Rattle

Harry and Coral had been in their new house for a couple of months now. The house was new to them but had been around for over one hundred years so had probably witnessed a fair number of new owners stamping their identity on it. The latest owners were no different and had spent the first couple of months adjusting enough of the interior to make it feel their own. Now it was time for the outside. The timing was perfect. It was late spring and the weather was getting just that little better, the days longer and any work done to the garden would see a speedy transformation brought on by the rampant growth at this time of year.

So, while Coral prepared a fancy meal as a reward for Harry’s outside work he went to it in the garden. Harry liked days like this; they both did. It was going to be a day of traditional role-play, he out in the garden doing manly things whilst she worked in the kitchen being the earth mother. Coral enjoyed it because Harry didn’t expect it all the time and she knew he was quite happy to cook while she gardened. Today, though, the work in the garden was of the heavier sort and whilst Coral was fully capable of manhandling clods of earth she wasn’t really in the mood. Harry was. He had had a tough week at work and was looking forward to venting a bit of spleen on the earth.

The house was a large detached Victorian affair. It had four bedrooms and enough land to enable a previous owner to build a double garage on it. The area was very well established and very quiet. All the homes were in fairly substantial plots, which gave each one a secluded air. This had been the best house they had ever had and the intention was to settle here indefinitely. The price had been good too, surprisingly good. The previous owner had been keen for a quick sale so Harry and Coral had been able to move unexpectedly upmarket. They new well enough that one reason for the good price, as well as the quick sale, was the empty property next to them. It was of a similar type and age but was boarded up with an unkempt garden that had too many trees in it. It had been vacant a while and was starting to look it. The side gate into it was chained up and behind it was a green darkness from the over abundant vegetation. The fact that each property was very private and that this one was separated from Harry and Coral’s home by a small side road encouraged them to take the gamble. They intended to be around long enough to see that property sold which of course would enhance their own when it came to moving or, hopefully, leaving it as an inheritance. Next door had been vacant for about five years they’d been told.

Today was a heavy digging day. The front garden overlooked the main road into the area. It wasn’t a busy road as it only fed about thirty homes. Their garage opened onto this. At the side next to the vacant house there was a little road that stopped at a farm gate between his house and the empty one to give access to a field. Harry was going to work on this side area today. The two sides that butted onto the roads had a good wrought iron railing as a border and Harry was digging out all the turf a foot wide between the railing and the pavement to widen the whole border. The other side, the inside, of the railing had already been tidied up and planted up. This would enhance the whole look he thought.

The sky was a chilly white and the day was dry but cool with just a hint of a breeze that provided a reminder that it wasn’t summer yet. That made it a good day for a bit of heavy work. By heavy I mean heavier than Harry was used to. He was, if anything, a little lazy physically and had a sedentary job too. But, as long as he took his time he’d get the work done and enjoy that warm feeling when finished and sat down with a glass of beer.

Harry had already worked out a routine when taking the turf up from the front border. He’d work a six-foot section at a time. First he would loosen the turf with a fork and then slowly lever it up and deposit it in his wheelbarrow. The little journeys with a barrow full of turfs helped give his back a little time to recover and he would detour to look at a plant or take out a weed on the way round to the back garden where he tipped out the turfs. It was all very pleasant and measured but didn’t stop him working up a sweat. The fleece he had come out in before working his muscles had only stayed on for fifteen minutes before being hung over the railing.

After about an hour or so he became aware of a rattling noise. He turned around and saw that the chain on the gate to the neighbouring property rattled every time the breeze struck up. The gate itself was old and needed a good wire brushing and paint job. The chain was new but the padlock looked old. Beyond the gate it was shrouded in dark greenery, which made it difficult to discern much. The side path wound away sharply to the back of the house which could only be dimly seen through the trees and shrubbery. He was thankful of that as it meant that the boarded windows couldn’t be seen without actually entering the garden and getting closer. He hadn’t done that and didn’t intend to. It was a forbidding place that didn’t need any “no trespassing” signs.

Harry continued working. The breeze grew a little stronger and, consequently, so did the rattling. It never seemed to rattle when he looked over though; only when he had his back to it and was busy hefting turfs. He thought no more of it as he slowly worked his way along the border. Coral came out with a very welcome glass of beer and they passed a few minutes chatting. She teased him about the surprise she was preparing for their shared meal later knowing that it would keep him going and maybe encourage him to speed up a little. It did. She waited for him to drain the glass and then disappeared back to the warmth of the house and the kitchen. Harry suddenly felt a chill of loneliness at her departure. He wanted to follow her into that warmth and share the companionship and cosiness that she was creating in their home. He heard the rattle again and shivered a little without knowing why. Maybe it reminded him of the cool breeze. He looked forward to finishing.

With a little more despatch, Harry set to. The journeys with the wheelbarrow were not broken with detours any more and the sweat became a little more profuse. His routine was more practised and now he was nearing the end of his work. He was happy now. Soon he’d be finished and the timing was perfect. He was dirty, hungry and just a little tired. But not too tired. He’d enjoy a shower and a beer and then sit down to a hearty meal with his lovely Coral

The breeze had dropped. The gate rattled. Strange. Harry turned around and noticed that the chain was now lying on the ground and the gate was open. The hairs on the back of his neck shivered at something unknown.

Coral had lost track of time in the kitchen until the oven timer went telling her that she was nearly done. She’d tried to time it for when Harry was finished and was a little irritated that he hadn’t come in to clean up. She dropped what she was doing, switched the oven off and went out to see what he was up to, ready to tell him off for dawdling.

She got to the side garden and there was no sign of him. All the tools were there, including the wheelbarrow. Maybe he was in the back garden. Walking briskly around she soon discovered that he wasn’t there either. And after a few minutes back in the house, by now shouting his name, it was clear that he wasn’t there either. The car was still in the garage too. Coral was a little disconcerted as she walked back to where she had last seen him in the hope that he’d be back there as though nothing had happened. He wasn’t.

She looked over to the plot with the empty house on it and gazed at the gate. It was closed and the chain was on it so he couldn’t have gone in there surely?

The gate rattled.

A Walk in the Woods

You know that warm sultry time of late summer. Time seems to slow down on those hot sunny days when everything you do seems to take twice as long and, frankly, you don’t care either. The sheer abundant luxuriance of this time invites a kind of laziness that has as much to do with conserving energy as anything else. Eddie was feeling like that right now. He had come out for a walk as a diversion and for some exercise. A favourite wooded walk was his choice. It was a favourite because it combined everything he liked about walking. It combined woody glades with open fields and views over a fair distance. It was that perfect combination of woodland that draped itself languorously over a hill with fingers that held the hillside like a huge green hand.

Eddie liked walking. It was his favourite exercise in that it provided variety and allowed his thoughts to wander as well as views to peruse. He could disappear into his imagination and then reappear at will as and when the mood took him and the outside world distracted or interested him. It made him feel good about himself too. He could feel the muscles working. It calmed him. He was not a calm man. Outwardly easy going, inwardly, his mind was a cauldron of perceived slights, over sensitive reactions to other people’s behaviour both positive and negative. His emotions were not grey at all. He presented a façade of affable calm but spent his time within his imagination careering through a world of vividly coloured passion. He enjoyed it for most of the time but there were those times when it just got a bit too much and he would resort to dulling the intensity with drink or, a better option, a walk. He drank more during the bad weather. He was a fair weather walker.

Unlike many walkers he did not have all the gear. Not for him the proper walking socks, rucksack, pants and the rest. He did have good footwear and a decent rainproof jacket with a hood. But that was it. This was unusual for Eddie as his other hobbies and interests tended to bring out that tendency of all men, a tendency to spend money on toys associated with the hobby.

Today was an almost ideal kind of day for such a walk. By almost let’s just say that it was a little too warm to get a really good stride in. That gave him more time to linger over the walk itself. The paths were good and he could take various loops of various lengths depending on mood, time and inclination. Today he had the time so he took the longest loop that carried him around the perimeter of the wood and just cut across a finger or two that hugged the sides of the hill. It was about seven miles which was a comfortable distance that did not intrude on the whole day or tire him too much but did allow him the luxury of feeling that he had had a good work out. It represented, to him, the perfect balance of exercise and enjoyment. The only thing it didn’t have was a pond or a decent river to walk by, although it did have a small stream that scurried down.

He wandered along the meandering path with the comfort of trees to his right and a view down a gentle green ravine towards more low hills on the other side of a patchwork valley of fields, farms and a small settlement. As he rounded the head of the ravine the path entered the wood and a cooler stretch washed in a greenish hue. He loved this section of the path; the exhilaration of the open view giving way to the cool green mystery of the wood. It was like a door into another world; the branches swaying at either side of the path like arms beckoning him in. Through he went, enjoying the cooler air that caressed him almost seductively. Further ahead and higher up the wood cleared a little, opening up into a glade that had some picnic table and benches. There was also a very old oak that he had found to be the perfect place to sit with his back resting on its comforting trunk. He’d sit there to have some sandwiches sometimes. Today he had only brought water and a chocolate bar. He still fancied a rest though, not because he was tired but because it enhanced and lengthened the whole experience of his walk. A break gave a depth to the walk, a sort of before and after that would allow him to have different memories of the different parts of his walk. If he stayed long enough the second part of his amble out would often take on a completely different mood. The light would sometimes change, clouds would appear; even rain. He liked that.

