’t hear it. Like I said, she was a good kid.

            ‘She’ll have a soda,’ I said.

            Cookie scribbled that down as well. ‘Comin’ right up,’ she said, and wiggled her way back to the bar.

            ‘Didn’t think you should go home stinking of booze,’ I said, by way of explanation. She nodded and ran her tongue across her lips, nervously. I watched the little tics and jerks that animated her skin and made her fingers twitch. She was a wreck, but like most wrecks, she had hidden treasure just waiting to be discovered.

            As we waited for the drinks to arrive, I ran through her story in my head. Her name was Delores DiMarco. Rich family. Father dead, mother re-married to a sleazeball doctor called Anderson. One sister. Younger. Went off the rails when Daddy kicked the bucket. So far, so Hollywood. What would a dame like this want with a small time gumshoe like me? Easy. If you’re looking for low profile, I’m about as low as you get and the DiMarco’s can’t afford bad publicity. So, when little sis goes missing and evil stepdad keeps Mom so dosed up she don’t know if it’s raining or Tuesday, I’m just the guy to go find her. Even if it means looking in some low places. If you’re gonna go wading through sewers it’s best to have a sewer rat as your guide, right?

            Cookie brought the drinks over and set them in front of us. She gave me a smile and did that wiggle walk back to the bar. I took a swallow of beer. Delores toyed with her glass, but didn’t raise it to her lips.

            ‘Tell me about George Carter,’ I said.

            She made a small intake of breath. ‘How did you find out about, George?’ she said.

            ‘I met him this morning.’

            ‘What did he say?’

            ‘Nothing. He was too busy dying all over a meat factory floor.’

            There was that little gasp again. This time I could see tears trickle from her eyes and run down her cheeks. I wanted to lean forward and lick them up, but I settled for another swig of beer instead.

            ‘How?’ she asked.

            ‘You don’t want to know how. I’m more interested in the who and the why. Care to shed any light on that?’

            She thought for a while and then nodded her head.

            ‘I should have told you before.’

            ‘Yea, you should.’

            ‘I’m sorry. It’s just if any of this gets out…’

            ‘The family reputation, I know. But this case just got a whole lot dirtier than just some teenage runaway, so if you know anything, now’s the time to spill it.’

            ‘Remember I told you Didi wanted to be an actress?’

            ‘Yea. You thought she’d run off to be with some matinee idol friend of your stepfather’s and was holed up in the hills somewhere.’

            ‘Miles has lots of showbiz friends. A lot of his work comes from celebrities.’

            I smiled. I had a pretty good idea what that work was all about. I motioned for her to go on.

            ‘He told Didi he could get her a screen test. Introduce her to some major players. She thought he was a miracle worker, but I never trusted him. Then, when she didn’t come home the other night, I asked him if he knew where she was. He just said she was visiting friends, but I knew something was wrong.’

            ‘So you hired me to snoop around. Find out where she really was and what was going on.’

            ‘I just want to know that she’s safe, that’s all.’

            ‘And where does this George character fit into all this?’

            ‘He’s Didi’s agent. Used to be anyway. She cut him loose when Miles started turning her head with all his tall tales about Hollywood glamour. George was always sweet on Didi, but he’s strictly small time. He didn’t have the clout to compete with Miles. I called him. Told him how worried I was. Asked him if he’d seen her. He gave me your number. Said you’d helped a client of his, a Rachel Montgomery?’

            I nodded. Rachel was a sweet kid who got in trouble with a loan shark. I had a talk with the guy. Me and my two chums. Mr Smith and Mr Wesson. He saw reason. I remember giving her my card. The same card that wound up in George Carter’s pocket.

            ‘How does that get him killed?’ I said.

            ‘I have no idea. He said he might have to go out of town for a few days, but if I didn’t hear from him by Monday, I was to contact you. So I did. But now, if someone killed George, what might have happened to Didi?’

            I had no answer for that. I finished my beer, left a dollar tip on the table and told Delores to go home and wait for me to call. I might not have any answers yet, but at least now I had a few dirty corners to look into.

CHAPTER 4

Any kid’ll tell you that bad things happen when the lights go out.

            As I left the bar, it felt like someone had jammed an ice pick between my eyes. I knew the signs. First the headache so bad that there were spots swimming before my eyes. Dizzyness, tingling in my arms and legs, my whole body shaking, the flop sweats, the grinding teeth and then nothing. Blackout.

            I don’t always remember what happens during those blackouts. Sometimes I can figure it out from where I am when I wake up. Those times, I pretty much want to forget. I made it as far as my car and fell into the driver’s seat. I watched in the rear mirror as Delores DiMarco left the bar, looked up and down the street and then hurried off to where she’d parked her car several streets away. I waited but the pain in my head wasn’t going anywhere. I got out of the car, not trusting myself to drive, and staggered the two blocks to the nearest pharmacy where I filled Stan’s prescription. I dry swallowed two of the tablets and the pain eased off a bit. Didn’t go away. Just hung around in the back of my head like a gathering storm. If I was smart, I’d go home and shut myself in a dark room until it was over. But who has the time to be smart? George Carter may have been a love-struck sap, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. His death had been a warning. It was sending a message to anyone else who might want to stick their noses where they don’t belong. What that said about Didi DiMarco and what might have happened to her I didn’t know. But something told me time was definitely not on her side.

            I got back to the car in one piece. I checked my watch. Still early, but I figured I’d be just in time for the afternoon show. I put the car in drive and made my way downtown.

            Rachel Montgomery worked a joint called Pretty Flamingo. The name’s the only pretty thing about it. It’s a dive on the lower east side stuck between a tattoo parlour and a used car lot. I crunched another tablet for luck and crossed to the door. It was a slow day. The shill outside looked me up and down, opened his mouth to start his spiel, then thought better of it. He stood aside and nodded me through. Maybe he thought I was a regular. Maybe he didn’t care.

            Inside was a cramped, dark corridor that smelt of damp. At the end was a bead curtain. Tinny music came from behind the curtain. I pushed through it and found myself in a small, red lit room with a bar at one side and a small stage at the end. Maybe a half dozen guys sat at tables, nursing beers and smoking. The barman was polishing a glass with a dirty rag. He looked up hopefully, but I shook my head and he went back to polishing.

            Kitty La Flame, aka Rachel Montgomery was on the stage strutting her stuff. She wore black high heels, long black evening gloves and two big ostrich fans.  Near as I could tell, that was all she wore. That was the point I guess. She twirled and swayed to the music, moving the fans this way and that. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of leg, or thigh, the smooth length of her spine and maybe, sometimes, in the shadows, maybe you caught a glimpse of something else. She was good. She was wasted on this bunch of lugs. The music was building to what passed for a crescendo. She moved smoothly to the back of the stage. As the last note sounded, she swung the fans high above her head. The lights went out at that split instant and all you saw was a curvy silhouette. At least the lighting guy was awake. When the lights came back on, she was gone. Nobody applauded. A jazzier tune struck up and a bump and grind mechanic took the spotlight. I didn’t wait to see what she would do with her sequins and tat. I made my way to a door at the side of the stage.

            On the other side of the door was another narrow corridor with peeling paint and the smell of onions. This came mostly from the little fat guy with the bald head and the cheap cigar stuck in his mouth. His name was Lou. He owned the joint.

            He saw me and did a double take. ‘Aw cripes, not you again,’ he said.

            ‘Good to see you too, Lou.’

            ‘I don’t want no trouble. Last time you was here you bust three tables and scared off my clientele for a month.’

            I seemed to remember something about a straying husband who thought he was a contender until I put him straight. Fun times.

            ‘You got no clientele, Lou,’ I told him. ‘Just mugs too sad to notice you water the booze.’

            ‘Keep your voice down will ya. A guy’s gotta make a living.’

            ‘Relax. All I want is a word with Rachel.’

            He frowned. ‘Who?’

            ‘Kitty La Flame. The fan dancer who just came off stage.’

            ‘Oh, her. These broads. They change their name more often than they change their panties. Which aint that often, let me tell you.’

            ‘Where is she Lou?’

            He jerked his thumb at a scabbed-up door. ‘In the dressing room. But hey, I don’t allow no rooster in my hen house, if you get my drift.’

            ‘Relax. It’s just a talk I want.’

            ‘Sure. That’s what they all say.’ He rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and stomped off down the corridor.

