Murder Molehill Mayhem!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

 

By Stephen James

 

Isn’t it unusual how human beings congregate together through habit and in different social environments, chattering and listening at the same time? They share their stories, both brief and epic in differing layers of intimacy, all dependent upon how well they know the individual in question. The surroundings have little impact on the quantity of divulgence. Sure as sunset, our mood can influence it. At work, it can become quite deep if the acquaintance has been elevated to friend status. Exaggerations have to be filtered or diluted down. Facts are sometimes difficult little creatures for individuals to keep aligned in their mind’s drawer. Occasions when these tend to elevate are when one person is trying to impress a member of the opposite sex. Yes, it is a world of listening, speaking, sharing, believing and disbelieving, which can be at anytime, anywhere and anybody.
Such as this place…

An icy chill had lowered its unwelcome presence at Unwark, Newhaven, on the eastern coastline of the United States. The suburb, nestled about eleven miles out of town, was connected via a splendid grid of bus routes dotted with stops. The vehicles, which ferried the commuters with magnificent punctuality into downtown Newhaven, ran practically non-stop. Newhaven’s substantial population boom, after the discovery of copper at nearby Old Soak Town, had forced its urban sprawl back in the 1940s. Unwark was one of these newer regions, the rest of the city dates back to the 1600s. On this particular day, it was 7:35 am and it was the end of January, therefore, the tail-end of winter was still wagging. The year was 1989. At bus stop number 19, on the corner of Cypress Street and Anglerfish Road, Mrs Alton, a rather large woman of fifty well-worn years, was in full flight with Mrs Dingleworth. Agnes Alton had a mouth on her like a conveyer-belt. It just never stopped. Finally, she paused for some air…

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” said Mrs Dingleworth in false agreement, having only been able to process about thirty per cent of Agnes’s Gatling-gun onslaught. She needed to change the subject. “Did I mention my next-door neighbour’s oddity to you?”

“No. Oh, do go on!”

“Well, they don’t usually argue as a rule. Not audibly anyway I mean. But the other day I heard him say quite loudly, that if she didn’t stop visiting the Witch’s Society; a club of silly girls who dress up and sit around casting spells on each other, then he would…”

“Would, would, would… what?”

“He said he would kill her!” She grabbed Agnes for dramatic effect, then giggled to defuse her acquaintance’s startle. “I think he suspects she’s up to no good and he is just laying down the law. I think they are actually a very loving couple.”

Several other passengers were nearby. Some listening, others oblivious to anything outside of their newspapers. Two children were bouncing a basketball non-stop from 7:03 am, which was when they arrived. A hiss of brakes interrupted their conversation. This was Joan Dingleworth’s ticket to peace and quiet. A latecomer dashed through the melting snow. It was as if the hurry-music in his head had suddenly started. Agnes waved goodbye, unfulfilled by only the story’s bait, and wanting the meaty details; hers was the next bus to Lilydale. The two children did not board either, ergo Agnes would have to endure the confounded thumping of the ball a while longer. Before her bus arrived, a gaggle of four teenage girls wearing school uniforms converged under the roof of stop 19. They were all chewing gum and speaking three at a time in very high-pitched tones, with one alternating listener. Agnes grew even more impatient, deciding to take on the chilly air outside as a way to avoid the ruckus. She only appreciated the sound of her own vocal cords. Her friend, Vera Kennedy, whose closest companion was a small Yorkshire Terrier called Bunty, approached with a wind-assisted walk. Bunty, as usual, was scampering out front at the end of his retractable leash. Boston born Vera resplendently rounded her vowels with Royal Family aplomb and was always overdressed for any occasion. She held her hand out ready to shake way before her arrival.

“Hello Agnes, honey,” she said on the hover, observing Mrs Alton’s lips on the verge of opening. “I can’t stop this morning. Meeting my new man for breakfast at Clarissa’s Pop ‘n’ Stop. He’s devilishly handsome and thinks I am wonderful. Can’t believe my luck.” She withdrew her leather glove and blew a kiss at her friend. “Ta-ta!”

“Have fun now,” replied Agnes, flicking an unimaginative wave out of jealousy.