He sat down and had a swig of his water. Where he sat was pleasantly shielded from the glare of the sun. It was comfortable too, with the tree trunk sloping as though contoured to his body. A couple of young women passed by in a babble of feminine chitter-chatter. Unlike him they didn’t seem interested in their surroundings, or him, but were engrossed in whatever it was they were talking about. They barely gave him a glance. He wasn’t bothered. Funny, that, he thought. Eddie didn’t want conversation or, indeed, any human interaction here. He wanted to observe, to experience, to feel, to fantasise and to stay in his own head whilst using his surroundings as stimuli. He could watch and absorb the warmth at a distance whilst he drifted in and out of his own thoughts and dreams. As he bit into his chocolate bar he allowed his eyes to wander over to a patch of brightness that picked out some small flies buzzing around in a seemingly aimless fuzzy whirl. The daydreams became more surreal as his subconscious started to make itself felt. He was going to doze and he knew it. He welcomed it. It was all part of the experience.
It seemed a long time before the dozing lifted. In fact it hadn’t been a doze, more a full blown crash out, he thought. The sunlight had faded a little and this told him that the day had moved on. Automatically he looked at his watch. It wasn’t there. Vaguely puzzled, he looked at the ground where his arm had rested. It wasn’t there either but as he did so he became aware that something was on his head. It was a hat. A hat for chrissake. Pulling it down to see it he saw that it looked like those old-fashioned deerstalkers but without the flaps. What the fuck was this? Had some kids stuck it on his head while he was sleeping?

By now he was fully awake and starting to become uncomfortably aware of other things. He smelt. It was him too. He smelt sweaty, not unclean, just an earthy sweaty smell of someone who had not showered or bathed for a couple of days. Then he noticed his feet. Instead of the walking boots that he had put on they were encased in well-worn brown leather laced up affairs. He didn’t own anything like that. His eyes ran up his legs in puzzled bemusement as he realized that all his clothing was different from what he had set out in. His trousers were a thick brown woolly type that ended at his knees from where thick green woollen socks ran down to these brown leather ankle boots. His jacket was brown too and more like a conventional thing worn to the office but with more pockets and made of a thick tweedy type of material. Everything seemed so substantial and, well, heavy.

Eddie was wide-awake now. He sprang to his feet and examined his newfound clothing with the scrutiny and interest of a young boy who has discovered his penis. He was agog. What on earth had lead to all of this? Was it some enormous practical joke? He was standing now and for the first time noticed the tree he had been resting against. It was different. It was ever so slightly smaller. He shuddered at that. Eddie turned to the path. That was different too. Where there had been a path of compacted grit there was now a track of beaten earth. When Eddie realised that the picnic benches weren’t there he shivered.

Voices in the wood provided respite to his jumbled thoughts. He looked at the source of them as they entered the clearing he was in. Two young women again. Only this time they were dressed in something that looked like it should have come from a historical drama. Long dark skirts with tight bodices and all topped by little hats that reminded him of those very old films of late Victorian times. They sported small parasols too. These two were different in another way. They looked over to him as though expecting something. Without thinking he doffed his hat and smiled. It seemed appropriate, although he didn’t have time to give it much thought. They smiled and nodded and walked on.

Eddie just stood there completely nonplussed as to what had happened. He felt warm too. The clothes he was wearing were heavy and not what he was used to. Was this some great practical joke? The best way to get to the bottom of this was to walk back to his car. That would give him a reference point although he doubted it. The change to the tree and the paths unnerved him. No practical joker could do that.

He woke with a start. His heart was pounding. Quickly he ran his hands over his head and body and to his intense relief the hat and the heavy clothing had disappeared; a dream with a dream. Getting up he stamped his feet and patted the tree as though to reassure himself that he wasn’t still dreaming. It was time to get back to his car he thought and didn’t so much walk as march back to it. Eddie wanted to be in as much contact with the modern world as he possibly could. As he walked back he pondered on what had happened, remembering that the woods did have a history, a history of murder that he would have to look up when he got back.

Traveller's Rest

Jack was happy. Jack was tired. It was a perfect combination after two days of combining business and pleasure. He always tried to work like that. He had done all the high pressure of twelve plus harassed hours focusing on things he could not now remember. Ambition had flowed through his body and left a wiser more content man. Now he was driving back along the early summer lanes to his cosy Bed and Breakfast retreat after having spent the day walking and sightseeing.

He’d gone for a walk in the morning, had lunch in a picturesque rural pub and strolled around Stokesay Castle afterwards. All of this as a reward for a long working day before. Then he had come down from his home to see a couple who had moved away from his normal area of business. They were some of his best clients and had wanted to keep him as their adviser. Although it was some distance they were financially worth the trip. More importantly, he liked them. Liking people hadn’t really figured as part of his business plan in the past. So after a successful business meeting on the Wednesday, Thursday was his reward.

It had been raining and the roads steamed gently in the early evening warmth. He was looking forward to a gin and tonic whilst having a bath and anticipating a hearty home made dinner with a good wine. He knew he’d sleep well tonight. The sky was a rich blue whilst the sun was hidden for most of the time by the spent rain clouds that meandered overhead. They seemed so low, as though the greenery below was trying to embrace them for the gift of rain they had just delivered.

Jack had the radio on very low, playing some relaxing classical piece, so was still aware of the swish of his wheels ploughing the wet roads. He was thankful that he had been able to switch his wiper blades off. One of them caught a little on the bonnet of his car and made an irritatingly regular clicking noise. The whole sequence created a kind of swoosh, swipe, click, swoosh, swipe, click. Over and over it went and mesmerised him dangerously. He’d have to get that fixed and prayed it wouldn’t start raining again. Being mesmerised whilst tired was not a good thing.

Not far from his destination, Jack drove through a very pretty, heavily wooded area. It was lush and green and hinted at secret temptations within. The trees shed rainwater like a summer sweat. It was still warm. Rounding a bend he noticed something off to his left. He passed it but it had definitely been an orange glow; a fire? It hadn’t been too noticeable as it was still light. He slowed down and reversed to get a better look. Now he realised why he had noticed it.

About thirty yards up a straight track, that was at right angles to the road, there appeared to be quite a large fire, just to the side of this track. It looked like a car. Typical, Jack thought, that cancer of vandals and car thieves had even got out here. He’d phone the police when he got back. Slipping his automatic into forward there was a swoosh of flame from the car. And a sound that pierced his very being; a scream, a human scream that seemed to enter every hidden corner of his consciousness. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood guard and suddenly his relaxation was thrown out by an alertness that, briefly, reminded him of his younger self.

Stopping the engine and climbing out of his car in one movement, Jack ran up to the burning wreck. He could hear the flames and feel them as he approached. There was no other sound, only the memory of that scream clinging to his mind like a scared child. The furnace kept him at a distance and to his relief he could not see anyone or anything inside the car. He just stood there for a minute like a gawping onlooker knowing there was nothing he could do. The car looked like an old Ford Anglia and the acrid smell of burning rubber was jarring in such a beautiful setting. Pulling out his mobile quickly reminded him that the signal was non-existent. He had known that anyway but had automatically looked. It was the only useful thing he could think of, although even as he did it he knew it was a pretty crap gesture. To stay would have felt intrusive and couldn’t achieve anything so he hurried nervously back to his car, looking back at the burning car as he did so and watching it recede into the distance. The fire slowly subsided, although it was still quite fierce. The whole effect seemed to double the distance. He needed a landline.

Back in his car, it dawned on Jack that he was trembling. His hands shook. He had to sit a while to gather himself. That scream stayed with him as he switched the engine on. He couldn’t get away quickly enough but took the scream with him.

The drive back felt as though it took forever but eventually he pulled up outside his destination. It was a two-storey seventeenth century brick building that had originally been three cottages but was now knocked into one to create a long rambling affair. The warm rural appeal of the place drew him in like a baby looking for comfort. Jack was the only guest so it was quiet inside. He hurried through the entrance lobby into the lounge, through that then the dining room and finally found the owner, Simon, in the kitchen and breathlessly blurted out what had happened with Jenny, Simon’s wife, joining them towards the end of the account. Simon was a tall angular man of a similar age to Jack. Jenny was much smaller, but full figured and pretty.

“Crikey, I’ll ring the police and fire service now” exclaimed Simon as he left the room to do so. From outside he shouted, “Jenny, take Jack into the lounge and get him a large G&T”. That was just what Jack wanted to hear and immediately felt a warmth envelope him as Jenny smiled and beckoned him out and back into the lounge.