            I crossed to the door and rapped on it with my knuckles. A voice from the other side said: ‘Yea?’ I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

            Rachel Montgomery was a well stacked brunette who came up to my shoulder in her stocking feet. With heels she came a little higher. She was sitting at an overstocked dressing table with a cracked mirror above it surrounded by lights. She was wearing a thin, cotton robe with some kind of dragon pattern on it. She looked up and saw me. A smile lit up her face.

            ‘Hello, Princess,’ I said.

            She came up out of her chair and flung her arms around my neck to give me a kiss on the cheek.

            ‘Mac!’ she said. ‘Jeez, it’s good to see you.’

            ‘Caught your act,’ I said. ‘Looking good.’

            She waved away the compliment, straightened her robe and pulled the sash tighter. ‘Girl’s gotta live,’ she said. We grinned at each other for a bit, then she perched on the edge of an overstuffed sofa. I followed her lead and pulled up the chair she had been sitting on. We sat facing each other. ‘What’s on your mind, Mac? You didn’t come all the way out to this fleapit just to see me.’ That’s what I liked about Rachel. All business.

            ‘Hadn’t heard from you in a while. Figured you might have lost my number. You still got the card I gave you don’t you?’

            ‘Sure. I always keep it in my wallet. Why, just the other day…’ She stopped and her eyes went wide, just like a kid on Christmas morning. Sometimes I forget how young she really is. ‘Say, you know I gave it to someone don’t you?’

            ‘I’m a PI. I always know things like that. Who did you give it to, Sugar?’

            ‘George Carter. He’s my agent. He’s a sweet guy. Had some sort of girl trouble. I said you could help. Did he call you?’

            ‘Not exactly.’

            ‘Then how did you know?’

            I let the question hang in the air for a few moments. ‘Probably time to get yourself a new agent,’ I said.

            I saw the blood drain from her face. ‘What happened?’ she said.

            ‘What makes you think something happened?’

            ‘I gave him your card. You wouldn’t be here if he was okay.’

            ‘I’m sorry, sugar. George was killed this morning.’

            Her hands flew to her face and her eyes went even wider. She made a small, choking sound and tears began to fall. I handed her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes.

            ‘It’s my fault,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s my fault he’s dead, isn’t it?’

            ‘It has nothing to do with you, Dollface. He was in trouble. You tried to help. If he’d taken your advice and called me right off, he’d be alive right now. Instead, he decided to go poking around all on his lonesome. He got in over his head. That’s all.’

            The tears started to dry up. She blew her nose on the handkerchief.

            ‘You can keep that,’ I told her. She nodded and tucked it away in the pocket of her robe. ‘I need you to tell me what you know about George’s problem,’ I said gently. ‘Anything at all. Take your time.’

            She took a few deep breaths and frowned in concentration. ‘I don’t really know anything,’ she finally said.

            ‘Think harder,’ I prompted. My head was starting to ache like crazy but I didn’t want to frighten her off by being too hard on her, ‘How about a dame called Didi DiMarco? Ring any bells?’ She frowned some more and shook her head. ‘How about Miles Anderson? Calls himself a doctor.’ That name hit home. She made a face like sour milk.

            ‘Yea. Him I know,’ she said in a small, sad voice. She dropped her eyes to the floor, not wanting to look at me. Not a good sign. ‘Tell me what you know, Angel. It could save a girl’s life.’

            Still looking at the floor, she started to talk so softly I had to lean forward to hear her. ‘It was a couple of months ago,’ she said. ‘Lulu, that’s her on stage right now, she had this job, only she couldn’t make it on account of the ’flu. So she asked me to stand in for her.’

            ‘What kind of job?’

            ‘Waitressing. At some swanky Hollywood party. She said lots of stars were gonna be there.’ She looked up then, and smiled at me and I could see the hope shining in her eyes even now. ‘I thought I might get to meet Frankie or Deano, you know?’

            ‘I know, kid. But what really happened?’

            ‘There were three of us. We got picked up in a cab on the corner of Lexington and Third. The cabbie gave us blindfolds to put on. Said some of the big players were gonna be there and no-one was supposed to know where it was being held. Real top secret stuff.’

            ‘And did you put the blindfold on?’

            ‘Had to. Otherwise he woulda left me there on the sidewalk.’

            ‘What happened next?’

            ‘We drove around for maybe a half hour and then we stopped. He said we could take the blindfolds off and get out of the cab. It was a real fancy place, Mac. Somewhere out in the hills but I didn’t recognise it. A proper flunky met us at the door and showed us where we could get changed.’

            ‘Changed?’

            ‘Yea. They gave us these French maids uniforms, told us where to get the booze and food from and took us into the main room where all the guests were.’

            ‘All the big players, right?’

            She shrugged. ‘Maybe, but nobody really famous.’

            ‘Did you recognise anybody at all?’

            ‘Sure. There was this one actor called Buddy Bennett. Couple of B movies and a few walk-on parts. Pretty boy looks, thinks a lot of himself. And some film director who called himself Anton. Real creepy sort. Dressed all in black, bald head, British accent. And Tony was there. Tony Francini.’

            I gave a low whistle. Tony ‘The Fox’ Francini was the current mob boss. If anyone deserved the title ‘big player’ it was him. ‘Anyone else?’ I asked.

            ‘Little Tony, his son, he was there too, and Miles Anderson. He was handing round the happy pills like they were going out of business, but I didn’t recognise anyone else. Sorry.’

            ‘Don’t be. You’re doing great. What happened next?’

            ‘Well, it was just a regular party to start with. I handed out the drinks and the food and everyone was having a good time. Then it changed.’

            ‘Changed how?’

            ‘Maybe it was the pills and the booze. I dunno, but things got…out of hand, y’know?’

            ‘Tell me.’

            She lowered her eyes to the floor again and her voice dropped even lower. ‘I’m used to having my ass grabbed, y’now? It’s a good ass,’ she said defiantly, and I had to agree. I stayed quiet and she started talking again. ‘They started giving us drinks. Getting friendly. The other girls seemed to be okay with it, but I’m not like that, y’know?’ I nodded. ‘Anyway, I think he put something in my drink.’

            ‘Anderson?’

            She nodded. ‘Yea. ‘Cause I can hold my booze, but after a couple of shots I started to feel real woozy. I guess I must have passed out because when I woke up…’

            ‘Go on,’ I prompted.

            In a voice I could barely hear, she said: ‘I was in another room. Just me and four guys.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. She looked up at me and the tears were streaming down her face. ‘I had no clothes on,’ she whispered.

            For a girl who makes her living as a stripper, I couldn’t figure why that was such a big deal. I guess it was choice. When she’s on stage it’s her choice to be naked. It gives her power over all the rubes who have paid to see her. At the party, that choice, that power was taken away from her.

            ‘Then what?’ I asked as gently as I could.

            ‘They did things to me. Things I’d never done before, honest to God. They stuck it everywhere.’ Her fingers touched her lips. ‘My mouth, everywhere. They took turns, sometimes all at once. It was just awful.’

            ‘Who were they?’

            ‘Buddy Bennett, Miles Anderson and Little Nicky.’ She snorted and a bit of the old defiance came back into her voice. ‘They sure named him right, I can tell you.’

            ‘That’s three. You said there were four guys.’

            ‘Yea. That Anton guy was there too. He didn’t join the party. He was too busy behind the camera.’

            ‘They filmed it?’

            ‘Yea. If that ever gets out, I guess my screen career is finished, right?’

            ‘Don’t worry about that right now,’ I said, and in my mind I was already wrapping the reels of that film around Anton’s throat.

            ‘How did you get away?’

            ‘I passed out again. When I woke up I was in the cab. All by myself this time. I was just wearing a coat. My clothes were on the seat next to me along with an envelope with some money in it.’

            ‘Do you know the cabbie’s name?’

            ‘No. But everyone calls him Whistler on account of him having a tooth missing at the front. When he talks, he whistles.’

            I reached out and squeezed her hand gently. She looked me in the eyes, her face still wet with tears. ‘Did I do good, Daddy?’ she whispered.

            ‘You did great Angel,’ I said and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead.