At last the bus arrived and the bouncing ceased its monotonous rhythm.

The following Monday morning at the bus shelter, the 8:00 am commuting crowd was building toward double figures. Mrs Alton, who was busily fussing with her umbrella in expectancy of drizzle, overheard Mr Ballinger saying something to Mr Czernovski. It went like this. “Tell you what, Czernovski, did you see on the Sunday night news? That bloke from the east side of the city did his wife in with a carving knife. Tried to tell the cops it was an accident! Yeah, six accidents in a row… all around her heart!”

“Wow! that is stifling. It reminds me,” interrupted Agnes Alton, who was catching the later bus this morning, “you should have been here last week. I was speaking to a woman who had just heard her next-door neighbour threaten to kill his wife because she’s a witch.”

“A witch did you say? I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Ballinger offering his hand, “Carl is my name, Carl Ballinger and this is Jake Czernovski.”

“Yes indeed. “Death will soon be upon you!” he’d threatened. I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. An honest woman that Joan Dingleworth — straight as an arrow! My name is Agnes, but you can call me Mrs Alton. We are not on first names yet young man!”

Rotund Jake rubbed his red beard. “Oh, good golly, you can’t go around believing everything you hear Mrs Alton. People do tend to exaggerate things at times. Ballinger here is a policeman. Just ask him about some of the mountains he’s seen made out of molehills—”

She turned on him like a thunder cloud…

“Well, how rude! If you don’t mind,” cutting Czernovski short, and withdrawing her hand with a huff, “we have only just met and already you have rubbed me up the wrong way. Excuse me!” Agnes stepped forward, relieving herself of their company.

Ballinger hunkered in alongside the busybody, politely coughing her attention. “Please accept an apology on behalf of my friend and I. All Jake meant was that the Newhaven PD cannot go around investigating every single rumour that gets tossed around.” He was a fraction behind her peripheral vision and giving his friend a wink. “I do believe your friend’s concern is possibly a correct one. Say, why don’t you take my card and keep in touch if anything else arises from this? There are two numbers, one is my private home number and the other will get me at the station.” Carl offered Agnes the plain but clear piece of cardboard.

“Alright, I shall accept your apology Officer Ballinger, and your card.”

At that precise moment the bus skidded to a halt and the bifold doors opened with a hiss, but nobody alighted. A small group, including the three, squeezed onboard. It was standing room only. Czernovski and Ballinger had the displeasure of listening to Mrs Alton’s complaints about the rudeness of the younger generation of today, as well as a laboriously detailed account of her version of Mrs Dingleworth’s little tale, all the way into Lilydale. Beside them, another middle-aged woman with bright purple hair was challenging her for the airwaves with her longwinded account of her husband’s wicked ways. Her booming voice drowned Agnes’s. Finally, before she parted at the mall, the purple-haired lady’s last few words went…

“This is an amazing admission of mine, but please, don’t whatever you do, tell so and so…”

An excited Mrs Alton hurried to the bus stop early the next morning. Her nosey head bobbing about, filtering the passing crowd, in search of the remotest acquaintance who may be catching the same bus as she. One by one, the murmuring crowd began to swell. Agnes burst into full verbal action with Eric Standwater whose three, of four, pet goldfish had mysteriously passed away in the night. She had a remedy for the prevention of a similar fate for the sole remaining one. In a blink, the crowd thinned when the bus to the bay pulled up, delivering four African American college students, and whisking away most of the gathered commuters. Eric, being one of them. Agnes grew impatient in the brisk wind that had begun to swirl the gently dropping snow. She was hoping to receive an update from her bus-shelter friend, but Mrs Dingleworth was nowhere to be seen. The busybody’s head flick-flacked back and forth like a sideshow alley clown, checking the pavement. What if the brute next door had gone on a rampage and killed her?