He slumped into a huge soft chair; its soft, inviting cushions cloaked in floral chintz and hugged his drink for comfort. The lounge was a low-ceilinged oblong room with a door at either end and two small paned windows facing out to the front with the fireplace on the wall that backed onto the dining room. He sat near that and was gazing absent-mindedly into the empty black hole, listening to Jenny chattering away, when Simon came back in. He smiled, “All sorted, the fire service is on its way as I speak and the police will be out to take a statement from you later tonight. So in the mean time, why not take a nice bath while we prepare your dinner. I think the wine will be on us tonight too, in view of what you’ve been through”.

Feeling a little light headed and a lot more relaxed, Jack agreed wholeheartedly to that idea and slowly rose from his chair, still hugging his drink, and headed up to his room. “I’ll bring you another drink,” chirped Jenny as he went through the door. He nodded without a word feeling middle aged again, but he didn’t care.

Up in his room he ran a bath and threw off his clothes before collapsing onto his bed whilst the bath filled up. It was slow. The room was small but cosy and had been decorated by Jenny, he assumed. It was pink and floral. A knock at the door reminded him of the promised drink and his nakedness. He threw a towel around himself to answer the door to a beaming Jenny who had the good grace to flush. She held out the drink and he thanked her before closing the door.

With fresh clothes and a warm glow coursing through his body Jack sat at the dining table staring down at a bowl of home made vegetable soup. It was still light outside but table lamps were lighting up the shadier corners of the room. Simon brought in a bottle of red wine. It was a Château Neuf Du Pape. “Will that do?” Simon beamed. “Oh yes” Jack beamed in return. The pop of a good bottle of wine being uncorked was a pleasure that Jack never tired of. It promised both a wonderful taste and a mellowing of the emotions and senses that he often needed to dull his overwrought mind. And tonight it was more welcome than normal.

He finished the soup while giving the wine a chance to breathe when his main dish was brought in. It was a full-blown roast dinner. This would send him to sleep along with all the alcohol. He poured some wine and took a huge swig. By now he was feeling quite mellow and knew that finishing the wine would make him a little drunk. He didn’t care. He’d earned the right to be a little merry after that fire and that awful scream.

Drowsiness drifted over Jack after all of that. The food and wine had had the desired effect as he eased himself into the chair by the dead fire in the lounge. It was an unwelcome jolt when Simon came in and told him the police had arrived. In strolled a policeman who could have come straight out of an Ealing comedy. A country copper. He must have been about fifty and had the belly of a man who liked his pies. He was average height but appeared to be shorter because he seemed so round. A jovial, florid face, framed by cropped silver grey hair, topped all this off.

He sat down heavily in the chair opposite Jack and introduced himself as Constable Fairley. “Can I take a little of your time just to clarify what you saw?” he said as he pulled out his note-book, obviously assuming he could proceed. Jack nodded and told Constable Fairley all he had seen and heard. “The Fire Service is there now so we should be able to get to the bottom of this soon”. His tone changed and he frowned slightly as he looked directly at Jack, “By the way, which way will you be travelling home tomorrow?” Jack told him that since that incident had happened on the road south of the Bed and Breakfast he would not be going that way. He’d be heading North East. The policeman looked relieved and added that the road would be closed for a while anyway. With that he got up and left.

By now it was getting dark and at this time of year that meant late. Jack was knackered so trundled his tired body off to bed. Up in his room he didn’t bother folding his clothes. He rarely wore trousers with creases anyway so hanging them on the back of a chair would suffice. Normally it took him a while to drop off. It didn’t tonight.

She screamed. He saw the face clearly and it was terrified. He woke in a sweat. In seconds he realised he’d dreamt it and looked at his watch, the image of the young woman still in his mind. It was three o’clock, silent, and dark. He lay back down finding difficult to get the woman’s face out of his mind. She seemed familiar for some unexplained reason. He eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep with her face still implanted like some photographic limpet.

Jack woke late. It was after eight and that was late for him. He was usually up before seven. He wasn’t feeling particularly refreshed either, probably all the alcohol the night before. Slowly he went through the morning ablutions, deliberately taking his time to see if that would help him feel a little more alert. It didn’t really work.

He took his bags down to the car, as much in the hope that a breath of fresh air might do the trick as anything else. That didn’t work either, even though it was a clear, fresh summer morning with those early morning scents teasing the nostrils while the birdsong did the same to his ears. His mind was detached and fuzzy though.

In the dining room Jack sat at a different table. He chose one near a window so he could gaze out at the beautiful morning. Sitting down, he let his eyes roam the opposite wall and got a jolt at what they found. That face, the nightmare face, was staring down at him from a photograph. Now that did wake him up. Maybe he had seen it and subconsciously recorded it for his dream. He got up and went up to it but there was nothing to tell him who she was. A pretty brunette with wavy mid length hair and a natural smile gazed back at him, a huge contrast from the expression on the same face the night before. Judging by the clothes and hair he guessed that the photo was maybe thirty years old, but he couldn’t be too sure.

Simon walked in, looked at Jack and then looked at the photograph he was peering at. He smiled quickly, “Pretty woman eh?” to which Jack nodded with an appreciative “Hmm”. “My first wife. It’s a long story so I’ll not bore you with it if you don’t mind.” “Would you like a full English breakfast?” changing the subject. “And is it coffee again, with brown toast?” Jack reluctantly peeled himself away from the photo and absent-mindedly acquiesced. Sitting down he couldn’t think of a decent reason for pursuing his curiosity without seeming pushy. Telling Simon he had dreamt of her the previous night would have seemed silly.

The generous breakfast with its local produce all washed down with excellent coffee revived him and set him up for the journey ahead. He’d thrown his stuff in the boot of the car and only had to settle the bill so he lingered over the last pieces of toast, home made marmalade swirled in amongst a greedy amount of butter. He’d never lose that tummy of his he thought, smiling. Jenny gave him a jar of the marmalade, which Jack had half-heartedly declined with all the sincerity of an electioneering politician before leaving the building for his car, the jar firmly clutched in his hand.

It was bright and now that the morning had gained maturity it was warmer too so Jack drove off with his window down. There was no traffic in the village or on the narrow hedge lined road leading to the main north-south route. Without thinking he indicated to go right. That was the way home but at the junction he paused. There was no traffic. He suddenly had an unexplainable impulse to go and drive past the scene of the fire. So he swung left and swept off in that direction feeling a little uneasy and wondering how foolish he would feel if Constable Fairley was at the roadblock he expected to come to. He stayed on course though. He didn’t know whether it was curiosity or a feeling of unease that he just couldn’t put his finger on. Either way he was determined to persevere. It wouldn’t take long.

And it didn’t. There was no roadblock either. No evidence of any activity of any sort. Puzzled and wary he stopped at the end of the track looking up expecting to see tape and a charred wreck. Nothing. He got out to a silent wooded track, even the birds seemed to be listening in an uneasy silence. Squinting towards the place where he had remembered seeing the burning car he couldn’t really make anything out, just a lot of undergrowth. But as he got closer he could make out some russet. It was rust. A rusty old car started to become recognisable as he stopped a few yards from it. And pulling some of the vegetation away from it he could see it was the same make of car that he had seen the night before. A Ford Anglia that hadn’t seen a fire in a long time.

He froze. A breeze reminded him that he was alone. He suddenly became acutely aware and very sensitive to every movement and sound around him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood in futile guard, yet again, as he turned and walked as briskly as he could with dignity, all the while his eyes scanning around as he shortened the distance between that unexplainable wreck and the sanctuary of his own car.

Old Love (Poem)

Take me in your arms, please hold me

I don't see me very much. You do I bet
I am still the young man who you once met
Hidden away by the long passage of creeping time
That has eaten away my image; a kind of caustic lime

Take me in your arms, oh please hold me

Even now I really do feel the same
Although that might sound a little lame
I would love to find a way to ensure that, by me, you are told
That I still feel the same; but I wonder if I could ever be so bold

Oh, take me in your arms and just hold me

My reflection chases me back into my shell
And I'm afraid that has become my very own little hell
From where I peer over my defensive wall
When in reality I want to give you my all

So I wonder if you would take me in your arms

I wonder if you would hold me

Identity

“Masden, yes that's the name”, he repeated for the second time.

The idiot at the other end of the line sounded like some drawling American who insisted on pronouncing the “a” with a long “r” sound. In Peter's ears it sounded more like “Aaargh”.

Oh well. The reservation was made and he settled back, pleased with his luck at getting booked at such short notice at the hottest restaurant in town.

Peter Masden had built up a name as the definitive expert on the period of English history leading up to the Norman conquest and his publication, “If Harold had won Hastings” had won popular acclaim. I say “popular”; well, let's just say he was quite a big fish in a very small pool; a puddle really.

Peter, of course, was happy in his little world of academic acclaim. Middle aged and comfortable, though by no means wealthy, he looked the part too. He was a portly professor, complete with bow tie and wayward white hair. His students loved him for his image if nothing else. And he basked in that. Even an academic can have an ego.