            There was a fire burning inside me as I hit the sidewalk. This had just become personal as well as business. I had a lot of footwork to do, but there were lights flashing in front of my eyes and a whole damn symphony orchestra crashing around in my head. My hands shook as I opened the bottle of pills and threw a mouthful down my throat. It didn’t help. I slid behind the wheel of my car and tried to blot out the fireworks exploding behind my eyes. I pulled out, ignoring the blaring horns. Were they real or just in my head? Didn’t matter. I had work to do. I turned on the radio to try and get some focus. Nothing but static. Then some weird wailing noise. Was this supposed to be music? I snapped it off. It wasn’t helping. I shook my head to try and clear the flashing lights. One of them stayed. The red one. Too late, I slammed on the brakes. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a truck heading straight for me.

CHAPTER 5

I’ve woken up in some strange places in my time, but never in a graveyard.

            I knew it was a boneyard because of the smell. The smell of wilting flowers and freshly dug earth. I could feel the dirt beneath my palms, the smell of wet grass in my nostrils. I pushed myself up, screaming. Nothing coherent. Just noise. I needed to remind myself, and anyone else who might be interested, that I wasn’t ready for this place. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I sat on my rump and rested my head on my raised knees. I could feel the wet clay soaking through the seat of my pants but I didn’t care. My head was throbbing, spinning. I took deep breaths until I didn’t feel like throwing up any more. I risked raising my head very slowly. I looked around.

            It was a neat, well-tended graveyard. Rows of headstones like crooked teeth. It was early. The sun was barely up. I was sitting on the grass border in front of a plain granite marker. It took a while for my eyes to focus enough to make out the inscription.

Stanley Rosenbaum

Passed away aged 84

Gone but not forgotten

Stanley Rosenbaum? Not my Stan. Not Dr Stan. Couldn’t be. He’s older than me, but not that old and he was as chipper as a hound dog this morning when he gave me the script for my magic pills. What are the odds of there being two Stanley Rosenbaums? Stan is gonna get one heckuva laugh when I tell him about this. And I need to tell him about this. Boy, do I ever. Tell him those pills of his didn’t do diddly. I pushed my hands against the ground and tried to stand. Bad move. My head swam, bright lights danced in front of my eyes, coming together. One light now. Red. I saw the truck, heard the screech of brakes, the screaming of metal. Something hit me hard enough to knock the wind out of my like a punctured balloon. And then it was all blackness again.

            I woke up for a second time. This time it was all white walls and the smell of disinfectant and puke. I knew it was a hospital straight off, before I even opened my eyes. I must have groaned, I sure felt like groaning, because a familiar voice said: ‘Welcome back, Sport.’

            Stanley Rosenbaum. Good old Dr Stan. Old but not 84 years old. I opened my eyes, blinking at the light, but at least the pain in my head was gone. He was standing by my bedside and if I didn’t know better I would swear there was a look of concern on his face.

            ‘Stan,’ I said. ‘So, you aint dead after all.’

            He snorted. ‘That was gonna be my line.’

            ‘Beat you to the punch.’

            ‘Just like you tried to beat the red light?’

            ‘Yea. I remember that. Sort of.’ I tried to sit up. I think I had some cockeyed idea of discharging myself. The pain in my ribs objected. So did Stan. He took hold of my shoulders and pushed me back down.

            ‘Not so fast, hotshot. You’re not going anywhere until they do some tests.’

            ‘I always flunk tests. And I got work to do.’

            ‘It’ll have to wait. Until tomorrow at least. You walk out now I’d give odds you wouldn’t get as far as the parking lot before you keeled over. And this time you might not be as lucky.’

            We locked eyes for a second. I could see from his face he was serious and I didn’t have the will to argue. I lay back against the pillows and nodded. ‘Just until tomorrow,’ I said.

            ‘There’s my big brave soldier,’ he grinned.

            ‘What are you doing here anyway? Ambulance chasing ain’t your style.’

            ‘They called me. Wanted to know about your medical history.’

            ‘What did you tell them?’

            ‘Nothing incriminating.’

            ‘How did they know who to call?’

            ‘They found one of my prescriptions in your wallet.’

            ‘Can’t have. I cashed that one in.’

            ‘Maybe it was an old one you forgot about. Who cares how they knew. They called and I’m here. End of story.’

            I mulled that over for a while. It didn’t add up, but I didn’t have the strength to figure it out. ‘So, what’s the damage?’ I said.

            ‘Couple of black eyes and a broken nose where your face hit the windshield. Couple of cracked ribs from the steering wheel. Few bumps and bruises.  They’re more concerned with why the crash happened.’

            ‘Lost concentration. I remember now, there was a cute blonde on the sidewalk.’

            ‘A cute blonde, huh?’

            ‘Yea. You know how it is.’

            ‘I know all right. So, it had nothing to do with those headaches and blackouts you’ve been having?’

            I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Stan let the silence hang there for a while. Then he sighed. ‘Suit yourself, ‘ he said. ‘But if you want my advice…’

            ‘I don’t.’

            ‘Tough. You’re gonna get it anyway. If they want to do tests, let them. You need help, Mac. More help than I can give you.’

            The silence came back. The awkward kind. This wasn’t how our relationship worked. Finally, I said: ‘Thanks. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out.’

            He laughed and turned to go. He paused at the door and turned back. ‘Say, what was that crack about my not being dead?’

            ‘Huh?’

            ‘When you came too, you said something about my not being dead after all.’

            ‘Just delirious I guess.’

            ‘So what else is new? Good luck, Soldier.’

            ‘Hey, Stan?’

            ‘Yea?’

            ‘How old are you anyway?’

            He paused for a second, then laughed. With a wave of his hand he was gone. I couldn’t explain about my dream or hallucination or whatever the hell it was. It sounded too screwy. I sat back and tried to re-arrange my scrambled thoughts. Nurses came and went, fussing over me and making me comfortable which only made me more uncomfortable. Apart from Stan and the nurses I had two other visitors. One was a fresh faced young doctor in a white coat so new it practically glowed. He told me in an earnest voice that physically I was fine but that I would be sore for a few days. I coulda told him that. His voice became even more earnest when he said that he wanted me to see a specialist to try and sort out the reason for the crash.

            ‘No head doctors,’ I told him. It was mixed up enough inside my skull already without anyone else poking around and stirring up the mud. ‘Suggest it again and I’m walking right out that door,’ I told him, just to make sure he got the message. He did. After that he left me alone. That’s when I had my next visitor. An old black guy with a yellow toothed smile and curly grey hair. He was pushing a trolley with beat-up magazines and paperbacks on it. He wore a blue shirt and pants and the nametag above the shirt pocket said: Errol.

            ‘Hi, there,’ he said. ‘How are we doing today?’

            ‘I’m just dandy, but you don’t look so hot.’ I said.

            He whooped at that, slapping his knee like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. ‘You sure are a caution,’ he said.

            ‘So they tell me.’

            ‘Can I interest you in something to read? Might help pass the time.’

            ‘Got anything with pictures in it? Know what I mean?’

            He grinned at me and shook a gnarled finger. ‘They don’t allow nothin’ like that,’ he said. ‘This is a hospital.’ I was gonna make some wisecrack, but the pride that shone out of his eyes when he said it stopped me. This was a guy who loved his job. It would have been disrespectful to make fun. ‘I think I can find you something that you might like,’ he said. He rummaged around on his cart and came up with a magazine and a paperback. He put them on the table beside my bed. ‘You just leave them behind when you’re done with them and I’ll pass them on to someone else.’

            ‘Thanks, Pops.’

            ‘Errol,’ he said. ‘Name’s Errol.’

            ‘Thanks, Errol. They call me Mac’

            ‘I know. It says so right there on your chart.’ He pointed to a clipboard hanging at the foot of my bed. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Mr Jordan.’

            ‘Not if I see you first.’

            He gave that whooping laugh again and pushed his trolley on down the ward. Funny guy. Seemed harmless. Maybe even a little touched, but there was something about the way he said: ‘I’ll be seeing you around,’ that unsettled me. Something about the look in his eye. For a second the minstrel show mask slipped and showed something underneath that was cold and calculating. I shivered. Just the knock on the head, I reasoned. Nothing seems right anymore. Maybe after a good night’s sleep things would seem better. But I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the pain, that was more uncomfortable than painful. It could have been the case. I kept chasing the facts around and around, but my brain was too fuzzy to hold onto any of them for long. And still sleep wouldn’t come. Finally I gave up and reached for the reading matter Errol had left for me

            I tried the paperback first. It was old and dog-eared, the pages faded and creased. It looked like I felt. The cover had a guy in the foreground with his back to us. He looked like a big guy but you couldn’t see his face. In his left hand he held a butchers knife. Over his shoulder, cowering on the floor, was a half-naked woman. A pretty blonde with mussed-up hair, she had her hand to her mouth and her eyes were wide with shock or horror. There were some red streaks on her arms which I took to be blood, so it looked like the big guy had already had a shot at her. Figured he was the one who ripped her clothes off as well. Didn’t take a genius to work out what he had planned next. The title was as tacky as the illustration: ‘The Terror of Tinseltown by Oliver Appleyard.’ I flipped it over and read the blurb on the back cover.