Minutes later, those four annoying teenage schoolgirls, who cared precious little for peace and quiet, engulfed the little building in their daily squawking. Mrs Alton hated their routine hair twirling and gum chewing, not to mention how sick her ears were of listening to their boy problems. She took refuge on the other side where, at last, the familiar figure of Joan Dingleworth was approaching in full stride. Before Joan was even in earshot, Agnes began her broadside of questions about the killer. Joan knew they would be coming, she waved excitedly with her free hand, clasping a raincoat with the other. Both women’s voices met within metres — soon entwining in a venturous hen hackle. As it thinned to a respectable alternating Spanish Inquisition, stimulated by the very mention of the words “murder” and “close-by”, the accumulating crowd encircled both women.

“So, has it gotten worse since we last met?” asked Agnes, making sure they could all hear.

“Let me simply put it this way for you to decide. There I was, nonchalantly pruning my border gardens, as one does at this time of year, when I heard his voice as clear as the Liberty Bell, roughly saying; “Your shenanigans and crafty witchcraft ways do not fool me. We have a serious problem here and I need you to make up your mind how we deal with it. Without attention, unfortunately Evanora, a hasty death seems imminent!” That is her name. Evanora then replied; “Tomorrow I am visiting Jadis, Locasta, Theodora and Medea. I have to, Seth…” those are her crazy friends with witch’s names. Her husband is Seth. Then she said; “…because it is our one and only shot at a full moon.” He cut her off with a raised voice and said; “Make up your mind what is more important, but let me warn you, the days are numbered!” I was right next to the fence. It was loud and clear, Agnes.”

“Oh my gosh! What should we do?”

“Well, I for one am not going to personally interfere.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No. I wasn’t quite sure if I should. Nothing’s happened yet. Only talk. Do you think they would do something?”

Agnes assumed control. “Well, I have already informed an officer. He took me very seriously, even gave me a card with his personal home phone number on it!”

Joan grinned. “Perhaps he’s interested in a liaison. You know, of the personal kind.”

Agnes needed more sizzle on her plate. “Nonsense, but either way, we should get together socially. We have so much in common. I too like to garden in my spare time. Let me offer you my phone number and address. I can take yours down as well.” Mrs Alton rummaged around in her handbag for a pen and paper. “I am in Cypress Street at number 41.”

“Really, well my house is in Anglerfish Road at number 668. I am surrounded by trees. Evanora, the witch, lives at number 666. Kind of spooky. Don’t you think?”

Right at that very moment, Vera Kennedy was making a beeline for the packed pavement. Yorkshire Terrier Bunty’s fully extended lead had her in a water-skier tow. Mrs Kennedy had decided it was ‘sable day’ today, therefore, at this precise second she had the chance to flaunt her fur. Bunty found the centre of the group, pulling Vera shoulder to shoulder with Agnes. “Good morning fellow Unwarkians!” she trumpeted, ceasing the conversation in a twirl. “What’s the skulduggery today then?” The sable stole slipped a fraction.

“Off for another date are we, Vera?” snapped Mrs Alton, hating to be upstaged.

“Yes, but not till five past eight. He’s scrumptious — like melting chocolate, and simply can’t get enough of me!” She flicked the stole’s end back over her shoulder. “Oh, c’mon girls, I’m early… do fill me in on the latest goss.”

Another bus arrived, whisking away the satisfied crowd, and leaving the three extroverts to their exchanges. Agnes allowed Joan the privilege of divulging the story while she patted Bunty. This was rewarded with a detailed exchange of her latest conquest’s generosity, which more than made up for his awkward habit of displaying affection in public places. Vera rolled back her sleeve, revealing a stunning heart-shaped Omega.

“Latest present! Goodness me, see how it flies when you’re with good company. Must get a wiggle on, Roger will be as antsy as a blindfolded tightrope walker. One mustn’t keep a love-hungry pet unfed! Ta-ta.” She tugged Bunty from his pat and pranced toward Clarissa’s Pop ‘n’ Stop.

Joan Dingleworth watched her disappear around the street corner, envious of her trim figure and ignoring Agnes’s rude remarks. At last, their bus arrived just as a light blanket of snow began to settle. An uncharacteristically late Jake Czernovski had to grasp the top of his hat as he ran to catch the city-bound bus. His belly wobbling with each stride. His red beard held stiff in the breeze.

