STORIES FROM RORY No 21

 

Timeless

The cogs in my brain are working overtime. I’m about to set off on a mystery adventure, somewhere far off and unknown to many people. My decision is made after finding a map amongst my father’s belongings. He died a year ago, and I’ve only just managed to find the time to come and take over his estate. He’s left everything to me, as I’m his only relative. I am shocked at the amount of money he has left, it’s a fortune. First, before I go off on this journey, I have to sort out the house, attic, his workshop, and the garage.

Everything I’ve discovered so far is of high value. Now, I have to find the right people to sell these things to, mostly collectors. My father was a traveller and an archaeologist in his life. The jewellery alone is priceless, and belonged to my mother, who died five years ago. My father never really got over this loss.

They were in love and were together right from university days. That’s over sixty years. While looking at the jewellery I try to imagine what it must be like to know someone and live with them for all of that time. Two of you together, and then suddenly there’s only one of you left, it must be a horrid shock and it’s like half of you is missing.

A feeling of great sadness overcame me, and I opened a locket. The picture is of Dad, Mum and me as an infant. “Huh! Yes, I remember that being taken, with me on Mum’s lap.” I could almost feel her stroking my hair to make sure I was tidy. I wondered about the jewellery, should I keep it, or let it go? Hmm. I’ll decide about that later. I’m a bachelor and so have no one to give it too.

I spotted an old suitcase and I opened it to find all sorts of memories, old photos, some of my old toys, and games that we used to play. We were a great family and I was loved – it’s now I recognise that I’m alone, I have no one. Panic took over my being, what the hell will I do when things go wrong? I went downstairs and poured myself a drink and I’m shaking. Being alone has never bothered me before, but then I still had my Dad. I decided that it might be best to go out to the pub and get some company. I got to the pub and had another drink, and I felt empty inside, so I ordered a meal. I enjoyed that, it was cooked nicely, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

I stood outside the house next day and wondered if I should go back in. I certainly didn’t want that feeling again as it was so awful. I plucked up courage to get myself back into the house. The first thing I did was put the radio on and the music lifted my spirits. The voice from the presenter was clear and this gave comfort too. I clapped my hands, “Right, let’s get started.” I’d been through a lot of the rooms and made a list of all that has to be sold. Then I remember, “Yes, there’s that doorway, I’m going to check that out today.”

I opened the door and there are steps leading down to a cellar. Down here is a piano and music sheets, lots of them. I sat and flicked through the pages of music. Hey! My father had written some of these songs, and some were written by my Mother. I gazed around the cellar and there’s a bar. This is a lovely room, and I remember my parents throwing parties down here. The floor is a dance floor and there are grand chandeliers, sparkling, and throwing light around ceilings and walls. This room felt alive, and it gave me a feeling of excitement. I found an old record player with a great amount of records, (vinyl of course,) but there is also a band-stand. They must have had great brass bands and maybe even orchestras playing here. A memoir came into my mind about me coming down here, when music filled the room, and I got told off for getting out of my bed to come and see all of this happening.

I walked behind the bar and underneath I found an old camera, and there are photos underneath the bar of some of the bands and orchestras. Some well-known people are in these images. Then I have to smile because here’s one of me in my pyjamas peeking around the bottom of the steps.

I plonked on the piano and played parts of the music Mum and Dad had written. The piano was out of tune and so I lifted the lid to find out what the problem is. An old-type purse, with string-pull to open and shut it, is hanging on the strings inside of the piano. I can’t believe it; it’s full of money and some jewellery. I scratch my head: why the heck would someone place that there? A mental picture of a thief came into my mind. He or she must have gone around stealing money and jewellery, and hid it there until they had the chance to collect it.

I’m unsettled, as now someone else’s jewellery is in my possession. I decided to hand it to the police and see if they can find out to which person it belonged, and was it stolen.

While I was at the police station I asked about the history of my home. One of the elder policemen said, “Yes! I’ve been to some of the parties held there at your home over the years. Your father and I were the best of friends, and I would visit your parents regularly. I came to some of the parties, it was a great time.

“I do remember a woman standing screaming and saying that she had had a necklace stolen with a bracelet. Then some others said they had been robbed. Your dad paid a lot of money to have this theft investigated. It was jewellery and some money that went astray, and I believe that you have found it. I know the folk that lost stuff, so I’ll get in touch, although some have passed now.”

He went on to say that there is a tragedy on record, where one of the young women that was there serving on at that evening was walking home after the shindig and she was viciously attacked and sexually assaulted.

“Poor girl was an absolute mess, she had multiple stab wounds and her throat was cut. We caught the nasty blighter that did this to her, we had been after him for a long time, but he always managed to duck out of sight. He was responsible for quite a few murders and the same type of things that happened to this unfortunate girl. As we caught him he threw punches, and growled abuse, and then he said, ‘It’s her own fault. I killed her because I asked her to get me as much money as possible to get me out of the country and she failed me. It’ll teach her a lesson, I’d have been out of the country by now and you never would have caught me.’”

The Policeman went on to say, “Your poor mother was not too well after this news. She told me, she felt shame for what happened to this girl. Of course your Mum wasn’t to blame in any way whatsoever.”

The next few days at home are busy as folk would phone to say thank you for returning the money and jewels. Most went on to say, “We miss your parents, they were great people and we enjoyed some terrific times at Tower House, your home.” We decided to all meet at the pub. Because there is so much to sort out there are offers of help, which I accepted.