‘When a madman stalks the starlets, the film making capital of the world quakes in terror.’

There was more, but I couldn’t stomach it. Maybe it was too close to home. Maybe it was just too cheesy for my taste. I tossed it aside and picked up the magazine instead. It was called ‘Society Today’. One of those up-market rags about people with more money than sense. At first glance it didn’t seem any better than the starlet stalking maniac, but then I noticed a name on the front cover. DiMarco. I gave it another look.

‘In this month’s issue we take you inside the world of Sophia DiMarco, charity hostess of the year and patron of the arts.’

            Curiosity got the better of me and I flipped to the index, found the page number and turned to the article. It was a big, double page spread and right there, in living colour, was a family photo, the sort you might get taken for a personalised Christmas card. If you had that sort of family that is. The caption underneath gave names. Front and centre was Sophia DiMarco. I pegged her at mid-fifties, a faded glamour girl who wasn’t giving up her looks without a fight. Next to her was a blonde guy, maybe ten years her junior, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had good reason to smile. This was Miles Anderson, Sophia’s new husband, and even in the photo you could tell he thought he’d just won the jackpot. On the right was Delores, looking serious and seriously gorgeous. You could see her mother had passed on her bone structure, but Delores had taken it to a whole other level. On the left was Didi. A perky teenage blonde, not in her sister’s league, but the way she was grinning and pushing her chest out, you just knew she would try all the harder because of it. It gave me a chill, looking at the DiMarco clan. For all I knew, this could be the last picture they would ever have taken together. If they weren’t already torn apart, maybe I would be the one to destroy their picture book life. I flicked through the article.

            It was a standard puff piece. Sophia DiMarco was a saint in pearls and twin-set. After the tragic death of her husband she took control of DiMarco enterprises and had channelled their efforts into helping those less fortunate. She’d opened clinics, shelters for the homeless, supported orphanages, the list went on and on. No wonder Delores didn’t want her sister’s disappearance to become public knowledge. This was one big house of cards just waiting to come tumbling down. The article hinted that God Almighty had seen fit to reward Sophia for all her good works by sending her a handsome hunk of a toy boy who became her second husband. Something every American housewife should aspire to. It briefly mentioned her daughters. Didi, just seventeen, was a talented actress who was about to make her film debut and Delores, twenty-eight, had just announced her engagement to businessman and ex-baseball star, Anthony Francini Junior…

            I had to go back and read that last part again. Anthony Francini Junior. Little Tony? Son of a mob boss? Talk about letting the fox into the henhouse. Worse, she hadn’t told me. Stupidly, I felt betrayed. The thought of Little Tony’s hands on Delores’ body made me sick to my stomach. Did she know who he was? Did she know he raped drug addled waitresses and got some limey fag to film him on the job? Maybe she did. Maybe Anderson was putting pressure on her to get married. Maybe she wanted me to find out and put the kibosh on Little Tony and Anderson at the same time. Maybe then, when she was free…

            I told myself to snap out of it. She didn’t want a knight in shining armour. She just wanted her sister back. But still, a guy can dream can’t he?

            I called for the nurse and asked for a sleeping pill. I needed a good night’s sleep now more than ever. My car was a wreck, but that was okay. There was a cabbie out there somewhere who would take me right where I wanted to go. If he knew what was good for him that is.

CLOUD CITY

PROLOGUE

‘The mind of man will one day take him beyond the stars.’

Professor Maximillian Oberon said that in 2415.

By then, mankind had sucked the planet dry of all its natural resources. Bombed itself to hell and back with nuclear and biological weapons. Countries and Governments no longer existed. The remnants of humanity made their way to a slum the size of France, huddling together against the elements and the few remaining ‘outsiders’ that roamed the waste land.

Oberon Industries came to our rescue. First, they erected a transparent dome that enclosed the city. Next, they pumped out a concealing mist that camouflaged the sanctuary from outside interference. It was this mist that gave our home its name: Cloud City.

All this made Oberon a hero to his people. But it was his next invention that elevated him to the level of a God.

Or maybe a Devil.

The Oberon Interface solved Cloud City’s power problem and gave us real hope of literally being able to reach the stars.

Chapter 1

A voice behind me said: ‘Sanitation Engineer Karl Lyedecker?’

            They call us Sanitation Engineers.

            We shovel shit.

            I turned. The voice belonged to a man of medium height, slim build with thinning sandy hair. He wore the black suit and white shirt of a ‘company man’, someone that worked for Oberon Industries. But then, didn’t we all, one way or another?

            I pulled down my respirator so that he could hear me better. ‘I’m Lyedecker,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

            His eyes were watering and he looked a little queasy. The smell down here is an acquired taste. ‘Security Operative Grimsdale. Can we go somewhere less…pungent?’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’

            I stayed put. ‘What about?’ I said.

            ‘Matters of the strictest confidence.’ He was starting to sound muffled now as his sinuses closed up.

            ‘We have no secrets in the Sanitation Department. Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my friends.’ The other San. Eng.’s had all put down their shovels and were watching with interest. Not much happens down here to break the monotony and this interloper in his shiny shoes and starched cuffs was the closest we’d had to entertainment since Moogie Salvatore got his overalls caught in the conveyor belt and got his head half chewed off before someone hit the kill switch. I still see him sometimes, topside. We don’t talk much about the old days.

            My new friend was speaking through clenched teeth now, getting red in the face from trying to hold his breath. Of course, someone should have given him a respirator before letting him in here, but the shift foreman was a crusty curmudgeon called Mulldoon who wasn’t big on safety or protocol and hated suits worse than the sewer rat that had chewed off his foot one time. And that’s a lot of hate.

            ‘Come. With. Me.’ Grimsdale shot each word out the corner of his mouth like bullets.

            ‘Or?’ I asked.

            ‘Or I’ll get a detail of squaddies to drag you out at the end of their rifle butts you insolent little scum sucker!’ He was shouting now. He regretted it as he drew in breath to replace the volume he had just expelled. He started to cough up a lung. They say it’s something about the fumes down here that makes people go crazy. People without a respirator that is. Mulldoon does like to have his little joke with visitors.

            ‘You only had to ask nicely,’ I said. I tossed my respirator into the bucket that would take it to be refurbished at the end of the shift and moved towards the exit. I looked back over my shoulder. ‘Are you coming?’ The suit was still doubled over, coughing and spluttering. He nodded, not wanting to risk talking. He was learning.

            Once outside he guided me towards the parking area. His colour was getting close to normal now and his eyes had stopped watering. ‘How can you stand it down there?’ he whispered.

            ‘Some of us don’t have options,’ I told him. He gave me a look that said he wanted to ask more, but he had his orders and he looked like a chap who would follow orders to the letter no matter what. We’d just cleared the Reception Area when his radio squawked. He put a finger to the audio bud in his ear and said: ‘Yes?’ then his face drained of colour and he quickened his step.  ‘On our way,’ he said. ‘Just sit tight.’

            ‘Trouble?’ I asked.

            ‘Chimp alert,’ he said. ‘Nothing that can’t be handled.’ He slid his hand inside his jacket and it came out holding a Cobra Urban, a nasty little squib of a gun that packed a wallop despite its size.

            ‘You’re not going to use that,’ I said. It wasn’t a question.

            He obviously didn’t notice the lack of rising inflection, because he said: ‘There have been too many incidents lately. Force is the only thing they understand.’

            They called them ‘Chimps’ because chimpanzees were the first trial subjects for the Oberon Interface. A neat little plug-in device that turns humans into living power cells. More powerful and long lasting, pound for pound, than any other source of energy yet discovered. It was what powered Cloud City. It was what would one day take us from this dying ball of mud, that we had willfully murdered, to a new home on a new planet so we could start all over again.

           

NANCY’S BOYS (FLASH FICTION

ONE

The puncture marks on her arm confirmed his suspicions. She saw his dog collar. Felt safe.

            ‘Hello Father,’ she mumbled. ‘Have you come to save my soul?’