After a long day’s work for the law firm she had been with for sixteen years, Mrs Alton eventually put her feet up at her home in Cypress Street. In her hand was a well-earned cup of tea. On her knee was her favourite women’s magazine. Beside her lay her Persian cat, Bartholomew. She had all but forgotten about the morning’s dramatics.

Until the telephone rang…

The bumptious know-all seized the handset from its rotary dialling cradle. “Yes hello, Agnes Alton here. Who may I ask is speaking?”

The voice from the other end came, “Agnes, it is me, Joan Dingleworth!”

“This is earlier than I expected, Joan. I am a little tired this evening—”

Joan interjected, “I had to call you. Moments ago, I was watering over by the fence and I heard him on the telephone. It’s happened!”

“What has happened?”

“The murder! I distinctly heard Seth saying; “I’ve got her body in a bag. Hurry up and get home, will you? I want to make sure we dispose of it properly!” Joan was overwhelmed with excitement. “I don’t know who he was talking to or who has been killed but I heard it as clear as crystal.”

“Stay put Joan and don’t panic. I shall call Officer Ballinger immediately. He told me he lives close by. Do not go over there. Do you hear me!”

“No, of course not. I’m not that silly. Please hurry!”

Agnes practically dialled the numbers off her old-fashioned phone. She heard Carl Ballinger’s voice. He was in his pyjamas watching television.

“I told you, Officer Ballinger!” she squawked, offering a highlighted rendition of her friend’s eavesdropping. It finished, “… now you must come at once, Joan is very concerned for her own safety. I must be there to comfort her. Can you pick me up on the way through?” She gave him her address and no alternative. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

“Call that other number on my card, Mrs Alton, it will get straight through to my colleagues,” he stressed. “Relay your message and tell them we’ve spoken. I must have some backup. I’m on my way!” Carl pulled on a pair of trousers straight over the top of his pyjamas and wrestled on a shirt, boots without socks, and a departmental storm jacket. He had no time to lose. Being a beat walker, the concerned policeman had to use his own car.

Feeling as though she was a very important link in the chain of events, meddler Agnes Alton made the two calls. One telling the police to hurry along to 666 Anglerfish Road, the other to Mrs Dingleworth, letting her know she’d taken care of matters. Minutes later, after locking Bartholomew safely in her orchid house next to the garage, she stood freezing outside under the streetlight. Hurrying to the epoch-making event, off-duty Ballinger whisked her away; the gloomy chill-filled darkness of nightfall seemed to be following them to the crime scene. They pulled up in front of number 668 Anglerfish, shrouded by a row of kerbside hedge maples. Observant Carl saw Joan behind the front door — security chain in place. He tiptoed in front of her, close by the porch. Her fingers were protruding between the gap, and wiggling about, pointing to her neighbour. She began to utter a few words, but he hushed her with his forefinger to his lips as his footprints marked her snowy front lawn. Ballinger’s senses heightened with each step, eyes scanning — ears pricked — nose drawing deep smooth breaths. The neighbourhood lay in silent wait. With identity badge firmly clasped, he climbed the five wooden steps completely mindful of the horrific danger that may be lying behind that front door. He knocked firmly. “Anyone home? Hello, is there anybody inside?”

Nothing but the wind in the trees. Carl looked to the street which fed from the main road for his backup patrol car. There were no saving headlights, he had to go alone. He knocked stridently once more. “Open up, this is the police!”

But again, there was no answer. He increased the strike. Still no answer…

Was he too late?

Suddenly, his peripheral vision noticed a pair of headlights turning into the street at the same time as the door slowly opened a fraction. There was no wailing siren.

“Yes,” muttered a young man, holding firmly onto the timber casing. His eyes, with episodic blinks, looked to be hiding some strange emotions. “What can I do for you, officer?”

Carl was feeling the tension, but he didn’t show it. Every nerve in his body seemed like a strained harp-string ready to snap at a touch. “You must permit me to enter. I have a well-informed reason to believe—”

His announcement was interrupted by the car swerving into the driveway. Behind the steering wheel sat a woman. She hastily opened her car door. Evanora climbed out still wearing her witch’s outfit, tall pointed hat in her hand. “What is going on, Seth? Why is this man here?”