I’ve made some friends here, and I decided that travelling can wait; the sun, mountains, and rivers will still be there at any time. One or two of them have been left in financial difficulties, and I am the relief they need. I gave them all some money so as not to be accused of favouritism. Right now I am happy in my timeless bubble with some really good friends, and these are my family now.

On Saturdays we have meetings at the pub and then come home and have a few more drinks. Of course we have piano sessions with Mum and Dad’s music, sometimes dancing along. Also, there’s plenty of room, so folk can sleep over. These new friends are helping me to sort out my Dad’s belongings and helping me to sell stuff I don’t want, and of course they have the pick of whatever they want. Life feels good again, and I know my parents would want this.

Josie Smith

Who Wears the Mask?

(Part 4 of The Masked Ball)

Jacqui thought for a few minutes then she said, firmly, “We need to go and see the people living on the land. They probably don’t know what is brewing for them.”

“We can’t do that. If Tomas finds out we’ve done that, he will make sure I’ll lose my job, and of course, the money. I know I’ve been a fool but it was with the best of intentions.”

“Oh, don’t whinge, John. You know about ‘the road to Hell’. Never mind about the money, and there must be some way we can outwit them regarding your job. I could not live with all the uncertainty and rottenness hanging over us. Have you got a map of the land?”

John could almost hear the cogs in Jacqui’s brain working overtime.

“What good can we possibly do by going out there?”

“We can, at least, see what the circumstances are, and what the people do for a living. Bring the camera, so we can take pictures. Let’s put everything in that big leather bag. I’ll make some sandwiches and drinks, so we are prepared.”

“Jacqui, we need to think about this a bit more, not just rush into things. I understand you are very upset at the moment but you know I was brought up in Children’s Homes and I have always been aware that you have had a much better upbringing than me and I couldn’t bear to pull you down.”

“You won’t pull me down, John. I am not a spoiled brat. Today is Sunday, so we do not have to worry about work. We don’t need to do anything rash, but we will at least be able to assess the situation. It is no good putting it off and spending the time worrying.”

“OK. But promise me you won’t say anything about the building project? It will not help them to panic. Until we have explored all the angles of this awful business, we need to leave them in ignorance for their own sakes.”

“I am glad to hear you say ‘awful business’,” Jacqui said, wryly. “ Come on. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

They set off in Jacqui’s car, leaving their home in Sandwood with John looking at the map. About forty minutes later, as they got close to the area, they turned off down a track into a wood with a mixture of trees and shrubs.

Jacqui noticed that there were cypress trees along with oak, ash and many others.

“What a lovely woodland! I expect they feel like Robin Hood’s men, living here,” she said, indulging in a rare moment of romantic conjecturing.

They reached a point where the track petered out and the undergrowth was too dense to take the car further. Just ahead there was a battered old truck blocking any possibility of access with a vehicle, even without the foliage.

“Looks a bit rough, don’t you think?”

“Come on, John.’ One swallow doesn’t make a summer’. Let’s get out and walk through, if we can.”

They struggled through the shrubbery and long grass for about two hundred yards and came upon an amazing sight. There was a large building in the middle of a clearing and, on both sides of the clearing were various huts and caravans neatly spaced out with a low wooden fence around each one. At the northern end of the collection of homes was a different area entirely; on the rising ground small cone-shaped buildings with thatched roofs were arranged in a triangular pattern. The sun was at the back of these houses (if that’s what they were) and it seemed as if there was a sort of aura all around them.

As the couple stood gazing at the vision, a woman came out of the main building , followed by music which sounded like the gentle playing of several pipes.

“Can I help you?”Her voice was quite soft but confident and Jacqui sensed a foundation of authority in her attitude and body language.

Jacqui spoke quickly before John could say anything.

“We heard about your innovative way of life and are really interested in learning more, if you are willing to allow us to ask questions and, perhaps, see your gardens.” She had seen that there was a large area behind the homes on the left that looked like a huge allotment.

“What is your interest in our development? Do you think you would like to live a simpler life by joining a Commune. I can assure you, we are nothing like the average Commune; we all work quite hard for the well-being of the Group. Anyway, tell me what you want to know and I will show you round. You need to know that souls who want to join us have to convince our Committee of the validity and sincerity of their reasons.”

The three of them were walking along towards the little thatched buildings about half a mile from where they started.

John asked, “Why are these buildings quite different from all the others? Are they for a special group?”

Having introduced herself as Anne, during their walk, and learning their names, she answered John directly.

“Indeed, they are for special people. These homes are specially built for our elderly or vulnerable Residents, who have previously been part of our original Group or are related to other Residents.”

Anne showed them the garden area where a lot of healthy vegetables were growing. Further back, behind the fruit and vegetables, there was a field divided into four sections and happy, snuffling pigs and piglets were pottering in one section. There were several domed shelters round the edge.

Jacqui spoke tentatively, “I would have thought you would be vegetarians or vegans.”

Anne laughed. “Why would you think that?” she asked. “We want our people to enjoy their choice of food and we are able to rear pigs and chickens. Some people are vegetarians, but there is no compulsion to follow any particular trend.”

As they walked back, Jacqui told Anne how she admired the lovely pendant she was wearing. It was the first time the latter had seemed to exhibit any humility. “ I make them myself,” she said, fingering the necklace. Many of us make things to sell so that as much as possible can be earned for the communal purse.”