                He muttered a prayer to the Almighty and pulled a knife from his pocket. He began cutting away her clothes. She didn’t resist. When all her clothes had been reduced to tattered ribbons, he began cutting her flesh.

TWO

Inspector Thomas said: ‘Poor cow.’

            DS Roy Pickering took in the blood and the remains. ‘I knew her,’ he said. ‘Lucy Something her name was.’

            ‘On the game was she?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Drugs?’ Pickering shrugged. ‘The track marks on her arm say she was. Just like the other two. You know what that means.’

            ‘Third time’s the charm. We have a serial killer on our hands.’

            Pickering left the forensics to get on with it. Once outside he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He’d made sure he was the first on the scene. Found it amongst the tattered clothing. Just like the other two. Bent and creased and splattered with blood. It said:

Nancy’s

Special girls for red blooded men

            No-one else needed to see it. Not yet. If Pickering had his way, not ever.

THREE

Bunn’s Books.  Home and livelihood for the Bunbury family for over two hundred years. Always run by a Colonel Bunbury, although the rank was almost certainly honorary. It came with the lease. Pickering tossed the card on the table. The current Colonel peered over his half-moon spectacles.

            ‘Oh,’ he said.

            ‘Oh,’ replied Pickering.

            Bunbury sighed. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

            Pickering outlined the events quickly and succinctly. Bunbury’s face became increasingly pale.

            ‘Have you spoken to Nancy?’ he asked.

            ‘She sent me to you.’

            ‘Very wise of her.’

            ‘If you know who’s doing this, you’d better tell me, and fast. I can’t keep a lid on this forever.’

            ‘There is one possibility.’

            ‘Tell me. Everything.’

FOUR

‘Bless me Father for I have sinned and I cannot speak of my transgressions to another living being. I pray only that you will give me the strength to complete my mission, for the harlots of the damned give succour to sinners and demons alike. If their evil is not erased from the face of the earth, then man will be lost to a sea of carnality and lust. I know that you have entrusted me, your loyal servant, with this knowledge as you did my forbears and I only ask that you give me a sign that I do your will.’

            As the priest rose to his feet, a ray of winter sun shone through the stained glass window. It made the halo around the figure of the Christ glow like the sun itself. The priest smiled. He had been given his sign and tonight his sacred task would continue.

FIVE

‘Eliza Grimwood was the poor girl’s name. She was the first.’

            ‘And this was in 1850?’

            ‘Yes. It caused quite a stir at the time, I can tell you.’ Bunbury removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. ‘And then years later of course when Jack began his little spree we thought the whole wretched business had started up again. But that was just a false alarm.’

            ‘Eliza Grimwood,’ Pickering prompted.

            ‘Yes, yes, of course. According to the Bunbury journals, the culprit was a man named Jonathan Cheshire. A local vicar of all things. Thought he was on some sort of holy crusade. Utter rot of course, but he was dangerous all the same.’

            ‘Bad for business, I expect.’

            ‘Absolutely.’

            ‘So what happened?’

            ‘He was…dealt with shall we say. Discretely of course’

            ‘Of course. But what’s this got to do with anything? This all happened over a hundred and fifty years ago.’

            ‘Quite. But if the Bunbury clan kept journals, maybe the Reverend Cheshire did as well. Absolute sticklers for writing things down, the clergy. And they do say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

SIX

The diary was old and fragile. The spidery handwriting faded, but the message it conveyed as strong and pure as the spirit of the man who had written it a century and a half ago. His had been a holy mission and Peter Cheshire was proud to carry on his ancestor’s noble tradition. The sinners who hide in plain sight must be exposed. By depriving them of the whores who feed their un-natural desires, they will be forced into the blinding light of holy retribution.

            ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’ The woman’s voice shook him from his reverie. 

            ‘How long since your last confession?’ he asked.

            ‘Oh, I’m not here to confess, Father. And frankly, I don’t care if you forgive me or not.’

            ‘Then what…?’

            ‘My name’s Nancy. I think you know some friends of mine.’

            He bolted from the confessional, panic lending him speed. He didn’t see the figure standing in his way until he collided with him. The figure grasped him firmly by both arms, ending his mad flight.

            ‘Who? What?’ he gasped.

            ‘DS Pickering, Father. I think we need to talk.’

            ‘Oh, I think we’re long past the talking stage, don’t you?’ The woman emerged from the confessional.

            ‘Arrest her,’ insisted the priest. ‘She’s mad, she threatened me. You have to protect me from her.’

            ‘Always looking for a Saviour, eh, Father?’ the woman said. ‘If you are, you’re looking in the wrong place. He’s one of my boys, aren’t you Roy?’

            The priest began to struggle, but the policeman’s grip was too strong. He stared up into a face as cold as stone. Saw him open his mouth. Saw the needle sharp incisors slide into place. He began to pray, but it was too late. No miracles for father Cheshire. He felt the fangs sink into his neck. There was little pain, just a slow fading of strength and will until all vigour had left his body. Still the vampire fed until all trace of life was extinguished.

            Nancy patted him on the shoulder as she would a faithful hound. ‘It had to be done,’ she said. ‘You’ll take care of the evidence?’ Pickering nodded. ‘I’ll send one of the girl’s round tonight. On the house.’

            ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m full.’

            ‘Of course you are. Tomorrow then. If only he’d left well alone. There hasn’t been a vampire fatality for over two hundred years. He thought by cutting off our food supply he would force us into the open. Can you imagine the carnage he would have caused? As long as there are Nancy’s to offer their blood willingly, there’s no need for death at all.’

            She turned and walked from the church, her high heels echoing in the stillness. Pickering wiped his mouth and bent to his task. Another unsolved crime statistic he thought, but then, what choice did they have?

1149 words in total

           

On The Ropes

Every year, the Great British Wrestling Circus spend its summer season in the small northern seaside town of South Flynte. They always stay at the same guest house, formerly owned by the founder of the GBWC Union Jack Matlock, one of the all-time great British wrestlers, now deceased. In his will he bequeathed the GBWC to his young protégé  ‘Fireball’ Ken Holloway, now in his late fifties/early sixties. The guest house he left to his wife who has recently passed away. The guest house is now run by Jack’s daughter, Maggie and her daughter, Jessica. Maggie grew up with the GBWC and looks forward to their annual visit. This sequence begins just after the wrestlers have arrived. Ken has packed them all off to find their rooms which leaves him alone with Maggie.

MAGGIE: Have the others not arrived yet?

KEN: Not yet, no. They'll be along, don't fret. They’re good lads.

MAGGIE: How come you didn't all come together like usual?

KEN: Said they preferred to make their own way. I can understand it. The old bus isn‘t what he was. (Pause) You're looking well.

MAGGIE: So are you.

KEN: A few pounds heavier.

MAGGIE: Aren't we all.

KEN: It suits you. Not every woman can carry a bit of padding, but on you it looks just right.

MAGGIE: Thanks. I think.

KEN: I was sorry to hear about your Mum, you know...

MAGGIE: Dying, you mean?

KEN: Yea.

MAGGIE: Thanks. And for the card and the flowers. It was a nice thought. I meant to write and thank you properly, but...

KEN: You had your hands full. I know how it is. Are you running this place now?

MAGGIE: That's right. Just me and Jessica. She’s taking a gap year. Can’t make up her mind if she wants to go to Uni or not. She wanted to go swanning around Europe but I said working here would teach her more about the real world and it’s much cheaper.

KEN: Jessica? God, they grow up so quick. How old is she now?

MAGGIE: Nineteen, going on thirty-five.

KEN: And your husband?

MAGGIE: Fifty-two. Going, going, gone.

KEN: Sorry?

MAGGIE: We're divorced.

KEN: I'm sorry.

MAGGIE: I'm not.(There is a moments awkward silence.)He traded me in for a newer model. Someone whose thighs had been declared a cellulite-free zone. He invited me to their  wedding. Bastard.

KEN: Oh. Hey, that photo takes me back. Me and your dad in the ring. That was the night we won the Tag-Team Title from Bomber Bates and Dynamite Kelly. I’ve still got the belt.

MAGGIE: Have you?

KEN: Oh, yes. I’ve kept it all. The belts, the cups, the programmes, signed publicity photos of all the old lads. Daft really.

MAGGIE: No, I think it’s nice. You could probably get a small fortune for them from some collector on e-bay.