“Hold your position miss!” ordered Ballinger, bewildered by her ridiculous attire and forcing his way past. “I am the police and it is imperative that I search your residence!” Seth allowed entry.

Once inside, he immediately threw a comprehensive search around the entire space — lips pressed firmly together assisting his concentration. Each detail of the room’s characteristics was being mentally recorded. When Seth attempted to speak, the edgy policeman held up his palm to hush his words. It didn’t take very long for the seasoned beat cop’s keen eyes to spot the large, well-stuffed, black, plastic bag that was partially screened behind the couch. Evanora had ignored his warning and followed him into the poorly lit lounge room. A nasty odour permeated throughout the smallish house. The pressure-cooker situation pressed heavily on the shoulders of the witch and the killer. Carl approached the motionless lump as a lion stalks its prey. The young couple fell silent, hands squeezing from uncertainty and not quite knowing how to deal with the situation, as the drama unfolded. They looked at one another with a lugubrious wash across both of their faces. He knelt beside the smooth curvy mound. Then placed his hand on its cold outline…

Ballinger’s steely glare burned its way towards the nervous couple’s embrace. “I suppose you are going to tell me that this is your laundry?”

Evanora burst into tears, but it was Seth’s sullen voice that answered his question. “Not at all officer. This was our beloved pet St Bernard, Maggie. She has been sick for some time now. I knew it would happen soon. She died earlier this morning and I wanted Evanora to hurry home so we could take her to the pet mortuary. We couldn’t afford to have her collected.” He held her tight. “Silly girl thought her crazy friends could cast a spell to save her from the inevitable.”

Carl pulled back the bag opening to be confronted by the huge, brown-and-white, furry head. He felt rather foolish. “I’d better give you a hand then,” he said with a wry smile.

The sound of a whirring siren, drawing closer by the second, filled their ears. Carl was not looking forward to explaining how he managed to get caught up in this exaggerated molehill to his approaching colleagues. No doubt, it will take a while to live this one down at the station.

The following morning before the dawn broke, at bus stop number 19, a small chattery crowd began to muster.

“I got it straight from Mrs Alton. She was there you know!” yapped Mrs Worthington. “She phoned me last night to let me know that she wouldn’t be catching her usual bus. It was the drama you know.”

“Drama… What drama?” asked Mr Ziebell-Doerff.

Sensing the spotlight’s circle, Mrs Worthington plunged into a full explanation. “Oh yes there were three, or was it four, police cars in total outside the witch’s house at 666 Anglerfish. The dead body was in a bag! Dreadful set of circumstances!”

Mr Ziebell-Doerff leaned in, eagerly replying, “Was it cold-blooded murder?”

“I’m sure it had to be. They caught them red-handed you know, Friedrich. This sort of thing never normally happens in our neighbourhood.”

The crowd began to swell, as another dramatic rumour mountain began emerging…

 

Another ten-minute thriller… the devil inside!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

If you love the attraction of a powerful story — wrapped around a dramatic setting, you will have to allow this picture to nudge you off the starting line. As if a door were suddenly left ajar into some world unseen before, allow yourself to drift back in time to the years of nostalgia.

The morning fog had finally lifted. The raging surf was like the advancing lines of an unknown enemy, endlessly flinging itself upon the shoreline. Her lonesome figure stood precariously… barely inches from the spikey grassed edge. Doreen McCumhail, whose dark hair and dark eyes were thought to be descendant traits from the Spanish Armada crews of the mid-1500s, had trekked the well-worn trail known as the Doolin Cliff Walk and been to the top of O’Brien’s Tower on numerous occasions with her father, Dermott. She’d walked with him from the Cliffs of Moher’s most southern point at Hag’s Head, every step of the eighteen kilometres to see the giant stalactite in Doolin Cave where the rockface descends seaward. Soaring to 214 metres at their peak, at the Burren Region, the etched stone cliff face reaches its long fingers southward to counties Cork and Kerry beyond. The girl’s keen eyes had often spotted the Aran Islands in Galway Bay to the north. She’d travelled all the way to Malin Head at the very northern tip of Ireland’s Inishowen Peninsula, in County Donegal, and visited as far south to the safe haven of Kinsale Harbour in the very southern region.