John felt he had to ask, “ If you don’t mind , could you tell us who owns the lease on the ground? Is it one of your Residents?”

Anne gave him a funny look, “Why do you ask? Unless you were applying to join us, that is something you don’t need to know. As it happens, it is one of our altruistic People, without whom we could not exist.”

Jacqui, in one of her impulsive moments, said, “We are here because we heard a rumour that people are trying to buy your land. Having seen how many people live here, I see that would be a disaster.”

“However did you hear that? It could not happen, anyway. Mr Calder would never sell the land.”

Anne drew a sharp breath as she realised her mistake. She paused and looked straight at John.

“Would you please let me know if you hear any more of the rumour? Although I know it cannot be right, I will obviously have it on my mind until I know where it has originated.”

Almost in unison they assured her, “We will come and let you know when we know any more.”

Linda Dalzell (to be continued...)

THE BRIEFCASE

Somebody had left it there, in the corner of the waiting-room, half-tucked under the bench, in the darkest part of a part that was already dark. If this was a waiting-room, was the briefcase itself also waiting? To be reclaimed by its owner, past or future? Who had left it? Had it been left for someone, or just by someone who longer needed or wanted it, or specifically wished to be no longer associated with it…

She wasn’t going to have those questions answered just by looking at it from the outside, that was clear. Most of the things she found in her work as a cleaner didn’t give rise to questions – except about people’s behaviour and upbringing. What they chose to leave behind were things with which they could no longer be bothered, things they wished to have disposed of by somebody lower down the social scale than themselves, by someone who was paid a rubbish wage to deal with rubbish, someone who was incapable of feeling offence or disgust at what they were required to do.

This seemed different. It came from somewhere else.

Of course she thought it might be a bomb. But the briefcase looked too personal to be used for such a purpose. Someone had carried it to work, day in day out. Or to school. You could see memories in the scuffs and scratches and the folds of the leather. For a bomb you’d pick up something modern, plastic, anonymous, mass-produced.

Even so, she didn’t do anything foolish, like trying to move it. She peered at it, to see if there were any evident wires, then she slipped the two catches, one by one, felt underneath the flap and still found no wires, so she opened the lid of it and looked inside.

All it contained was a camera.

Not everything that looks like a camera is a camera.

She could have just closed the briefcase and left it.

But it was something different, in a life whose routine was numbing – a necessary numbing, she told herself at the beginning and end of every day, as she set off for work or returned to her tiny room, a dulling of pain that enabled existence to continue. Healing, she believed – she hoped – was happening, even if – perhaps because – she didn’t notice it. There were none of the “sharp events” that, in the past, she had had to become used to, until they had felt dull and blunt. And that change, when she looked at it, had really scared her. The sense of nothingness she lived in now was outside as well as inside. It was right that she felt nothing, because there was nothing to feel.

She enjoyed the little tremble of fear with which she picked up the camera, touching it as delicately as she could – and yet not delicately enough. It flashed at her, and there was a tiny click. Startled as she was, there was no sense in dropping it. Always examine the unexpected. If it had been meant to kill her, it would already have done so.

She turned it over. On the back was a small screen. As she took a firmer grip, one of her fingers must have pressed something else, because the screen was filled with the face of a woman in a headscarf with a surprised look in her red-dotted eyes.

She looked better than she would have thought, the face fuller, more relaxed, as though she slept better and longer, which she did. She had access to a mirror, of course, in the communal bathroom, but never looked in it, combing her hair by feel and practice.

Fumbling, as she shifted her grip, intending to put the camera back, she must have touched another of the invisible controls, because a string of images passed across the screen, too rapidly to be registered consciously. Only the last one remained and held her attention.

Hills, the distant ones with snow on their tops, and a road winding away into them. A chill sun in the sky. Once, it had been a view she had known. There was a song about it. Everyone in the village sang it. Some poet in the past had made the words, perhaps to a tune that already existed. Had he ever been there? People said no. He’d just liked the sound of the name. It made him dream.

She remembered the tune. She’d not sung it for years, but now she began to hum it quietly under her breath. It helped her to concentrate as her fingers moved, intentionally now, over the body of the camera, to find out how to see the other pictures it held.

She pressed one little ridge and the screen went blank. She pressed it again, and the hills came back. The ridge to the left of it made nothing happen. The hills were still there. When she pressed the ridge to the right, a different picture appeared. A beautiful locket her mother had given her. Once, it had held her mother’s picture, but she’d taken the picture out when she had to hand the locket over to one of the “organisers of her journey”, as they liked to be called. The money she’d given him hadn’t been enough, he said. Or he’d been greedy. Or the people he had to bribe had been greedy. Who could tell?

She didn’t want to look at the empty locket any more, so she pressed the ridge to the right, and saw a wodge of notes, she wasn’t sure of the currency, probably dollars, spread out like a fan, so you could see how many there were, the numbers in their corners to show they were all different, a kind of receipt she supposed, to prove they’d been counted and handed over. The hand holding them wasn’t in shot.

She pressed the ridge to the right again, and the screen was filled with a map, hand-drawn, a cross on it to show a meeting-place. They’d been there to meet them, that was true, the money paid had bought what it was supposed to… the map’s clarity and certainty bore no relationship to the scrambles and fear in the dark, the stones, the mud, the distant gunfire… Diagrams, she thought, how much they leave out!