KEN: I expect I could. (Pause) What’s e-bay?

MAGGIE: (Laughs) No-one can accuse you of keeping up with the times can they?

KEN: No, I suppose not. Happy days.

MAGGIE: Union Jack Matlock and Ken ‘Fireball’ Holloway in their prime. I found it in Mum's things. She'd never let Dad put it out. Don't know why.

KEN: I don't think she ever really approved of your dad being a  wrestler. He was a good one though. One of the best. Could have gone right to the top.

MAGGIE: Why didn't he?

KEN: He had you and your Mum to think about. Wrestling and families don’t mix. All that traveling. He had to choose. Wrestling or his family. He made the right choice.

MAGGIE: Nothing to do with the Masked Mauler, then?

KEN: What do you know about the Masked Mauler?

MAGGIE: Nothing. Nothing much anyway. Dad always used to say: ‘Eat up your sprouts or the Masked Mauler will get you.’ But it was the way he said it. As though he was real. Was he?

KEN: Your Dad never told you?

MAGGIE: No.

KEN: Then it’s probably best left that way. He was a nice chap, your Dad.

MAGGIE: You probably knew him better than I did. I was only eight when he died.

KEN: He was proud of you, you know.

MAGGIE: Get off. I was barely out of nappies. I hadn't done anything to make him proud.

KEN: He was though. His whole face used to light up whenever you came into the room. He knew you'd be something special.

MAGGIE: And now look at me.

KEN: He was right then, wasn't he.

MAGGIE: Is that a compliment?

KEN: I suppose.

MAGGIE: You'll turn a girl's head.

KEN: Did your Mum never speak about him. Tell you what he was like?

MAGGIE: No. Not really. I think she blocked it out. Too painful. She was barely thirty when he died. He was her world. I think she thought if she just kept her head down and got on with things it would make the pain go away. I think she was glad though, that Dad left the GBWC to you. 

And that you came back every year to stay.

KEN: We had to. No-one else would have us. They all said; “We don’t do theatricals”

MAGGIE: Neither do we really. Although we did have John Inman once. He used to stay at The Grand but they were having problems with their drains. He was ever so nice. Made his own bed and everything.

They laugh, then lapse into embarrassed silence.

LOOKING FOR JOE DIMAGGIO

JUDY:   (Peering at the rain) Oh, God, look at that.

MAX:   It's raining.

JUDY:   Thanks. I'd never have guessed.

MAX:   You’re one of the usherettes aren’t you?

JUDY:   That’s right.

MAX:   I thought I recognised you.

JUDY:   I'm gonna get drenched if I have to walk home in this.

MAX:   You should call a taxi. It’s not right for a young lady like yourself, to have to walk home at this time of night all alone. No telling what might happen.

JUDY:   Yea, there's some very funny people about.

MAX:   Oh, you don't have to worry about me. Heavens no. I'm not a mugger or a rapist or anything.

JUDY:   That's good. Only you'd be sure to tell me if you were wouldn't you? Just so I'd be prepared to end up in a ditch with me skull caved in instead of it coming as a complete surprise.

MAX:   I'm sorry. I'm a film fan. Honest. I've been here every night this week for the Marilyn Monroe season. You must have seen me. Third row back, just left of centre.

JUDY:   Oh, yes. Now you come to mention it. You were the one who dropped popcorn down that woman's neck.

MAX:   The bottom fell out of the carton. They don't make them strong enough. Anyway, there was no need for her to scream like that. It was only a little bit of popcorn, won't do her any harm.

JUDY:   Livened the place up anyway.

MAX:   Not much of a crowd tonight was there.

JUDY:   There never is. They’re all over at the Odeon. Twenty seven screens and nothing on. At least the Roxy shows real movies with real stars instead of computer animated puppets.

MAX:   You sound like a girl after my own heart.

JUDY:   Do I?

MAX:   Yes.

JUDY:   I just like the old movies. I know they’re not real, but I like to think they could be. It may be a dump, but it’s a nice dump. Somewhere you can escape from all the rubbish that clogs up the rest of your life, just for an hour or two anyway. Does that sound daft?

MAX:   No, not at all. It’s a regular palace of dreams this place. You can’t beat the good old Roxy, that’s what I say.  Every time I see one of them big multiplexes I want to get a big barrel of dynamite and blow       the whole festering lot of them to kingdom come. They're ruining the small independents. I'd like to line all of them up against a wall and machine gun the ruddy lot of them, that's what I'd do.

JUDY:   But you're keeping well in yourself?

MAX:   Mustn't grumble.

JUDY:   You’re right though. What other cinema these days would put on a week- long Marilyn Monroe festival?

MAX:   The Seven Year Itch. What a classic.

JUDY:   One of her best.

MAX:   That's the magic of movies. They make everyone immortal. Take Marilyn for instance. The way she looks on screen, that's how she'll look forever.   Perfect. Unchanging.

JUDY:   Fancy her then do you?

MAX:   I wouldn't put it quite like that. I think everyone who sees her, well, the men anyway, fall in love with her, just a little bit.

JUDY:   Did you ever meet her?

MAX:   Oh, yes. She was always popping in to the Dog and Ferret for a swift half and a game of dominoes  before nipping off to have a secret liaison with a high ranking politician.

JUDY:   No need to get sarky. I only asked.

MAX:   No,  I never met her.

JUDY:   Is it true? What you said about all the men falling in love with her? With Marilyn I mean?

MAX: Oh yes. They all loved Marilyn.

JUDY:   Why? I mean, she's not that special, is she?

MAX:   Not that special! She was magical. The love goddess. She had oomph.

JUDY:   Oomph?

MAX:   Yes. Oomph. You can't explain it. You can't put it into words. It was just a quality she had.

JUDY:   Do you think I've got oomph?

MAX:   Eh?

JUDY:   What she had. Do you think I've got it? I'm not as big up top, but my legs aren't bad, maybe if I dyed my hair.

MAX:   Hold on, hold on, you've missed the point. We're not talking about just physical attraction. Although that was part of it, I grant you. It was her whole personality, the complete package. It wasn't just lust she attracted, it was real love.

JUDY:   What's the difference?

MAX:   What, between love and lust?

           

JUDY:   Yes. It all comes down to the same thing in the end anyway, doesn't it?

MAX:   Does it?

JUDY:   Of course it does. All my boyfriends said they loved me. And they all ended up trying to get me knickers off in the back of a Ford Cortina.

MAX:   What, all at the same time?

JUDY:   No! And before you ask, it wasn't the same Ford Cortina either.

MAX:   Oh. Sort of a metaphorical Ford Cortina, eh?

JUDY:   No, I think it was a hatchback.

MAX:   No, no, I mean a sort of Ford Cortina of the mind.

JUDY:   Something like that I expect, yes.

MAX:   So, if you can't tell the difference between lust and love, what was the problem?

JUDY:   Cramp mainly. And I don't like being lied to.

MAX:   They lied?

JUDY:   When they said they loved me.

MAX:   So you do think there's a difference?

JUDY:   Maybe. They only said it so I'd take my seat  belt off. I mean, if you love somebody, you don't ladder their best tights and try to maul them on lumpy upholstery, do you?

MAX:   Well, I don't, no.

JUDY:   No.

MAX:   So, did you love them?

JUDY:   Who?

MAX:   The metaphorical Ford Cortina maulers.

JUDY:   Don't know really. Does it matter?

MAX:   Of course it matters. Love has to be two ways you know.

JUDY:   I didn't know there was more than one way.

MAX:   Now you're sending me up.

JUDY:   Sorry. So what is the difference then?

MAX:   Well...romance, I suppose.

JUDY:   That explains it then.

MAX:   Does it?

JUDY:   Yes. I mean, romance isn't for ordinary people is it? It's only for famous people like Marilyn. The rest of us have to make do with lust and misery.

MAX:   She may have been romanced in more style, but that didn't make her happy.

JUDY:   No?

MAX:   No. It was sad really. The whole world loved her, but she never found real lasting love in her private life.

JUDY:   Why not?

MAX:   Don't know. I think she went for the wrong sort of bloke. Politicians and playwrights. I think she'd have been better off with someone dead ordinary.

JUDY:   Like you, you mean?

MAX:   Thanks a lot.

JUDY:   I didn't mean it like that.

MAX:   It's all right. I know what you mean. She married a baseball player once. Joe Di Maggio his name was. He was a sort of ordinary bloke  really.