In the dead of a cold Irish winter, late in December, the wind-whipped sea spray fills the air with the invigorating freshness off this rugged east coast. It has been this way for millions of years with nature’s slow carve sculpting the future. The Wild Atlantic Way is a sensational, winding, 2,750-kilometre journey of soaring cliffs and buzzing towns. It boasts a feast of hidden beaches and epic bays smattered with wildlife; like chattering kittiwakes, Atlantic puffins, and if you’re fortunate enough, even an elusive peregrine falcon. During modern times you can drive its full length. Many, like Doreen, trek across the clifftop, the edges peaking slightly upwards like the crests of the haunting waves that roll endlessly below. Eyes cast out to sea, would find it hard not to feel as though you were braving the ocean from the prow of a magnificent ship. It was along this stretch of the south-western Irish coast, at the dramatic Cliffs of Moher, that Doreen McCumhail from Kilshanny, County Clare had ridden her bicycle to the base of O’Brien’s Tower. It stands just to the north of the cliff’s halfway mark. Constructed in 1835, this round stone tower captures the staggering beauty of the views from the top of a jutting angular sheer face.

Now at eighteen years of age, the pretty and shapely lass had refused the flirtatious invitations of almost every boy in Kilshanny — waiting for Mr Right to stray her way. It was nearly Christmas 1965, at a time when the influence of Britain’s rock invasion had grasped the world firmly. Young Miss McCumhail wore her raven-coloured hair in a tall bouffant and her panda-style eye makeup enhanced her already large eyes. The morning’s brisk cutting wind would deter many from the view; the way she liked it. Requiring a doubled silk scarf to protect her locks, and a matching chequered twill-woven gabardine skirt and coat, she gazed through a dream. Here, she could face the white-water of the ocean waves and contemplate her future. At Doolin village, the music capital of Ireland, her sweet voice had proven popular with the squeezebox and fiddle players, so much so, that she aspired to become part of the mushrooming ’60s pop culture.

Transfixed, Doreen never noticed a stranger approaching from the south. With both hands thrust deeply into his trouser pockets and brandishing a strong swaying stride, came a whistling twenty-one-year-old man from Ennis. This medium town was on the Fergus estuary of the famous Shannon, Ireland’s longest river. His name was Deaghlan O’Brien and he worked as a carpenter. Today, which was Wednesday, was his monthly day off. He and his boss were adding an extension to the O’Cléirigh’s pub at Lisdoonvarna, an hour’s stroll away. Confident by nature, but far from confident about the height of the drop, Deaghlan called out to her to encourage her attention. “Aye, miss! If you just aren’t the loveliest thing I’ve seen since I was but a boyeen. And just pray tell me, what would a fine young lass, as pretty as yourself, be a-wantin’… so close to that terrifying edge?”

Doreen turned to match the face to the voice she had just heard. “And… what business of yours might it be, where I do stand?” She clearly took notice of his rugged good looks with a smile wider than the proverbial Emerald Isle itself.

He froze in his tracks about twenty metres from her and removed his cloth cap. “Why, b’ Jesus, you are even prettier from the front! M’ name is Deaghlan O’Brien… What name might ya go by? Please be careful, miss. Are you from close-by these parts?”

“Yes, I’m a local girl, from Kilshanny, no less. I’m not a bit afraid,” she laughed, noticing his angst. “My father and I would flirt with the very edge, when I was barely a three-year-old! Why should I tell you m’ name, at any rate?”

The wind buffeted her from behind. She fought to keep her hair in place.

Deaghlan inched toward her. “Please, you’re puttin’ the willies up me, b’ Jesus. Come away, before the wind changes and takes you from me, forever!”

“I might be a-wantin’ to jump for all you know, Deaghlan O’Brien! Next up, ya’l be tellin’ me you’re a long-lost relation of Sir Cornelius, the man responsible for buildin’ this monstrosity!” Her smile grew larger than his, and with it her face lit up the beaten pathway between them.