The next image made her shudder: steps down into the dark. So narrow, so low, her head scraped the roof, the walls skinned her elbows, she thought she’d never be able to straighten her back out afterwards – but that, too, had passed. Now, again, she made it pass, much more easily and quickly than last time, with the slightest pressure on the right-hand ridge.

But the next image was not much better. It filled her head with noise. For the voyage, they’d hidden them down by the engine. For hours and hours she’d watched its cogs and gears and pistons and connecting-rods move with and against one another, in motion and yet staying in one place while thanks to them the ship moved through the dark and turbid water that she’d glimpsed and smelt briefly on their scamper from the tunnel to the quayside. All those sounds, hisses and clicks and thumps and whirs, the smell of hot oil, the air shimmering with the heat, as if you were inside the body of some metal giant, observing the processes of his organs, the pounding heart, the rushing blood, the gurgling digestion, the pumping lungs… you’d been swallowed by him and were waiting to be digested… in a waiting-room…

She was in a waiting-room now. A silent one. She pressed the right-hand ridge to move on. Moving on had become so easy.

A woman in a head-scarf, a look of shock in her red-dotted eyes.

She smiled at herself in recognition. But then she thought, That’s not what I’m really like, and she turned the camera round to face her, and held it at arm’s length, and tilted her head upwards, so the light of the flash wouldn’t shine straight into her pupils and give her red-eye, and she composed her features into a look that combined pride with self-respect, a sense in the set of the jaw of having endured and learnt, and somewhere, perhaps in the slightly parted mouth or the high cheekbones, the twinkling of something that in other circumstances could have been described as mischief, and pressed the button that her fingers now instinctively knew was the right one, and she didn’t jerk or flinch, but held the whole pose until the after-images had gone, and her face relaxed into a smile.

She didn’t bother looking at the result. She knew what she had done, and what effect it should have.

She popped the camera back into the briefcase and re-fastened its catches with two soft clicks. As she straightened up, she realised that breaking her routine in one way had broken it in another. She never needed to go to the loo while working. But now she had to, so she did, leaving her cleaning materials behind.

And when she came back, the briefcase was gone.

Good, she thought, as she began humming a tune whose words, if she had sung them, would have been all about distant hills with snow, and how far it was to go, to a village with a name, that sounded the same, as what you whispered in the ear, of a person who was dear, to you, to you, to you – Good, because I don’t have to worry what to do with it and who to tell – one problem less to deal with – Still humming, she finished cleaning the waiting-room, and moved on to her next task, still humming the same tune, that she kept humming all day, and somewhere behind it and under it lay the following reflection: What had been forgotten, was remembered, so now things are all right.    

Mike Rogers

STORIES FROM RORY No 20

 

Devil in the Detail

The directional compass has been playing me up. The thing has moved all over the place in a chaotic frenzy. I thought it might be something to do with magnetism. The air is strange today, and it feels eerie. I park up and get out of the car. I stand stock-still and listen, not a sound can be heard, not even birdsong. There’s a strong breeze, yet the trees are not rustling their leaves. I look up and notice the clouds are not moving, and I cannot see one bird in flight. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid. I mumble to myself, “What’s happening? Has the world finally ended, and why didn’t I notice it happening?”

I have the baby in our car and he’s playing happily with the abacus. He didn’t seem to notice any change. However I did, as there’s something sat behind him in his seat. It looks as if the baby is on its lap. I hate the sight I can see, as a shape or shadow that looks like a demon is nursing our child. The thing has got our baby, and I pray, “God help me, why’s this monster here, and why pick our child?”

We packed a lunch before we left home, with the idea of sharing a picnic. I gasp as the fruit is crawling with maggots and flies; the maggots are wriggling through the sandwiches. My wife Mary is hysterical, she screamed, “Get our baby out of the car quickly!”

I open the car door and try to unfasten the seat belt in his baby chair. It will not open; I try hard to unfasten the belt that’s holding him. The shadow or thing brushed my hand, and it felt like an electric shock that travelled from my arm then continued all over my body. I believe that I passed out. The life re-entered my body, and I opened my eyes to find a paramedic bent over me, and asking me questions. Then I thought about Mary and our son, “Where’s my wife and child?” I shouted.

“Please lie still,” the paramedic warned, “you’ve had a terrible shock.”

I struggled to get up, but slumped in a heap.

“Now, for your own sake, sir, keep still, you’re damaging yourself.”

I heard a siren from a police car and this seemed far away, and the flicker of blue lights flashing made me dizzy. I fought the paramedic, I wanted to know about my wife and child and ask if they’re alright.

They took me into the nearest hospital and I spent hours there trying to explain to the doctors and police about what happened to us and about the Demon holding our child. They looked at each other as if they don’t believe me. They kept me in ICU for three days to see if I can cope at home. ThepPolice never ever mentioned about Mary and our son; they just kept on asking me what happened to me.

They finally freed me and I came home to an empty house. I unlocked the garage door and put the bent and buckled car away. I sauntered up our garden path. I picked up the key from under the boulder we had placed by the front door, opened the door and went in. Our cat came to greet me, the poor thing hadn’t eaten, or had a drink in all that time. He has been rummaging in our bins to find whatever he can to eat.