JUDY:   So what happened?

MAX:   It didn't last. They split up. But I think of all the men she knew, he loved her the most.

JUDY:   What makes you say that?

MAX:   Well, after she died, he made sure that there was a red rose on her               grave every day. No-one else did that. That's real love.

JUDY:   Sounds morbid to me.

MAX:   It was a gesture. A symbol of the bond between them even though they were parted.

JUDY:   Very romantic, I'm sure.

MAX:   Bit like your boyfriend wiping his back seat with a damp cloth.

JUDY:   Are you taking the piss?

MAX:   Sorry.

JUDY:   You're forgiven. I suppose I'm just jealous. No-ones ever done anything romantic for me.

MAX:   Give it time. You never know your luck.

JUDY:   The rain’s easing off.

MAX: So it is.

  

JUDY: I’m gonna make a dash for it. It's been nice meeting you.

MAX:   I enjoyed our chat.

 JUDY:   Me too. (Reluctant to leave) Bye.

MAX:   Hang on a sec. There’s a nasty puddle there. Can’t have you going home with wet feet. Let me put my coat over it for you.

JUDY: Don’t be daft.

MAX: I insist. There. Off you go.

JUDY:   Thank you. That was a very romantic thing to do.

MAX:   There's not many of us left. Just me and Joe Di Maggio.

JUDY:   Will you be here for the rest of the festival?

MAX:   Yes, I will be here for the rest of the festival.

JUDY:   Maybe I'll see you again. We could have another little chat. If you'd like.

MAX:   I'd like that very much.

JUDY:   Bye then.

MAX:   Bye.

Pause

MAX:   You’ve still got it, MAX, you’ve still got it.

Tweets and things

This is the tweet I submitted for last week's homework.

I was born in Louisiana, in 1876. Never wanted to leave.  But when you’re a gris-gris man you have to do lots of things you never wanted to.

Sligo Fogg 1899

It refers to a novel I'm working on called: The Wendigo Murders. This is the opening chapter:

ONE

Amongst the waterfront hovels of Tres Bon, home to the immigrant Chinese community, there is no one more respected or feared than Li Soon. The stooped, grey haired oriental walks with impunity, day or night, receiving deference and gratitude from his kinsmen. And if any should forget to show due respect, the looming presence of his bodyguard, Chang, is sufficient to remind them. It is true to say that Li Soon fears no man. But women, ah, they are a different matter entirely.

Therese-Marie Paris was beautiful. Tall, full bodied with skin the colour of autumn gold and a mass of night black curls that framed her delicate boned, oval face like a devil’s halo. And her eyes. Dark as a sinner’s soul, lit from within by the flickering fires of Hell itself. At least, that’s how they appeared to Li Soon as she leant across his rickety desk and stared him straight in the face.

            ‘Where’s Fogg?’ she asked.

Li Soon tried to smile but felt it slip from his face like fat from a skillet. He chuckled nervously instead. ‘Fog?’ he said. ‘ No fog today. It sunshine all the time.’ Surreptitiously he crooked a finger and the hulking shadow of Chang shuffled forward. Therese-Marie swung her gaze towards the bodyguard and he stopped. Li Soon heard his henchman make a soft, choking sound and knew he could expect no help from that quarter. Therese-Marie gave him her undivided attention once more.

            ‘You know what I’m talking about old man,’ she told him. ‘Where is he?’

Li Soon pointed towards a long, dark corridor that ran from behind his cluttered office into the bowels of the ramshackle building that served as his headquarters. He almost, but not quite prevented his finger from shaking.

            ‘Number three,’ he said.

Therese-Marie nodded slowly and turned to walk away. Li Soon watched the insolent sway of her rounded buttocks disappear into the dark recesses of his premises and felt himself sweat. Her voice came wafting back to him from out of the darkness.

            ‘He better not be dead old man,’ she said. It was the most terrible threat Li Soon had ever heard.

            The corridor was lit only by guttering candles and stank of despair, old sweat and the sweet, cloying odour of the poppy narcotic that Li Soon supplied to his clients. Therese-Marie counted the doors as she passed. At number three, she stopped. She turned the handle and the door opened easily. Stepping inside, the shadows closed around her. Bunks lined the  walls. Each one occupied by someone, or something, that moaned fitfully in their un-natural slumber. Her eyes swiftly grew accustomed to the darkness and she made out the particular piece of human flotsam that she sought. It looked like a pile of old clothes that had carelessly been tossed aside. On the floor next to the bunk was a tattered frock coat and a battered top hat, the rim decorated with beads, feathers and a large inscribed stone. She knelt and shook him by the shoulder.

            ‘Fogg,’ she said. ‘Wake up.’

The figure groaned and turned onto his back but otherwise gave no sign that he was aware of her presence. Therese-Marie leaned over him and pulled back his eyelid.

            ‘You in there, Fogg?’ she asked.

Fogg groaned and his mouth worked, smacking his lips, a thin line of spittle running from the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and staring, his waxy skin sheened in sweat. He grabbed her tightly by both arms hard enough to leave bruises, but the girl did not flinch. He stared straight into her eyes, seeing nothing but his own demons.

            ‘The Englishman!’ he said, his voice a reedy whisper. ‘The Englishman chases the devil.’

Having delivered his message, all strength left him and he sank back. Therese-Marie grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright.

            ‘Fogg!’ she shouted, and slapped him hard as a pistol crack across the face. His head snapped back and then lolled forward, rolling from side to side. He groaned and slowly raised his eyes to her face. He smiled.

            ‘’Tis heaven then,’ he said. ‘Because they’ve surely sent me an angel to tend me in my hour of need.’

Therese-Marie snorted. ‘Aint heaven you’re headed for, but Heaven or Hell you aint there yet.’

            ‘Is that so?’ he managed. ‘In that case, leave me be, woman.’

He tried to turn over but Therese-Marie’s grip on his shoulder was too strong.

            ‘Can’t do that, Fogg,’ she said and shook him roughly. ‘Wake up gris-gris man, you’re needed.’

Trick Shot

50 WORD E-MAIL Past Event

That Judge had no sense of humour. Next time I’ll hire a lawyer and hang the expense. I’m still on for the tournament in February aren’t I? Practice is a bit tricky at present. The cues tend to end up chopped in half.  Or with a pointy tip. Send ciggies.

TRICK SHOT

I don’t like enclosed spaces.

            Which probably explains why I was sweating. It could also explain the smell. Strangely enough, it reminded me of an ex-girlfriend. Tina. She wanted to be a page 3 model but couldn’t pass the IQ test. She did make me sweat though.

            As unobtrusively as I could, I raised my arm and sniffed at the damp patch under m,y right armpit. The one-eyed nun who was sharing my lift space with me, looked at me as though I had just exposed myself to a group of schoolgirls. Strictly speaking, she had two eyes, but one of them had a droopy lid which made it look like she was permanently winking at you. Very disconcerting trait that, in  a nun. I attempted a smile but the glare only got worse.

            I don’t like nuns either, truth be told. Something about the way they walk. You never see their feet. They just glide along, like they’re wearing roller skates under their habits. Creepy.

            I looked at my watch.   Thirty-five minutes since the lift had stopped working. A few distant banging sounds was the only indication they were working on trying to get us out. I held out my hand. Might as well get along if we’re going to be stuck here much longer.

            ‘My name’s Toby Grant’, I said. She stared at my hand as though it was a rancid kipper, but made no move to shake it, just stood there with her own hands folded across her middle.

            ‘You’ve probably heard of me,’ I said. ‘I used to be quite well known in the snooker world.’ I patted my cue case which was leaning against the wall. Then I patted my stomach. ‘Before this got so big I couldn’t get near enough to the table to make a shot.’

            No response.

            I ploughed on. ‘I asked the doctor what to do and he said I should go on a diet. I said “Can’t you just lengthen my arms instead!”’

            Still nothing. That line usually gets a chuckle at least. Maybe the Mother Superior doesn’t let the nuns watch the snooker on the telly.

            ‘Are you part of a silent order?’ I asked.

            She looked a bit startled, but said: ‘No.’

            ‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘So, what’s your name?’

            She thought for a second, as though imparting this most basic bit of information might give me undue influence over her, like primitive natives once thought that having their picture taken meant their souls would be stolen. Finally, she said: ‘Sister Brunhilda.’

            ‘Brunhilda? Can I call you Hilda for short?’