“To be sure… I am just that. He’s me father’s great, great, oh… I dunno how many times, grandfather. And show some respect, will ya?”

“Well, my name is Doreen McCumhail, from Kilshanny and I’m on me way to becomin’ a pop star, no less. So, how d’you like that? You may be a handsome specimen, Deaghlan O’Brien, but when it comes to risk with gals and cliff faces, I’m bettin’ you are a fraidy-cat!”

“As sure as the mood strikes, I’ll come an’ spank your cheeky backside!”

“Oh, will ya now? Well, you’ll have to catch me first… I’ll also be bettin’ that you’d be far too slow!” Doreen leapt onto her bicycle — parked leaning on a weathered fence surrounding the tower and pushed hard on the pedals. She untied her scarf and let it go with a burst of laughter. Deaghlan caught it in the wind, stalling him a second as he watched her withdraw the combs holding her bouffant hairstyle in place. They landed on the path. At once, she flicked her waist-length black tresses and looked back over her shoulder. “Return them if you catch me!”

He scooped up the pink combs and broke into a full stride. “Aye… you’re a sassy minx worth a-chasin’. I’ll teach you a lesson in humility, Doreen McCumhail from Kilshanny!”

Doreen pedalled with everything she had, leaving him pounding in her wake. He ran like a deer along the undulating path as it ventured alongside the drop. The girl on the bicycle shrank further and further into the distance. As he gradually gave her up as a lively memory lost forever, the young carpenter puffed his way back to a jog, then back to a walk. Doreen disappeared over a distant hill.

A struggling sun peeped its way from behind the winter clouds lifting Deaghlan’s lost spirits. His heart had been warmed by his brief encounter, but he had little, other than a silk scarf and four combs to show for it; they remained stuffed, one in either side, in his trouser pockets. His fingers twiddling the soft material on the left and plucking the springy teeth on the right. He’d returned to the tune he had been whistling twenty minutes ago as a stranger passed by…

It was an aging man who raised his hat, saying, “The top of the mornin’ to ya, m’ boy.”

Deaghlan tipped his cloth cap, replying, “And the remainder o’ the day ta yourself.”

“A fine day to be a-findin’ true love!” sparked the man’s character-filled face, perhaps noticing the glow in the much younger man’s eyes. “Ya be an O’Brien if ever I saw one, that be for sure!”

O’Brien nodded the plaudit, keeping his eyes on the trail, knowing his chance had gone begging. What if he had said something different? What if he had displayed more courage to her? After all, women did like to be saved — even when they weren’t in danger. His mind pondered the ifs buts and maybes, as his sightline ventured towards the horizon. Something he suddenly noticed was how close to the precipice he was strolling, almost as if the girl from Kilshanny had unlocked his fear of heights. At least something good had come of it. Usually, when walking this route if heading north he would always stay well to the righthand side, and consequently, when heading south, he would remain strategically far to the left. Deaglan wandered up the hill he had last seen her disappear over — eyes confidently out to sea. He rounded a bend adjacent to an ancient derelict stone Viking cottage wall, one of the dozens strewn throughout his homeland.

She sprang from behind the wall…

“Boo!” she taunted, grabbing him from behind with her hands barely reaching around his broad shoulders. “So, the old man never gave me hidin’ spot away then?”

He flexed rigid, startled face staring over the escarpment. All he could see was the violent waves crashing over the boulders below. Deaghlan’s abandoned fear had swiftly returned. “The devil be in you, young gal! He never said a word of ya. Y’ feisty beag vixen!”

Junoesque Doreen released him, pulling him around and planting a succulent bullseye kiss square on his lips. She laughed, saying, “Better teach me some manners, hadn’t ya?” She kissed him even harder and then dashed behind the stone wall and sat on the grass. “I’ll have m’ scarf and combs back then. But there’s no spanking, because you didn’t catch me now. Did you?”

Deaghlan had been completely swallowed by her high-spirited nature, which tailed in the vortex of her innocent Irish beauty. He fell helplessly by her side. Their eyes affixed upon each other’s as if it was always meant to be. He held her face with both hands feeling for her honesty and reaching for her soul. Again they kissed, both were in total disbelief of the other’s chemistry, then leaned on the billion-year-old stones. From their wind-shielded position, the pair gazed out over the blue-green Atlantic waterbody, which appeared as endless as time itself.