The tap dripped a bit, so I guess he’d had a drink. I put the light on and looked into the bins, although most of the rubbish was all over the floor. (I noticed the things that Mary had thrown away the morning that all of this happened, and while packing our picnic, and also things she’s cleared up from our boy’s breakfast.) I went through to the playroom and stood gazing at Harry’s Tee pee. I picked up his pyramid and the colours shot around the room. I feel like my whole world has come to an abrupt end. I sat and wept, and then I can hear Mary’s voice behind me, and Harry whimpered. A hand brushed my hair and I look up through tear-soaked eyes.

“Mary! Are you two alright? No one would help me to find you both.”

A bright flash of lightning lit up the room.

“It’s really you, Mary; I thought I’d lost you both.”

Shaking, I hoped I hadn’t imagined that she and Harry are here and alright. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me. I knew then all’s well.

“How are you Harry? Are you badly burned? We are so well blessed that you are still alive. I really did think that the lightning strike you were involved in had separated us for eternity.”

“Please explain what you’re talking about, Mary.” I was confused.

“Can’t you remember what happened to you, darling?” She looked tearful

I did explain what I thought had happened. Mary sat me down and said, “You were working late, and we had said when you got home we would go for a picnic over by the river Bourne. However, on the way home lightning struck a tree which crashed on top of our car. When the paramedics came to attend you, they said you were rambling on about a demon, and our child was sat on its lap. The lightning had caught you and burned your skin.” Mary placed her hand on the burn on my face

“This is confusing, as I know that you and our son were with me. I couldn’t get our boy out of the car, his seat belt was jammed, and that thing would not let go. The demon’s hand touched me and I got an electric shock all over my body.” I can’t believe that you were not with me, I shook my head.

Mary went on to say that the authorities had called. “They took me and our lad to Mother’s, until you got out of hospital. I’m sorry that there’s a mess, but I kicked the bin on the way out and, worrying about you, I left it. I knew the cat would be okay as I left him some meat and biscuit. I did come and see you at the hospital; however you were well out of it as they gave you tranquillizers to keep you still.”

The authorities are checking the car over and will let the family know what repairs will have to be done. They will collect it tomorrow. Mary was concerned about him driving the car home as it was well buckled, but still driveable.

The family settled down for the next week and then the strangest news. The authorities said the baby’s seat belt was jammed and no one could open it. This means if they had had an accident they might not have got their child out of the car. Barry, Mary’s husband gazed up to the sky and said, “All things happen for a reason, and I believe now that we’ve had a warning. The seat belt will be checked each time we go out from now on.” The pair complained to the baby-chair makers and they received an apology and a brand new chair. They still check it each time they go out. Because the devil’s in the detail.

Josie Smith

Hiding behind the Mask

(part 3 of The Masked Ball)

The next morning Jacqui was having some cereal and fruit when John came down. She barely looked up from the paper she was reading. She just said, “There’s some coffee if you want some.”

John poured himself a cup of black coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Would you like some toast and marmalade?”

“No. I’d like a further explanation about this connection with Tomas and his hold over you. It’s all so bizarre. You obviously didn’t trust me with whatever problem you’ve been harbouring. You have been really weird since the Ball. I am not at all happy with secretiveness and lies. It’s like living with a stranger, so I need to know what’s going on or I’ll be moving out.”

John took his toast and marmalade and sat down opposite Jacqui.

“Where to begin? You know we were talking about starting a family and you were quite worried about making sure there would be nothing hanging over us to cause financial or any other shadows over parenthood?”

John was frowning, trying to put things in order, not wanting to make Jacqui even more angry, before he could explain. His words had quite the opposite effect.

“What the Hell has that got to do with anything? How can us planning to have a baby relate to your connections with Tomas?”

“Hang on, Jacqui. Give me a chance. I signed off on some paperwork to do with a piece of land that Tomas wanted to buy. I’ll get the file and show you what it was all about.”

John went upstairs before Jacqui could say any more. He brought down a metal box with a padlock on the front. He also brought his calculator and put that on the table. He unlocked the padlock and opened the box, taking out a thick envelope, extracting from it about five sheets of paper and passing them across to Jacqui.

“Please read those documents and then I will clarify anything you do not understand. You will see what a mistake I’ve made and why I have such a dislike of Tomas and Marten.”

Reluctantly, Jacqui looked through the paperwork and then picked out one sheet in particular, reading it more carefully. It referred to a piece of wooded land on the borders of Greater Manchester and Cheshire where it seemed that a group of free-spirited people had been living in tepees, converted vans and home-built tree huts. Apparently one of the people had created a Zen triangular home, woven to the appropriate compass points that would protect from lightning and give healthy life to inhabitants. A request for planning permission for thirty executive houses had already been put in to the Council. One of the papers, countersigned by John, was a Compulsory Purchase Order for the land. Jacqui read it again and turned to John.

“You do not have the authority to sign a Compulsory Purchase Order. Whose is the other signature?”

“That is Tomas’s father, who is on the Council. The Minister, who will have to give approval, will, of course, be Marten. Once the planning goes through I will get £150,000 for my ‘surveying work’.”

“How could you, John? I know those people will eventually be moved from there, but this will be a private development so nobody will house them. What was the significance of a block of flats, shown on the fourth page?”

“I was told that this was to be a mixture of properties, including a small block of flats, with balconies, some terraced houses and the rest up-market properties which will bring in the money. Believe me, Jacqui, I was thinking about our mortgage and us affording a family. I was, obviously, taken in, not realising how greedy they were.”

“What I can’t believe, is how naive you are! Did you really think they would care about those people, or anybody else when they stand to make about fifteen million, at a conservative estimate. Anyway, the question is—what are we going to do about it?”