Anyway, celebration was the order of the day for Peter and his long suffering wife, Patricia. She was an academician too, but without Peter's need for acclaim so there were no popular publications for her. She was, however, quite happy to tolerate and even enjoy his claim to fame.

So, the night came for the celebratory meal; French it was. Peter couldn't resist the humour of celebrating, with French cuisine, an English hero, a hero in his eyes at least. Few would have recognised the reason for his amusement as he strolled in with a supercilious smile, all made even more ridiculous by his rather overdone bow-tie. Patricia was above all of that. She just exuded her normal absent-minded air which Peter ignored.

They walked up, regally, to the maître de who was standing at the reception podium that these pretentious restaurants seem to use. An observer could see that there was going to be a competition for superiority here. However, because both parties were competing on hugely different levels there would be no winner or loser; neither would recognise the worth of the other.

Or at least that is how it started.

“Good evening Madame et Monsieur, you have a reservation?”, he oozed with a practised disdain, complete with arched eyebrows and questioning look that did not catch the eye but was designed to catch the recipient off guard.

Oblivious to his games Peter replied, “Masden, for seven thirty” and smiled at no one in particular.

The eyebrows reacted. In fact they almost zoomed to the top of the maître de's head before he regained control.

“Marsden”, he feigned disinterest but to any unbiased observer his excitement could be discerned. Peter was oblivious, as was Patricia. She was gazing in the direction of the main room without really looking at anything in particular.

Peter did notice the pronunciation of his name with a little irritation. That drawling “r” instead of the “a”. He decided to ignore it though.

They were led to their table by the maître de himself. Amidst much fussing and faffing about they were seated at the best table in the restaurant. Even Peter recognised that they had a good one. He would never know that it was, actually, their best.

Menus were brought forth and handed to Peter and Patricia with a kind of dramatic flair that many would have found a little embarrassing but Peter did not. Patricia did not even notice.

“Are we celebrating anything in particular?” asked the maître de with an obsequiousness that would have made Uriah Heep proud and most recipients cringe; except, of course, Peter.

“We” with huge emphasis, “are celebrating my new publication” announced Peter. It didn't occur to him to make an effort not to sound pompous. Patricia was looking at the next table for no other reason than she thought the lady reminded her of that bust of Nefertiti; her area of expertise.

By now, there were two waiters in addition to the maître de, who had relinquished his position at the introductory podium in order to fawn over Peter and Patricia.

They took their time, as is the wont of academics. Time is not their forte. Eventually choices were made, to the ever so humble gratification of our, by now, grovelling maître de.

They both settled back with a glass of wine. Peter was the drinker. Patricia was able to escape into another world without alcohol. In fact she had difficulty in understanding the so-called real world. Peter had a foot in both camps; hence the wine.

“Mr Marsden”, came the irritating drawl, from the maître de again.

Peter condescended to return the question, we can assume it was a question, with what he designed in his mind as a kindly smile. In reality it came over as just plain patronising.

To think that Peter's condescension, unintended but noticed and that of the maître de, intended but unnoticed could have caused such amusement to the casual observer. But, alas, neither saw any humour here.

The maître de, of course, noted every slight, every patronising comment.

“My wife values your work. She has read everything you have written and is in awe of your writing skills.” he said with what could have been a grimace.

Well, even Peter was a little nonplussed by this. He had only written, and got published, a few pieces, but only “Saxon Sexuality” had gained any popularity. It had sold quite well but the reviews had accused him of misleading potential readers. Most of the book dwelt on religion, if truth be told.

Peter was brought back to the here and now with; “She would be honoured if you could autograph a copy of your book”

“Of course” was the joyous reply.

A book was brought and opened for him to sign.

It was by “Peter Marsden”, a thriller writer.

Peter looked at the page, the title and the smiling maître de.

Shit.

Cat

Cat strolled with the confidence of a king down the quiet, dark street that ran through the centre of the village. He had reason to feel that way. He was king, king amongst his peers anyway. No one challenged his authority these days. Mind you, that didn’t mean he could relax; far from it. Cat had to make his presence felt, to remind everyone that he was still around and that no one was to mess with him. So he patrolled his domain with a sense of wariness as well as confidence. He scanned as he sauntered; a sniff here and, occasionally, a spray there, looking for movement that might indicate danger, food or maybe even just a little fun.

He had spent the day snoozing in a garden shed that he had found, the door open wide enough for him to enter and shelter from the rain that had fallen intermittently throughout the day. It had been quiet, with only the odd noise from birds and dogs near enough to cause any distraction. He had waited until nightfall and the darkness that would hide his approach to any prey he might happen upon and hide him from any danger too.

The rain had stopped some time ago, the ground was dry and the grass soft under his paws, perfect for patrolling and hunting. And yes, it was hunger and the smell that drove him now.

The darkness was not the norm. Not a light shone from anywhere, neither the street lamps, nor even any windows revealing a disturbed night within. It was silent too; more silent than he had ever known. Not that Cat thought about that. He didn't really register the change. No questions entered his mind.

Half way down the street he did hear some noise, unfamiliar noise. It was coming from the village supermarket, a small one that was usually busy during daylight hours but silent at night. Now there was the bustle of activity from within. Rats. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them were feasting on what rats liked but Cat didn't. He ate rats though and could see some of them through a window. But, he hadn't found a way in to where they were, so pretending to ignore them he strolled past, sniffing for any stronger smell of rat that might indicate an opening. There wasn't.

He approached a lamppost and sniffed it. His last message was still there with no other smell superimposed over it. He was as relaxed as he could be but still freshened his own marker with another spray whilst surveying his surroundings. And there was that other odour in the air. This was of interest to him but he had not been able to get to a source. Mostly it was locked away inside the buildings and the doors closed.

Cat didn’t register that this was unusual or think about it. He had no opinion, did not pause for any thought or reflect on anything. He just acted or reacted as he had when following a scent to what seemed to be a stronger source of the smell or as he did when his ears pricked up at a noise he could hear in the distance. The noise was stationary so he padded cautiously towards it, his senses tensing at the realisation of its source.

Barking, and more than one was doing the barking. That spelt danger. He stiffened and gauged where, exactly, it was coming from, all the while scanning for escape routes should the source of that barking move towards him and threaten to get too close. Carefully, he walked up to the corner of the road from where the noise seemed to be coming from and peeped around the corner of a building. He saw them. A pack of six dogs were scrapping over a heap on the pavement. He counted them and took note of their size and vigour. They were about fifty yards away and totally absorbed in the competition for whatever it was they were squabbling over. They seemed to be eating it between the argumentative growls. So concentrated were they on their prey that Cat knew he had time to weigh up just how close he could get. It was safe enough to sit so he did so with a measured lowering of his hindquarters, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on those dogs and measuring out his options. He could smell something edible. He watched and became as engrossed as he could ever be in anything.

The dogs were fighting over a corpse. It had been dead for a few days so was beginning to smell. That was what had attracted them. They hadn’t eaten for some time so the pack companionship had given way to survival with only the natural pecking order preventing them from turning on each other more seriously. The corpse was human. A tramp. The dirty ragged clothing made even more dirty and ragged by the dogs and the time the man, it was a man, had been dead. They’d dragged him from some cardboard that had been piled in a shop doorway. They were so hungry that their reluctance to think of a human as food had melted away. They were so hungry that they were oblivious to anything else; and so, very nearly, was Cat.

Cat hadn’t heard it until almost too late. There was a sound behind him. The noise of four feet running, quickly. It was near, too near. He noted all of this and where it was coming from and sprung for a fence ten yards from where he was sitting without a glance back. A stinging in his ear told him of his error as he leapt to safety. The large dog couldn’t follow. He knew that and looked down with as much disdain as he could muster although the hairs on his back and the blood on his ear told a different story. That had been too close. The dog, a black Labrador, stood growling impotently and then turned to what had attracted it in the first place, the other dogs and their booty. He was bigger than any of them and trotted purposefully straight up to them, trailing strings of slaver on the way. Cat didn’t linger to see what happened. He knew that others might arrive. Safety told him to move on, although to make a point, he did mark the fence before he left.

He took a route away from the dogs so that he would meet any danger head on and see it, hopefully, before it saw him. The barking receded and his fur relaxed and sank back in repose. His movement became less earnest and soon he resumed his stately saunter. He even stopped to clean himself, as much for safety as pride. He didn't want the smell of his blood to waft towards unwelcome nostrils; not that he actually thought about that. Instinct was his saviour.