            She gave a tiny twitch, which may have been a nod or maybe a disinterested shrug.

            Confined spaces not only make me sweat, they make me talk. It’s a nervous reaction and getting the silent treatment from a one-eyed nun wasn’t helping.

            ‘Are you here for the tournament?’ I asked.

            She gave a small nod. Definitely a nod this time. Progress at last.

            ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘For the tournament. Not that I’m playing, you understand. Oh, no. My playing days are long gone. I’m just here for the opening ceremony. They like to have a sort of celebrity to kick things off. And I’m cheaper than Keith Chegwin.’

            She blanked me again. This was a tough audience.

            ‘They wheel me lout at the start and I do my world famous trick shot. Have you seen it?’

            A shake of the head this time.

            ‘It’s quite spectacular, even if I do say so myself.. What I do, see, is pile all the coloured balls up in a sort od pyramid with the black right at the top. Then I shoot the cue ball, knocking the black off the top without disturbing the others and pot it into the corner pocket. Clever, eh?’

            Her mouth twitched, but I wouldn’t call it a smile. Maybe she had wind. Are nuns allowed to have wind? Are nuns even allowed to eat?

            More banging came from somewhere up above us and a few raised voices, but the lift remained immobile.

            ‘Won’t be long now,’ I said, hopefully. I glanced at my watch.

            ‘Will you still make the opening ceremony?’ Hilda asked.

            Now that was progress. She was turning into a regular chatterbox.

            ‘Touch and go,’ I said. ‘Touch and go. If we get out of here in the next ten minutes, probably. If not…’ I shrugged. ‘Be a shame if I don’t,’ I said. Especially as I was asked her by Joe Castle himself. You’ve heard of Joe Castle?’ I asked. She nodded briefly. ‘Castle Industries sponsors the tournament,’ I told her. ‘It’s how he started out, sponsoring sporting events. He was a bit of a lad in those days, I can tell you. Bit of a chancer, but he’s done very well for himself. Not just sporting events now. He’s into all sorts. Construction, supermarkets, even an airline.’

            ‘Chemicals,’ she said.

            ‘Beg pardon?’

            ‘Castle pharmaceuticals.’

            ‘Oh, yes, that’s one of his as well. He’s had a bit of bother with that. Protesters and the like. What’s the name of that bunch of nutters who are always on the news?’

            ‘The Bifrost Collective,’ she said.

            ‘That’s them! You certainly keep up to date in the convent. Eco whatsits. Terrorists. Bunch of bloody nutters, pardon my French. They tried to blow him up, did you know?’

            ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I…heard.’

            ‘Not your everyday explosives either. I mean, you know where you are with a Molotov, don’t you? No, this was one of them tricky little beggars. They actually spiked his milk bottle and put it on his doorstep. Two lots of chemicals apparently. One lot at the top, like the cream, and the other lot at the bottom. When you shook it, as you do, they mixed together and…BOOM! Diabolical, that’s what I call it.’

            ‘But Mr Castle survived,’ she said.

            ‘Yes. But only because his housekeeper got to it before he did. She’ll never play the piano again, I can tell you.’

            ‘A shame that an innocent was harmed,’ she said.

            ‘Shame? It’s a diabolical liberty. I mean, what’s Joe Castle ever done to them? All he does is employ hundreds of people and some raving loony tries to blow him up! That’s just not right, is it? I mean, I ask you.’

            ‘Maybe,’ said Hilda hesitantly. ‘Maybe the Bifrost Collective don’t see it that way. Maybe they see the sub-standard housing that Mr Castle builds and sells at exorbitant prices. Houses with faulty wiring and sub-standard support beams that are just death traps waiting to happen. Maybe they see the toxic chemicals his pharmaceutical company dumps into out rivers and streams, destroying the wildlife and seeping into the water table, poisoning our children. Maybe they see the inedible muck peddled in his supermarkets, full of harmful additives. Maybe they see the appalling health and safety record in his factories where there have been three fatalities this year alone, but everyone is too scared to complain because Mr Castle pays off corrupt officials to make sure his enterprises continue uninterrupted. Maybe they see all that and feel enough is enough. That the irresponsible, uncaring death merchants must be taught a lesson, a lesson given in the only language they understand, that of extreme violence. Maybe then and only then will they realise that they have no right to destroy our environment, to ruin people’s lives simply for financial reward.’

            She paused, red faced and panting.

            ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join a silent order?’ I asked.

            She opened her mouth to reply, but never got the chance. There was a sort of grinding, snapping noise and the lift juddered and fell, probably only a few feet, but it felt like we’d gone off the edge of a cliff.

            I lost my footing and sat down heavily. Hilda screamed and fell back. Flat on her back she went, sliding across the lift floor, feet up in the air, habit billowing about her waist.

            It was then, as her habit flipped up, that I saw a sight I would never have associated with a nun.

            Balls.

            Snooker balls.

            Hitting the floor and slithering this way and that. I realised that this was the reason she had been clasping her hands in front of her. Not for any pious reason, but to keep the snooker balls in place, concealed beneath her habit. We both sat on the floor, looking at each other rather sheepishly.

            ‘Hoping for a bit of a game, are you?’ I asked.

            She just looked at me, but not with the withering glare she had used before. No, this was more a look of apprehension.

            Now, I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. Maybe the lift dropping had jarred a few brain cells into action, but I started to put two and two together. First thing I realised was that smell. It wasn’t me, it was Hilda. It wasn’t sweat either. It was perfume. That’s why it had reminded me of Tina. It was the same perfume she always wore, but nuns don’t wear perfume. Do they?’ And then the name, “Brunhilda”.  It’s amazing what rubbish you watch on the History Channel when you’re on the road, and something I’d only been half watching came back to me now. Brunhilda was the name of the head Valkyrie who ushered the souls of the dead into the afterlife. It was from Norse mythology. And the name of the bridge that linked their realm to ours?

            Bifrost.

            The Bifrost Collective! Eco-terrorists with a grudge against Joe Castle. But what does all that have to do with a one-eyed nun with snooker balls under her cassock?

            I glanced at Hilda. She was staring at me intently, biting her lip, as though just waiting for me to put all the pieces together. But it made no sense.

            And then I remembered that milk bottle. Dear God, the snooker balls must be packed with explosives! Somehow she must be planning to substitute them for the real ones. She plans to blow us all sky high!

            I scuttled backwards, pushing myself into a corner, as if by doing so I could get myself far enough away from the explosion to escape unscathed.

            But there was no explosion. The balls had hit the floor with enough force to detonate them and nothing had happened.

            Maybe I was wrong.

            Maybe Sister Brunhilda was just a fan after all. I started to relax. And then I thought of that milk bottle again. That was harmless too until you shook the bottle and combined the two parts.

            Frantically, I began to count balls. Reds, the blue, brown, green, yellow, black, they were all there. All except one. The cue ball was missing. Suddenly, it all made sense. In my mind I saw the TV cameras rolling, a beaming Joe Castle standing by my side as I made my world famous trick shot. The pyramid of balls waiting patiently. Bending over the table, lining up the shot, sending the cue ball flying through the air and…          BOOM! No more Joe Castle. No more me!

            ‘You mad bastard!’ I said. ‘You’re going to use my trick shot to kill Joe Castle.’

            She didn’t reply, just made a  sort of humming noise and shook her head.

            ‘Where is it?’ I said. ‘Where’s the cue ball?’ No reply. ‘Give it to me. Give it to me now.’

            She shook her head and scrambled to her feet, one hand still clasped across her stomach.

            ‘It’s there, isn’t it? You’ve still got it!’  

            She ignored me and started banging on the door.

            ‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Help! He’s gone mad. Somebody help me.’

            ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I said and pushed myself to my feet. I grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around and she smacked me straight in the face with a clenched fist. For a nun she had quite a right hook. I staggered back, but there was nowhere for her to run so she advanced upon me with murder in her eyes.  I pushed myself away from the wall and shoulder charged her.

            We went down with me on top and a loud clatter. She was struggling, kicking and biting and calling me some very un-nun like names but I clung on. She rained blows upon my head and shoulders and I shuffled back on my knees. I grabbed hold of her ankles and heaved myself to my feet, hauling her with me. She screamed as I upended her. Upside down now, she didn’t have the reach to keep punching me and, although her legs were kicking violently, she couldn’t stop me from reaching beneath her robes to find the all-important cue ball.

            And that’s what I was doing your honour, when they finally got the lift doors open.