Linda Dalzell

STORIES FROM RORY No.19

 

Time waits for no one

I have just finished reading my book. I’m sat in the bay window, and I gaze up to see a shooting star. It isn’t quite dark, and this puzzled me. I walk across the room, and switch the radio on. The music’s exciting. I dance around the living room, and I’m really getting into it when my husband returned from a day’s work.

“Wow, Jean, I wish I had your energy.”

He slumped down into his chair removing his shoes and tie.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough day, sweetheart,” I commented.

“Whew! You can say that again, darling, it’s been manic all day. Sorry love, but I’ve brought my sandwiches home as I haven’t had time to eat them.”

I’m really cross as everyone’s entitled to a break.

“Liam! For goodness’ sake! You must be starving. I’ll put dinner out while you freshen up.”

Liam’s mobile rang and he answered it. The cheeky blighters ask him to go back into work. He said, “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had dinner.” Liam sighed. “I don’t believe it; I have to go back in. Can I have a clean shirt, sweetheart?”

I went upstairs to get a clean shirt for him. I got to the top of the stairs and blew my cheeks out. I feel puffed out. I glanced out of our bedroom window at the block of flats across the road. I noticed someone looking out, and it must be my imagination as she seems to be looking at us.

Then I can hear the fire engine, I look out again, and flames and black smoke are belching out of the windows where the woman is. I wondered if she’s alright and then wondered if she has family in there. Liam quickly ate his dinner and put his clean shirt on ready to go back to work.

“Don’t let them keep you for too long, Liam, as you look done in.” (I’m worried for him.)

“I really hate doing this, Jean, when I’m home, I should be home.”

I could see he needed to sleep, or at least put his feet up.

I walk back to the window to see what’s happening at the flats across the road. I heard a screech of brakes, and Liam almost had an accident with one of the Police cars. I ran out to see if he’s okay, but he’s gone by the time I get there. A young Police man is just about to get back into his patrol car.

He asked, “Are you alright, Madam?”

I answered and said, “I wondered if my husband is okay, as he almost had an accident out here. “Oh,” he said “that’s your husband, I almost hit him as I was rushing to the scene of the fire.”

I dryly replied,“Yes, he’s in a hurry too, as they have called him back into work. I would sooner he’d said no to them, and he’s had a horrible day.”

He replied with a grin, “Six of one, half dozen of the other, we’re both to blame.” He said his goodbyes and commented, “Oh well, fire waits for no man, I’d better crack on.”

I came back inside and went to the window again. Firemen were doing their best to put out the fire; however it’s well and truly out of control. I stood there looking across the road for some time.

I began to feel very tired, and I hadn’t washed up the dinner things yet. I turned to go back into the kitchen and put the liquid soap into the bowl ready to wash up. I thought I heard a noise outside of our front door. I went to investigate, but there’s no one there. I went to the back door and placed the key into the key hole, and locked it, in case someone’s in here. I check downstairs, but never searched upstairs. I go back into the living room and switch the TV on. It was the news, and all about what’s happening in the block of flats. I’d calmed my fears, and put my feet up. The news reporter has said that all of the tenants in the flats have to be evacuated, until they can get control over the fire. Liam phoned and asked if I’m to be moved out of our home?

“Well no, no one has said for me to leave.”

While he’s talking, I thought I’d heard a noise again. I mentioned to Liam that I’d heard the noise earlier, and that I’d checked around, but could find nothing amiss.

“I’m on my way home now, love, so have a rest. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

I felt relieved as I knew he shouldn’t have gone back to work. I did say a prayer that he would get home safely, as I know he’s extremely tired. I sat down on the sofa and rattled the dice that’s in the little cup that’s sitting on top of the game on our table. I scored a six. Liam and I often share a game when he gets home from work, it relaxes him. I had no one to play with. I lay down, and must have dozed off. I hadn’t seen anyone indoors.

However, there is someone there and they are helping themselves to our jewels and watches, plus any money that they can find, upstairs. They must have seen my sleeping face, and tried hard not to wake me. Shame for them, as Liam came home as they are about to leave, and he caught them red-handed.

I’m woken by the thumps and shouting. The Policeman that had almost collided with Liam came onto the scene. He booked the three young men. These devils have been robbing folk around here for a few weeks. It’s sheer luck that the officer is checking around our neighbours’ houses, checking the area, in case they’d got up to their tricks while the Police are busy.

Liam is just glad to get home, and he and the young Policeman shook hands, and he said to Liam, “Looks like we’ve both had a hell of a day, and it’s bad news for across the road. These lads we’ve just nicked have burgled them, and then set light to their flats, to take the Police’s attention away from their criminal acts. And this left them free to steal from people’s houses. We’ve wondered down at the station, why there have been so many fires around this particular area.”

I made us all a cup of tea and then Liam said, “Good news, Jean, I’ve got the next seven days off work, and this is why they wanted me back, to clear everything. I’m glad, as I’m dead beat.”

The young Policeman looked up and said, “Is that a confession, Sir?” Liam looked shocked. The Police officer began to laugh. He finished his tea and then got to his feet.

“I must get going, thanks for the tea and chat. He added, “They say time waits for no one, however this isn’t true, as time is waiting for these three thugs.”