His path took him to the river. He didn’t plan it. He just went there because he always did. It was the edge of his territory. Where the road met the river there was a little hump-backed bridge. It was very old and made of stone. He never went over it as it made him feel vulnerable. It was too open and had too few avenues of escape and the noise of the water running underneath could hide the approach of danger. However he was curious, as there was something of interest on it; and it got more interesting every time he approached. There was an odour emanating from it and the smell was getting stronger with the passage of time. It came from a crashed car and was frustratingly locked inside the car with no means of him getting at it. That car was like a huge leaky tin of food that enticed him cruelly. He had already been there and hadn’t found a way in to the corpse inside. A problem for him was that others knew about it too. He could sense the crows and magpies drowsily eyeing him from their perches. He didn’t hear any dogs although he could smell that they had been here. Their droppings indicating that they had been there for some time. Cat inspected the dogs' messy trail and his sensitive nose told him that their boisterous visit had been some time ago. The tautness of his muscles gave way to frustration; he wandered off with a defiant flick of his tail. He sprayed the corner of the bridge. He always did.

Long gardens backed onto the river, which was quite small; more like a wide stream really. It was shrouded in trees and rushed along at some pace, freshly filled by the recent rain. The smell that pervaded the village was less evident here although in places a sensitive nose like Cat’s could detect strong pockets of it. Reminders of his hunger. The water was moving too fast and noisily for him to risk getting too close for a drink. He made do with some sips from a clean puddle a safe distance from what seemed, to him, an unseemly torrent. His thirst quenched, Cat moved away from the river and back up to the houses that sat at the top of the riverside gardens. The noise of the river made him feel wary; he preferred the silence that allowed him to listen. There had been a lot of that lately. He prowled the perimeters sniffing here, pausing to listen there, always on the lookout for opportunity.

He gave it no thought but he hadn’t been inside a home for some days now. Up until then he had had a regular source of food from a family that provided him with warmth and shelter too. He found the place. It was part of his domain. The bond between it and him, though, was loosening. It smelt different. Sitting down at a corner of the silent building he let out an involuntary meow, from habit really. He did this two or three times out of the habit of a lifetime and stopped at a time when he would normally have seen a light shine from the opening of a door to let him in. Nothing happened this time. The silence remained, as did the darkness.

No light shone where once, not so long ago, it chased darkness away to pave the way for the sounds that always ran in partnership with it; human sounds. There were none now, just the silence that gave Cat comfort. Somewhere though, there was something missing that Cat could not give expression to and did not understand. He sat in that silence for some time, his instinct switched off, or at least dimmed, for once.

A slight breeze brought that aroma that seemed to pervade everywhere. Cat automatically padded towards it. It was stronger than it had been previously and as he approached the source his heart quickened as he became more acutely aware of his hunger. The padding became a stride. There was a window with a break in the corner. Something had fallen against it and broken it, leaving a cat-sized jagged gap. Yes, it was big enough.

Cat sat measuring the gap for a moment. He didn't need long and jumped up, and carefully crept through the opening. His senses were on high alert. Inside it was dark and lifeless. The smell was stronger. He jumped down onto a worktop and then silently down to the floor to move through the kitchen, the room with the broken window. He could smell rats and picked his way carefully past the mess they had left of cereal packets and other detritus. He paused to listen. No sound. The place did not trigger any memories, not that he gave that any thought. Hunger overrode everything now. Nowhere in his mind was there any realisation that he had not purred for days now. He moved out to the hallway where the smell was stronger and up the stairs to follow what was turning into a stench. He drooled and moved with determined speed.

The odour took him to a room that had a door open and on the bed lay two people who had been dead for a few days. If it had been light they would have been a grey-green colour and their eyes an opaque grey. Cat would not have given a thought to this. He also gave no thought to the fact that they had been his protectors and providers of food just a few days previously. He did, however, sense that they could still provide him with sustenance. They were now the food as he settled down and licked an eyeball. For the first time in three days he purred.

Will they?

On a cool, dark, late autumn night she gazed out of her third floor apartment window at the plane coming in to the airport on the other side of the city. It always reminded her of that film, “Close Encounters” with the flashing lights and seemingly ponderous approach which, in reality, was still faster than any car she had driven.

She could allow her attention to wander from her film, 'Persuasion'. She had seen it plenty of times. It lived in her mind and she only needed to put it on to act as a kind of trigger. Or maybe a comfort. Always with a glass of wine. Always with some expensive chocolates. Always late at night. Always cocooned in her fluffy pyjamas, fleecy cardigan and silly socks. Always with her feet tucked up under her, off the floor, curled within herself on the island that was her sofa. And always in the knowledge that tomorrow was a day off work. A ritual that usually had to wait until the end of her working week.


He looked out of the window as the plane banked on the approach to landing. His window seat hadn't been of much interest until now. Peering down at his home city, at the lights, at the roads with the beaming corpuscles of light pulsing along. It made the whole thing seem like a living entity. He didn't linger on anything profound though; he was tired. It had been a long three days at one of those conferences that seemed always to be more about image than content; he just wanted to get home now. At least it had been in Prague.

He was alone as were most of his fellow travellers. Suits, suits and more suits was the score; even with the women. There were one or two couples who were in suitless holiday mode but they were in a minority; they were the only ones who smiled.

The approach to landing always enthralled him. That slight risk of something going awry did lend a little frisson. It was more than that though. Sitting cooped up in a long metal tube with little to do other than read, eat, drink, snooze and go to the toilet tended to get a little samey after more than three hours. Don't get me wrong, he liked sitting, eating, drinking and snoozing. Going to the toilet gave a certain satisfaction too. But he liked to do all those things when he wanted to do them and in places that he wanted to do them in. And thirty thousand feet up along with a hundred or more strangers when he was tired was not of his choosing. So the landing gave promise of a break from that.


Persuasion was her fall back comfort blanket. She identified with the heroine because she was petite, shy and a little determined; just like the heroine in the film. Well, that was her image of herself. The hero fitted her ideal of a man too; sensitive, strong and all the rest. If only the reality of her life could allow such things. Alas, she was single, the wrong side of thirty and none of the guys at work fitted her ideal. Maybe she expected too much. That was the problem with watching this. Although it was a comfort it allowed her the space to think too much. So she took a swig, rather than a sip, of her wine.

Yes, she knew that the wine and the chocolates would make for a dream ridden night and, probably, a fractious and tired morning. That's why she always did this when she knew that the morning could be spent in a fuzzy haze.


The landing was smooth and the plane taxied slowly before stopping. Then there was that clunking noise as stairways were attached and doors opened in some unseen part of the plane. It always irritated him when people started standing in that crooked way that they do on planes; nowhere to go but still impatient to get out. Why? The pudgy guy in front of him did that. Just where did he think he was going? The doors were still closed and he wasn't going anywhere soon. Yet he and others stood in that awkward bent stance that bespoke impatience. The other extreme was the smug calm of the middle aged couple adjacent to him. They were making no move to stand or even tidy up their belongings. They would make a point of being the last off the plane, he guessed. That was just as irritating to him. Oh fuck it, anything would have annoyed him now. A glimmer of a smile hovered behind his face at the thought that the luggage handlers were the deciders on who would get away from the airport first. So he sat and waited too.


Persuasion was nearly finished. It was well after midnight; late for her. She had had nearly the full bottle of wine and a good half dozen chocolates which meant an adventurous night. Her ritual was coming to an end and she waited for the film to end with a little impatience. She was tired and her well rehearsed routine had done its job up to a point. She had forgotten about work but had ended up pondering on her singleton status.

As the credits rolled she dwelt on that; on that fact that she had been on her own now for over six months. Living in the apartment was fine. There was plenty of activity; people coming and going; traffic passing her windows all the time, even in the sky. That just emphasised her aloneness at times. Mostly it didn't matter. She liked being detached from the maelstrom of life most of the time. A lot of her neighbours seemed noisy and shallow as did the majority of her work colleagues. She didn't know many other people. Sometimes she missed that companionship of a snuggle up with someone rather than a teddy bear. Someone just to talk to about everything and nothing; but at least something.


He was one of the last off the plane, bidding a weary goodbye to the smiling face with the care worn eyes of one of the cabin crew. The smug couple followed him. Everyone trooped along through the passport checking and along to the carousels. By the time he got there they were just starting; the guy who had been crookedly standing in front of him perched in pole position; seemingly convinced that his action would will his luggage to be first down the carousel. It wasn't. It was the smug couple's smart red cases that led the way. Damn. He diverted himself by switching on his mobile. Why did he do that? There would be nothing he could do about any message after midnight; he had no loved one keeping a warm bed for him; or a warm heart to lose himself in. There was nothing. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or lonely. A bit of both.

Slowly the temporary little airborne community dissipated as more and more bags arrived. His bag appeared and pushed those thoughts away. He swept it up and headed for the exit, passed the taxi drivers holding up signs and families waiting to help with luggage; out into the cool night air. It jolted him a little. The exit from the plane had been via a covered walkway and he hadn't experienced fresh air for some hours when it had been a little warmer and lighter and he hadn't been so tired. Without detouring he aimed for the waiting taxis and was soon able to sit in the warmth of a black and white car driven by the obligatory Asian Muslim driver.