Josie Smith

The Masked Dance (continued)

Jacqui picked herself up and muttered, “Thank you,” to Tomas. She followed John out of the restaurant and they got in their Ford Fiesta and John drove them home. Jacqui felt very confused and unhappy with John’s behaviour that seemed, to her, quite out of character. The fact that he was driving after two glasses of wine was not like him either.

As they arrived home and were walking up the path Jacqui saw a shooting star and crossed her fingers, hoping it would be a good luck omen. She was of the type of person who does not believe in omens and superstitions but gives in to the ideas ‘just in case’.

Their house was old and listed and had a large wooden front door with a big keyhole. John took out his key and, as he went to insert it in the lock, they both noticed a piece of card half tucked under the worn lip at the bottom of the door. John opened the door and picked up the card, slipping it into his pocket.

Jacqui couldn’t be bothered to ask what it was, with her feelings running so high after the evening’s events. Once inside, John went over to the drinks cabinet which was part of a dresser they had bought at the local Auction.

“Would you like a brandy?” he asked. “I know this has not been a good evening for you.”She was visibly shaking. She sat down on the big green velvet second hand sofa and looked at the things they had chosen together, making a comfortable relaxing home. ‘What had suddenly changed?’

“Yes, please. With lemonade, not soda. What I would really like is an explanation for your attitude tonight. Whatever got into you? There is more to all this than a mild jealousy!”

John sighed and walked over to the small oval table in the corner where he had an open book. He glanced down at the book then went back to pour himself a drink. He remained standing at the end of the sofa.

“I am really sorry about tonight. It was not so much a concern about Marten as the connection between him and Tomas. He, Tomas, is a really bad person. I can’t explain everything but I have a work connection with him. I did not know before the Ball that he and Marten were very close but now that is obvious it makes something bothering me much worse. He has a sort of hold over me, connected to my job as a Junior Surveyor.”

“It still doesn’t explain your interrogation about boy friends etc. We do need to have a talk about everything that is troubling you, John. I’m not sure I even know you. Anyway, I’m tired. I’m off to bed.”

Jacqui went upstairs and didn’t even shower, she was so tired. John followed and they were both lying facing away from each other. Jacqui fell asleep immediately but woke after a couple of hours and wondered, for a moment, if the memory of the evening was just a bad dream. John was asleep, snoring slightly, which she had previously found endearing, but tonight just annoyed her. She went downstairs to make a milky drink and looked at the book on the table. It was all about building regulations and there was a loose sheet in the middle showing the drawing of a tower block of flats with an address putting it in the outer area of Greater Manchester. She sat and slowly drank her hot chocolate with her mind churning.

Going back upstairs she sought out the card John had slipped in his trousers.

It had a picture of dice and somebody had written, ‘gamble wisely’. On the other side there was an advertisement for ‘The Fire Tree Club’ with a picture that looked like someone’s hand in an inferno. Jacqui did not put the card back. She would confront him when he woke up!

Linda Dalzell

NUMBERS

His wife was asleep, bless her. But he was awake, and didn’t want to disturb. So he slipped out of bed, gently, from under the quilt, turning on his stomach, one foot on the floor, one hand on the floor, second hand, second foot. Pause, to make sure he made no noise. Push with the arms to squatting position, hand on the radiator to help him rise. Once, he might have sprung to his feet – but those days were past, like so many other days, and so many things. Gone – except from his mind and his memory. Good, in the present situation. The sudden movement, the stirring of the air, would have roused her, and she needed her sleep. So, of course, did he, but not all welcome guests came when they were invited. In their absence, you amused yourself.

He padded soundlessly over the thick carpet to the door. Not a friend of modern things, he had to admit they had their uses. In this apartment, on whatever floor it might be of their tall tower, the doors opened discreetly. No need to grease hinges, no clicking latches the way there had been in their cottage – but the cottage had been too far from the help they had needed, sometimes inaccessible in winter… They were better off here, as far as their bodies were concerned, and as for their souls… they carried sustenance in their memories. Or so he hoped. And hoped that it would last.

And that was why, as he went from the bedroom, into his study, he resolved that it was time to begin writing his memoirs.

He had put it off, dismissed the whole project, because it seemed to be putting an end to new experience, twisting the head round on the neck to look backwards instead of forwards… but now, suddenly, perhaps this very moment, he had begun to see it in a new light. Perhaps, he thought, it was this insight that had woken him early. Poems, stories, would often come unbidden into his head in the small hours just before daylight, like snow-covered travellers begging for shelter, or brightly-coloured broad-winged butterflies, fleeing a summer downpour, fluttering in through the open doors of the conservatory, just avoiding the spiders’ webs, and perching, folded, on the tropical plants. This was just such an idea.

Friends had advised him that it was time, and done mathematics to prove it… But he resisted the logic of numbers. Numbers, he said, were everywhere. They were inflexible. You could not persuade them. They were incapable of showing mercy, or making exceptions. They reduced our capacity for perception. His friends pointed to the nature of statistical analysis, revealing trends and truths that might otherwise have remained invisible, and he, mischievously, reminded them of the key-pad that gave admittance to his fine new apartment. Once, he said, there would have been a key-hole, and through that key-hole you could have peeped, and seen what was going on, or bent an ear to it, and listened, and known whether you should have interrupted… Now, instead of remembering to take his key, which was simple enough if you had a copy on a string sewn into the pocket of every pair of trousers you possessed, he had to recall a string of digits…

They mocked him, of course, but he pointed out that there was a real difference between remembering important things, such as how his wife’s hair had smelt on their wedding-night, and the taste of what they had eaten and drunk on their honeymoon, or the sound of their baby’s first spoken word, and a date, which one could always look up, if one needed to.

These were the things that pressed against the doors of the big cupboard in his head in which he stored his impressions and his perceptions. He had never kept a diary. Let memory be the sieve, he had said, that separates the wheat from the chaff. What I remember is what is worth remembering, what has made me what I am. But, he reflected, as the screen blossomed into light, mocking the laggard day outside the window still wrapped in grey bed-sheets, the wobbling piles and tumbled heaps that filled the walk-in closet of his past with colourful disorder, at the risk of overflowing or inflicting mutual damage, deserved better, deserved at least to be looked at again, and appreciated, and then, perhaps, put back more economically, so as to make space for the storage of new experiences…

Unless, of course, this engagement with his past, which he had never before undertaken in any way, except to plunder it for small pieces of truth with which to spice and patch his fictions and his verse, or anecdotes to amuse or console his friends, was to be the new experience that lay before him, the exploration of a country with which he believed himself to be familiar, but which might turn out to be, in fact, unknown territory.

The screen glowed steadily in front of him, inviting, demanding his response. The pretend piece of paper, white on a grey background, was ready to turn the actions of his fingers into neatly shaped black letters in sequence. Above it, numbers defined margins he could not cross, below it numbers were alert to chart his progress.

Numbers, he thought, always numbers. Should he begin systematically, and conform to them? Establish a chronology of his life, by years and months and days and times? Or follow some other kind of thread through the labyrinth? Tastes and smells? Places and views and buildings? Staircases?

Even that thought brought him up short. There was a staircase in the tower, there must be one, for the sake of safety. But he had never found where it was. Doors were anonymous – no, don’t be silly! They all had numbers, didn’t they? But which one on his particular floor led to the staircase, and not into some other apartment, he didn’t in fact know! He got into the lift, and he pressed the number for his floor, and was taken there… He felt, he now realised, some deep reluctance to interrupt that journey. What would he find, if he got out on some other floor? Doors, with numbers on, which were not a clue to what you would find inside. Not like a house-name! The apartments were, naturally, all the same – but of course they were not all the same, because different people lived in them, with different pasts, different possessions, different habits… Numbers didn’t make them all the same… but they made him feel that they might be…

And yet… when he thought about his past… what difference might numbers have made? That girl he had given his phone-number to, after that wonderful afternoon on the mountain… suppose he had made a mistake, or she had made a mistake writing it down? And she had wanted to see him again, and never been able to?

The one he had wanted to send flowers to… and he might have given them the wrong credit-card number… and they’d never been delivered… he didn’t bother to check his bills in those days… didn’t keep them, either, they wouldn’t be stored in any real-life Cupboard of the Past, it was his wife who had made him more cautious, shown him that he had responsibility…

For a moment, he began to imagine the other paths his life might have taken. He closed his eyes, and called up the face of the girl on the mountain. He could hear her laugh, the way her head turned away, to avoid his clumsy kiss, the way it turned back, so that she could kiss him when she wanted to… so many feelings began to well up in him… he imagined what her face would look like now, given the years that had passed, what it would be like to go back into the bedroom and see her head on the pillow, to stroke her soft, downy skin and watch her eyes open…

Suppose that writing about it could make it happen?

The screen in front of him suddenly went blank.

Of course, he thought, that’s what happens when you don’t interact with it! It gets fed up, and decides to save its energy… it’s not a reproach, it’s not a warning, it’s just what the numbers tell it to do, go into sleep mode after a certain number of seconds have elapsed. And as for that… fantasy – well, that’s all it is, because that girl is no longer that girl, she’s a different one, she became a different one after we parted at the bottom of the ski-lift that summer, just as the flowers we walked through bloomed, and set seed, and died… the flowers the following summer may have looked the same, but they weren’t the same… wanting to have her there in bed to go back to is just like the sculptor Pygmalion begging the goddess Aphrodite to make his statue, Galatea, come alive… A fantasy you ought to consign to the flames, as sophistry and illusion… It’s the kind of thing you can make a story out of, but not a life…

And so, of course, that was what he did… it’ll be coming out next autumn. Wonderful where inspiration comes from, like a star falling out of the sky!

And when he’d written the first five hundred words, the start, with the writer waking early on the umpteenth floor and so on, and made notes for the continuation (which I’m not going to tell you about, otherwise you won’t have to buy the book, and you should) he sat for a while, as the computer went back to sleep, and he wondered whether he should, and he fiddled around in the drawer of his desk, and found a couple of dice that he’d once tried to use for plotting random events in a longer novel, but the story itself had taken over, and he began to look closely at one of them and realised something, which he should have known years ago (isn’t that always the way?): that things even out – because the opposite sides will always add up to seven, the wonderful six will be balanced by the miserable one, and so on.

And that made him laugh, and his laugh was so loud that his wife called to him from next door, “What’s so funny? Don’t you want to share it?” And he did, so he got up to go and do just that, but as he rose he noticed the contrast between the blank grey sleeping screen of the computer and the wide view out of the window, with the river curling, and the mist on it curling, and the houses down below and the roads in the middle distance, and the other towers, and beyond them the hills with woods on, going away to the horizon and beyond it, where numberless possibilities lived… and then he went next door, to his reality.

Mike Rogers