She turned the TV off and took her empty glass into the kitchen to rinse under a tap. It was that time of year when it got chilly but was not cold enough to turn on the central heating. So she kept her fleecy cardigan on as she tidied. She normally went to bed after her Persuasion fest. Now, although tired, she wasn't sleepy. Too much wine no doubt. She picked a book to read; no, not a Jane Austen book. Even she had to have a change from that. A recipe book by one of those celebrity chefs that had been a lazy Christmas present from someone. She couldn't remember who. A vague idea of cooking a nice meal slid through her mind as a nice option if the weather was crap the following day.

A last look out of the lounge window and at the stars was part of her ritual. She performed that part of it and then went to her bedroom and threw the book on the bed while she brushed her teeth and had what she hoped was a last wee for the night. Then she climbed into bed, still wrapped up in her fleecy cardigan and still with her silly socks on. She'd take those off once she warmed up. Opening the book didn't open her mind to the contents though. The words just sat there without entering her mind. She read a risotto recipe three times before giving up, taking her socks and cardigan off and putting the light out.


The taxi driver was good. The man probed a little to gauge if his passenger wanted to talk and soon gathered that this guy was too tired to be bothered. So the taxi driver stayed politely and considerately quiet; and got a good tip when the vehicle pulled up outside an apartment block. He got out of the taxi, more fatigued than ever now. His body seemed to know that bed and, maybe, a large whisky were only yards and minutes away. He fumbled for his keys and found them as the taxi pulled away with its very grateful driver.

Before he walked up to his door he paused. He didn't really know why but found his eyes wandering up to his neighbour's windows. He imagined a fleeting glimpse of a shape, a human form, standing briefly at one of them before disappearing. Was she still up? He looked at his watch. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Surely not. But he still looked up, as though wishing she had seen him, and wondered if the bonny little brunette was awake. He hoped so.


She had lain awake and heard a car pull up outside. Bugger, her nosiness forced her out of bed and gave her no choice but to look out of her window. She had blinds and had left them open. And there he was. Her neighbour; that tall man who seemed nice but who was often away and who seemed to be quieter than the rest. She lingered a little too long and he looked up. As though wanting him to see her she didn't pull away immediately and, even then, stayed in the shadows watching him watching where she had been. Had he seen her? She hoped so but then was embarrassed at the thought. Bloody wine.

She went back to her bed as he disappeared from view and listened. Eventually she heard the noise of doors shutting quietly; not the loud slamming of an inconsiderate drunken neighbour. She got back out of bed and went into her living room to look out at the glow of light emanating from his living room. She could see his balcony was nicely lit up. She switched on her own light. He'd see she was up.


He had entered his apartment quietly and dumped his bag in the hallway. That could wait until the morning. Into the lounge and on with the light he wasn't ready for bed straight away. He was one of those who needed a ritual of winding down. Sometimes a book, sometimes a film. Tonight it would be a large whisky and just a sit down while his thoughts meandered over the images of the past three days. And her too. He found himself thinking of his neighbour. That quiet little woman who intrigued him.

The night sky was still clear. It was still dry and not too cold. He opened the door to his balcony quietly, but not as quietly as he could have. He hoped she was awake and still up. Her living room light was on. His heart fluttered just little and he hadn't even had a drink yet. He turned to look out at the night sky, at the stars, at the street down below and the other apartment blocks with their, mostly, black windows. He absent mindedly wondered what the other lit windows hid. And wondered if she'd come out onto her balcony.


She hovered in the shadows and saw him standing with a glass in his hand. Should she nonchalantly go out onto her balcony? She had every right to. But it would look obvious. She wasn't an obvious woman. But she had had some wine.

Her hand went over to the door handle.

The Chocolate Puppy

It was Easter. Lauren, who was six, loved Easter. You can guess why can't you? Easter eggs. Sometimes she got a chocolate bunny as well as the eggs. She didn't care though because the important thing for Lauren was this; they were made of chocolate. Lauren adored chocolate and Easter was the one time in the whole year where she was allowed to eat almost as much as she wanted to. I say almost, she was never allowed to eat all the chocolate.

This year Lauren already had three Easter eggs and one chocolate bunny. She had carefully lined them up on a table in her bedroom in the order that she planned to eat them. The bunny was last; he looked cute and besides, he didn't have any other chocolates inside him like the eggs had. One was filled with chocolate buttons, one with toffees and one with mints. She was going to have the one with the buttons first because they were her favourite chocolate. The one with mints would come after the toffee egg; she didn't much like mints. Richard could have those. He was her snotty little brother. Actually she had already opened the chocolate button egg.

Today Mummy was expecting a visit from Aunt Bessie. Lauren didn't much like Aunt Bessie. She had black eyes that looked like beads and skinny hands with long nails and a long thin nose. Lauren couldn't help but stare at her nose when she looked at her. So she tried not to look. Aunt Bessie never smiled and rarely brought Lauren anything. In fact she almost always ignored Lauren which suited Lauren quite nicely thank you. She'd just sit and play in the corner while Mummy and Aunt Bessie talked about boring things. Aunt Bessie had never seen Lauren smile, unlike her other aunties.

Aunt Bessie arrived after lunch. She walked in bringing her unsmiling face with her. Lauren imagined Aunt Bessie leaving a broomstick and a tall pointy hat in the hallway.

“Hello Lauren. “ she said without a glimmer of a smile, either on her mouth and certainly not in her eyes.

Lauren just stood there with her mouth open, the image of Aunt Bessie on a broomstick still vivid in her mind.

“Say 'hello', Lauren” pleaded Mummy in a funny strained voice.

“Hello Aunt Bessie” said Lauren, as politely as she could make it. She didn't smile either.

Aunt Bessie didn't respond, sort of to Lauren's relief. She never really knew what to say to Aunt Bessie who just stared at Lauren and walked into the living room.

Mummy, and then Lauren, followed her in. Aunt Bessie and Mummy sat down and then Lauren went over to the far corner of the living room and sat on the floor behind a chair out of Aunt Bessie's sight to read a book. She'd stay there and keep quiet until Aunt Bessie left, trying to will herself to disappear. It never worked.

Aunt Bessie never stayed long and Lauren had a strong feeling that Mummy didn't care much for her elder sister either. Aunt Bessie didn't seem to care much for anyone.

“Lauren.” It was Aunt Bessie's voice. How unusual, she never called out for Lauren like that; at least Lauren couldn't remember when she had. Lauren got up and nervously walked over to her but not looking at her as she did so.

“I've got something for you”, said Aunt Bessie.

Lauren looked up in surprise; curiosity getting the better of her nerves. Had she brought an Easter egg? Aunt Bessie was smiling. Lauren had never ever seen her smile and just for a tiny moment wondered if it actually was Aunt Bessie. She looked so different. Lauren smiled back too; not just because Aunt Bessie was smiling but because Lauren found herself looking at the smile and not the nose.

“Here.” said Aunt Bessie. She never used a lot of words. Almost as though she didn't like giving them away. But here she was handing over a box that looked very much like an Easter egg.

Lauren took it and said, “Thank you Aunt Bessie” before Mummy had time to tell her to. Mummy smiled.

Aunt Bessie's smile disappeared and Lauren decided that that meant it was time for her to go back to her little spot in the corner.

“Don't open it.” came Mummy's unwelcome voice.

“Can't I have a look at it?” pleaded Lauren, trying not say it with too much of a whine; but not really succeeding.

“You can look but you can't open; you've already got one opened.”

“Alright”, said Lauren in that slow defeated tone that children use when they have not got what they wanted.

She sat down near her book and looked at the box. It was the same shape as an Easter egg box. But it didn't have any of those see-through plastic windows on the side that you could look in to see the egg. Frustrated, she turned it around and read “Chocolate Puppy” on the box side amongst all the brightly coloured patterns like these boxes always had.

She turned the box over to look at the top.

And there he was. A little face looked back at her. A chocolate face with big eyes, a button nose and a little tongue hanging out of his smiling mouth. He had funny little crooked ears and his head was tilted ever so slightly as though he were trying to get her attention.

She even held him up to her ears to see if she could hear him panting. He wasn't. How silly. Only a baby would do that. She knew better. He was only chocolate.

But he was ever so cute.

************************************

Later, up in her bedroom she placed him next to the bunny so that she could see his face looking out of his box. Lauren thought of the box as a kind of cage and wasn't happy to have puppy stuck in it. So she got him out. Mummy wouldn't be too cross as long as she didn't eat him; and there was no way she was going to do that. He was far too sweet; and not in the way she viewed most chocolate things.

“Come on puppy.” she cooed as she carefully pulled him out and stood him very carefully on her table. For just a moment she forgot he was made of chocolate.

Over the next few days she gradually ate her way through all the eggs. She even gave the mints to snotty Richard. He didn't like them either and just ate his own eggs. Lauren didn't give any of her eggs or other chocolates away. They were hers and besides Richard had his own.

Eventually she finished all the eggs and was left with the chocolate bunny and puppy. The bunny was next and, reluctantly, she snapped an ear off to eat. I say reluctantly because he was quite a jaunty little bunny. But he was only chocolate and Lauren was more interested in chocolate than bunnies.

“Lauren” came Mummy's voice one morning, “Why don't you give some of your chocolate bunny to Richard. He didn't get as many eggs as you and has finished his.”

Horrified at such a thought Lauren whined, “Do I have to?” in her most whining voice.

“Yes, I think you should.” said a very stern Mummy.

Lauren decided not to argue; after all Mummy might take the whole bunny away; she'd done that before.

“Alright, I'll give him some.” came Lauren's reluctant reply.

Up in her bedroom she snapped off a piece of ear; a tiny piece and went to give it to Richard when Mummy was busy in the kitchen. Then she ate as much as she could of the bunny.

Richard was only three and ate quite slowly and Lauren would give him a tiny piece to keep him quiet while she scoffed the rest.

Mummy eventually finished in the kitchen and came upstairs.

“Wow, I see you've finished your bunny Lauren.” she said. She was frowning too.

Quick as a flash, Lauren answered, “We shared it”

Mummy looked at Richard and saw his chocolatey mouth and smiled, but still with a frown. Lauren just smiled back as innocently as she knew how, which was very innocent.

**********************************

The following morning Lauren woke up and looked at puppy. He was all alone now. The eggs and the bunny had all been eaten and he was the only chocolate thing left. He just stood there and looked at her with his little head tilted and a silly grin on his face.

Lauren didn't eat anything at all of him that day. Every time she went over to snap a piece of him off she looked at him and he seemed to look back and say, “Please don't eat me”.

He didn't really, Lauren knew that. She was six after all. But he looked so sweet, and not in a chocolatey way.

Days went by and still she didn't eat him, not even the tiniest piece. Mummy wondered if there was something wrong with her and even considered taking her to the doctor's. But still she wouldn't eat him. She couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to snap a piece of him off.

And then one day when she was rushing to get ready for school she knocked him over. One of his little bent ears was broken off. Distraught, she asked Mummy if she could repair it and a puzzled Mummy said, “Yes, but it will have to be tomorrow. I'm just too busy today.”

That evening, after school, Lauren looked at puppy, with his broken ear laid at his side. His smile seemed less happy now. She thought he looked unhappy so went over to give him a kiss. Even the smell of his chocolatey face didn't tempt her to eat the broken ear.

She didn't sleep well, tossing and turning and having nightmares about puppy. In the morning she woke up and yawned, tired but at least it was Saturday so there was no rush to get up and out for school.

Lauren eventually got out of bed and wandered over to have a look at poor puppy. What the! Astonished, she saw that his ear was back in place. And even stranger, the broken off ear was still laid at his side. She picked him up, “Are you all better now puppy?” she soothed. He smiled back, his smile as broad as it was before his ear had broken off.

No matter how hard she looked she couldn't see a join. Had Mummy snuck in during the night to fix him? But that didn't explain the ear still lying on the table; the spare ear. Spare chocolate.

So she put it in her mouth and ate it. The first chocolate for absolutely ages and it tasted like heaven. She closed her eyes and yummed it all. I say all, there wasn't much of it. But when you haven't had any chocolate for days it seemed such a wonderful luxury. And puppy was all better now too.

That day was a lovely day. Puppy was better and she had had some chocolate; what could be better? More chocolate.

That night she got undressed to go to bed and looked at puppy. Would he get another ear if it got broken off again? She picked him up and 'accidentally' dropped him. Sure enough an ear broke off and he looked back up at her with what seemed like a hurt look. She felt guilty enough not to eat the broken off ear; just in case it didn't magically get fixed during the night. She took an age to get to sleep that night. It was as bad as Christmas eve.

Lauren needn't have worried. The following morning there puppy was with his ear back in place. And that tempting spare chocolate ear waiting to be enjoyed. So she did.

This routine went on for some weeks. In fact it got to the point that Lauren would just break an ear off rather than 'pretend' to drop puppy. She learnt to live with the hurt looks from him and her guilt at injuring him disappeared. After all, he was only chocolate she told herself. She would eat the ear as soon as she broke it off too, so confident she was that it would reappear the following morning. It always did.

It got to the stage that the only chocolate she ate was puppy's ear. Mummy was very puzzled that Lauren, the chocolate lover, seemed to have lost all taste for it. But since, in all other respects, she was quite well nothing was done and little was said. In fact Mummy was secretly pleased that Lauren had seemed to lose her love of chocolate.

But Lauren had not lost her love of chocolate. She just loved the chocolate from puppy more than any other chocolate she had ever tasted so didn't really want any ordinary chocolate any more. And she wanted more of puppy's chocolate.

One night she decided to break a bit more off puppy. If his ear would grow back surely other parts, bigger parts, would do the same.

So she broke off his back legs that night. She felt awful and puppy didn't just give her a hurt look; he whimpered. She was sure she heard it. Anyway, she leant him against a book so that he could still sort of stand, well, lean really.

She ate his legs and for the first time in her life did not enjoy the chocolate.

Lauren slept badly that night. In fact she didn't feel as though she got any sleep. Tossing and turning she did not dare look over towards puppy. You know why don't you?

When she woke up she walked over to have a look, hoping that his legs had reappeared.

They hadn't. He stood, actually he leant, sadly against the book. His smile had gone and Lauren could not bear to look at him. She thought she saw a tear in his eye but couldn't be sure because she did not dare look at him again.

Lauren wandered around in a state of unhappiness that day. She was glummer than glum, more miserable than miserable. Mummy kept looking at her and asking her what was wrong, “Are you happy at school?” she would ask, to which the reply would be “It isn't school”.

“What is it then Lauren? What is making you so unhappy?” Mummy would ask, her concern and worry of little comfort to Lauren.

“I can't tell you. You wouldn't believe me” she said, truthfully.

And Mummy wouldn't have believed her if she had told her. No-one would.

For three days and three nights Lauren waited to see if puppy's legs would grow back. They didn't and he would look at her every morning with tears in his eyes and she would feel even more sadness for him and guilt for what she had done.

On the fourth morning she could not stand it any more. So she ate the rest of him, including his tears.

She didn't really enjoy him.

She never ate any chocolate ever again.

There I was

I sit outside a public house. It seems warm but not bright. Early autumn. That time of year when nature itself appears to slow down, but in reality is starting to prepare for next year. When there is still colour and warmth but that colour and warmth is of a more relaxed, subtle nature. The intense verve of summer has given way to the more reflective air of that cusp between summer and autumn. Everything and everyone seems quieter at this time of day, at this time of year. It is early evening and you know that there is, maybe, just a couple of hours of decent daylight left. So there isn't that determination to see the day out that there is in mid summer when people linger for hours and hours and the days seem endless and night time seems so far away.

I always seem to be here, I don't really know why but here I am in the same place that I sit every time I appear. It is to the right, rear corner of a courtyard filled with umbrella sheltered tables surrounded by wooden chairs. Hanging baskets adorn the windows and doorways of the pub, past their best but still colourful with late blooms. The pub itself is ancient and wears that age with pride but also a little embarrassment, for the owner has embellished and exaggerated it with signs and decorations that advertise how old the place is but emphasise how new the interest in that is. Before he did that no one cared how long it had been here. No one cared about time.

The ground is slabbed with stone pavings leading to a low wall which hugs the courtyard and its contents, protecting it from the outside world, the real world. Here the world is that of escape and those who enter the little space do so to leave their worries and concerns outside the wall for a while before venturing back out onto the path that runs on the other side of it.

The wall is only a couple of feet high but is solid with a decorative iron railing along its top. Between it and the path is a small grassy area and a border of well established shrubs. The path is quite wide, tarmacked like a little road rather than paved like a path. And it is used as a sort of road, what with all the cyclist who glide beneath the large beech trees that line it. Beyond this shady thoroughfare is more grass, another low wall and then the river, a wide languid river it is.

I sit and watch this window on the world I know, the courtyard with tables, the wall, the path, the trees, the grass, the next wall and then the river, almost like a theatre. People come and go in this world of mine. Most I take little notice of. They pass on the path. They rush, they dawdle. They are quiet. They are noisy. Sometimes they are alone, sometimes not. Sometimes they streak past on their bikes, sometimes they stop and look. They linger and gaze across the river lost in their thoughts.

I do not see them as individuals but merely as part of the theatre that unfolds before me every time I am here. They are part of a picture, part of a story that is without narrative, that is without end it seems. Each day starts, unfolds, develops and then ends. Like a miniature year. Like a life.

Every day is similar. A few more people when it is warm and dry. A few less when it is cold and wet. And they move more quickly when it is wet too. I never listen to their conversations. I don't have to. When I see a young man and a young woman gazing intently into each other's eyes I imagine the words that may pass between them. That is assuming words do pass, for often there is just silence whilst the eyes convey the meaning far more adroitly than any words could do. My own thoughts do for me anyway. The real words, should they risk them, might spoil it. Besides they will whisper words that have been whispered for millennia; words that no one owns for we all share them and all know what the meaning will be. So why listen to something that I know the meaning of anyway?

And when I see a middle aged couple in silent companionship I can imagine a thousand combinations of what thoughts pass between them. They don't need words so why should I want to listen to those who do need recourse to words? Do I need to know an individual story when all it will be is a variation on a theme; a theme that is repeated countless times between middle aged couples? Between any couple. I don't. I've heard it all thousands of times before and all the individual stories merge into a hum of uniformity.

And just as I take little notice of the vast majority of individuals, so they take little notice of me. On occasions, though, someone does. And if they notice me I find my attention grabbed by them. If they come over, which is rare, I beat a retreat. No one sits next to me.

A little girl of about six looks at me. She has noticed me. She is with her parents who seem submerged in some adult conversation that wafts over the little girls head. In the image within my mind their bodies are framed, their heads not. There is no sound. I am at the little girls level. She is quite pretty, with milky brown hair that has a hint of curl around the edges. She is quiet as she takes everything in and absorbs it into her silent little six year old world. A world she will leave behind at some point but which will seem, to her, for now, so immediate, all encompassing as well as everlasting.

She looks at me for some time, not just my face. Her eyes move over my torso and the clothes I wear and then, once all that has been recorded, she settles on my face. I look back with my mind more than my eyes. I don't really see her, I see an image, a picture. She smiles. Her eyes do too with an intoxicating infectiousness that is irresistible. I smile back, or at least I think I do. I must be, for her smile remains and shows no signs of abating. The smile grows into a giggle. I don't hear it but I can tell. Her body quivers like a funny little jelly.

The frame suddenly grows as her parents notice her distraction. Words fall from their mouths on top of her head but she doesn't really notice. The words become more insistent. She looks up, finally aware of her parents and taken away from her reverie, my reverie too.

She looks back and points over in my direction whilst turning her mouth from the sweet smile to words of explanation. The smile has gone now. More words from the parents. They don't so much fall now but are hurled down on the little girl who looks confused and hurt. She frowns and points again, insistently this time. I take my gaze from her and look at the unsmiling, unseeing faces of the parents. They are looking over towards me but they haven't seen me.

But then, I don't think the little girl has really seen me. I am a figment of her imagination maybe, and not really here.

Alone

You could imagine the shock, the crash even, as the knights plunged into the rear of the poor bloody infantry, a solid block of immovability when attacked from the front. But sickly in its soft vulnerability when attacked from the rear by a surging mass of men and horses armed and armoured to the teeth. That neat rectangular block dissolved into a disappearing slick of individuals that scattered like wind blown foam on a heavy sea.

This was the culmination of a long and closely fought contest. A see-saw infantry battle had not yielded victory to either side and the cavalry had merely skirmished for most of the conflict.
Eventually, though, one commander had seen an opportunity. Some carefully husbanded reserves of his elite knights were manoeuvred around to a flank and made ready to charge a mass of infantry from their undefended rear.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Well, not quite.

Numbers were still evenly matched and the infantry who were being cut down were just a part of an experienced army that had been a worthy adversary. Still, the domino effect, although a cliché, holds true to such events and once this strike into the undefended rear had been made the rest did, albeit slowly at first, fall to the sword, spear, lance and whatever else that could be wielded.

All reserves were sent crashing in. Massed infantry swarmed to push and crush their opponents onto the knight's lances charging in from behind. Too late, did the protecting cavalry rush to protect their infantry. The wound had already been opened and the blood was not to be staunched. Slowly the massed infantry became less mass; more mess, and then the flow of defeated individuals started streaming away from the battle, only to be cut down and turned from a steady flow into a series of desultory clots that, in their turn, disappeared under the tide of their foes.

Tony loved this game. It seemed almost real as he moved his cursor over various groups of computer generated medieval figures to coordinate yet another great victory. He used the cursor to swoop around like an eagle to get the best view points and to savour the destruction of his computer generated foe. The scenery was almost real to look at and gave him something akin to a god-like feeling. The game even generated the noise of battle with shouting and screaming that increased and decreased as he moved nearer to or further away from key points of the battle.

This battle, though, had been harder fought than any other he had played. It had been so close that, at one time, he had considered withdrawing his better units to safety and conceding defeat. Oh well, it was all but won now and Tony sat back in his seat smug in the knowledge that he had won yet another victory. He took a sip from a glass of wine, a nice Shiraz, he had at his side. Only when it touched his lips did he realise that he hadn't had a taste of that in some while, so engrossed had he been in his game. It was now, when the game could look after itself, that he pondered on the fact that he rarely lost himself so completely in real life.

Back to the game. No time for philosophising. He hadn't had enough to drink for that.
The bulk of the enemy had been destroyed now and it was time to mop up. He always found this part of the game a bit of an anti-climax, even boring at times. Mostly, he would allow the computer to finish it off and just keep a weather eye on it while he checked texts or even picked up a book or magazine. This one he wanted to finish quickly. The battle had been harder than most and the campaign element of the game demanded a decisive victory for him to claim more lands. So he explored the remains of the routing enemy closely to see how and where he could do most damage.

He put his wine glass back in its place and spent almost an hour moving his troops around, mopping up small groups of fleeing enemy where he could find them. Occasionally he would pull the cursor back so that he could get a view of the whole battlefield and see where all the survivors were located by their flashing coloured symbols. Then he would send off a party to eliminate it. He smiled at the thought that commanders like Henry V at Agincourt would have given their eye teeth to have his ability to zoom in and out of the battlefield at will. In a way it amounted to cheating, he mused. His momentary doubt was thrown to the wolves at the thought that the computer, his opponent in reality, had exactly the same advantages.

Yawning, he slowly got to a conclusion. He zoomed back and found that the flashing coloured symbols showed no enemy survivors. This was puzzling. If there were no enemy he should have got a pop-up declaring a victory and how decisive it was. He examined the map more closely. All of his troops had run off chasing their fleeing enemies. Once any enemy had fled the field that was the equivalent to destroying them; and now there were none at all. In fact there was only one flashing symbol left on; one of his own. A little red flashing beacon in the middle of a, now empty, battlefield.

Tony zoomed in to examine this lone symbol. It could be one soldier or a group clumped together. Maybe there was an enemy hidden and, in some way, impossible to destroy. He had to find out.

Back he went to ground level and he could see only one thing. A lone figure just standing there and doing nothing. It was in the livery of his own forces and armed with a spear and shield. It was a footsoldier, a spearman.

So why was this lone soldier standing there with no pop-up appearing to close the game?
Tony moved his cursor onto the little man, clicked on him and then moved up to the toolbar to give an order. The order he picked was basically, “move to nearest enemy and fight”, not to put too fine a phrase on it. Maybe that would flush out some hidden unit or individual. He clicked again. The little man just stood there. Was there a fault with the game? That would be infuriating at such a late stage when he had what appeared to be a resounding victory.

He moved the cursor onto the little man and clicked to take control so as to move him around the locality. He didn't know what he was going to do but if he sent the guy marching around it might resolve something. Maybe he could march him off the battlefield.

Tony clicked and clicked again. Nothing. The stubborn little fellow just stood there. Now this was all wrong. There must be a problem. Maybe he should just call it a day and start all over again another day. But computer games aren't like that are they? Once you are hooked you have to see it through to the end and beyond.

So he clicked again and again. The little soldier stayed glued to his spot and Tony stopped clicking and sat wondering what to do. The little man moved, but not where Tony had attempted to send him previously and sometime after he had clicked. He went over to a nearby tree and dropped his spear and shield next to it and then went behind the tree.

What the.... Tony blinked; he could hardly believe what he had seen. This little computer generated figure had done something independently and with no apparent reason. Then he sat down. This was way out of anything that these soldiers were supposed to do. They never dropped their weapons, except when killed and never sat down. He wasn't aware if the programme allowed for that. This little fellow did just that though.

Tony sat and watched while the figure just sat there for a few minutes; intrigued and puzzled. He didn't attempt any more clicks of the cursor to move the little fellow. He did pan his viewpoint to have a look at this strange figure who had acquired even more of a semblance of humanity. An independence. A look at the complete map from above confirmed that there was no other soldier on the battlefield, that this stubborn fellow was the only one left.

After some minutes the little man got up and threw his helmet off. He then took off his tunic and was left standing there naked. He stood and appeared to be looking directly out of the screen. He had taken on an independence that Tony didn't know how to handle. He seemed alive.

Tony was a little unnerved and wondered about switching the game off. The man on the other side of the screen started walking again, this time towards Tony. This was no longer a game. He seemed to be looking directly at Tony and instead of staying to scale and the computer “camera” moving with him he got bigger. And bigger. Tony could see his eyes now. He got bigger still. Closer. His face almost filled the screen. Tony shivered. He could see a hand make for the screen frame as though to get a grip on the very physicality of the computer itself; and as the man did this Tony looked into his eyes.

And then he switched the computer off.