He handed back her belongings, uttering, “This is sheer madness… You have stolen m’ heart, in no time lassie. To be sure, I think I love you! Shenanigans and all.”

“I’ve waited a long time for you t’ come along, Mr O’Brien. Ya shan’t be lettin’ me down now. Can ye be counted on?”

“For sure, I’m the most trustworthy fella you’re ever likely t’ meet. Let’s come back ’ere again and again. I love it! We’ll call this our secret li’l meetin’ place, and not tell anyone else about it. Will ya marry me, already? I’m practically beggin’ ya, Doreen McCumhail.”

“I’ll have to think about that, now. Will ya come ta meet me Father? How far were ya plannin’ on walkin’ t’day?”

He stood up and reached for her hand to pull her up. “I’ll walk t’ the end of the Earth for your love. If that’s what it takes… Now, show me the way!”

The couple were married at St. Augustine’s Church, Kilshanny, the following March. It was a small intimate family and close friend’s affair. Doreen’s three older sisters, Mary, Clodagh, and Caitlin were her bridesmaids. Her father, Dermott, proudly gave her away. Deaghlan’s brother Sean and sister Laugemoran represented his side because, sadly their parents had been taken in a freak boating accident four years previously. His mates, Chris, Cabhan, Cairan, and Conlaoch, from the fledgeling band The Misty Irish C’s played a mixture of pop and traditional, whilst Doreen adlibbed the words. The whisky flowed and the dance went all night.

They rented a small house In Ennis where the carpenter had many contacts — soon forming a truly grounded relationship. Bolstered by Deaghlan’s sure-footedness and kept laughing with Doreen’s feisty sense of humour, a lifetime brimful of over-indulgent love sprawled like a venturesome road before them. Many evenings were spent sharing tales on the front porch with a glass of Irish whisky, Deaghlan plonked in his only family heirloom from Sir Cornelius; an ancient Victorian iron-backed chair, and Doreen in her grandfather’s mahogany Rococo chair.

The couple matured with the passing years refraining from children, by choice of Doreen, who never gave up on her dream to sing professionally. By the mid-1970s, still without her big break, the forthright woman began to lose faith in her ability to ever reach the big time. She had taken a job in Limerick as a shop assistant. Deaghlan consoled his lover by working harder at his family carpentry business, which had flourished in the country’s mini-boom. The Misty Irish C’s had made several records and always invited them to any gigs around the country, but it wasn’t the same. He kept his word by taking her for frequent walks along the Cliffs of Moher where they would reminisce about their unexpected meeting, which all seemed so long ago now. Every time they reached the old stone wall, they would stop and clown around, just as they did almost ten years ago.

During the spring of 1978, the now thirty-year-old Doreen met a man from Liverpool, England, who happened to venture into the perfumery where she worked. He browsed the shelves and heard her singing behind the counter.

“Beautiful voice you have there, miss. Are you a professional?”

“Oh, how I wish,” she said, turning to meet the customer. The 60s panda eye makeup had long-since vanished, but her big dark expression-filled eyes still retained the allure which had captured Deaghlan. “I’ve always wanted to be — but so far, no such luck. I’d do practically anythin’ to break through! So, what ya be interested in?”

The European man, in his forties, wore a sharp suit highlighted by snakeskin ankle boots. He had a moustache and long wavy hair. An unnecessary pair of large sunglasses were perched on his hairline. “Now you’ve really caught my interest in more than the fragrance I came in for,” he said in an Anglo-Spanish accent. “My name is Marlowe Johnroshe, I’m a music producer from the Merseyside. How would you like to do us both a big favour?”

She spread her hands apart on the counter, leaning in his direction. “Do go on!” Doreen’s plunging vee neckline was doing far more than barrack for her singing prowess.

“Firstly, a bottle of Yves Saint Laurent Opium, largest one you have.” Marlowe retrieved his wallet producing a business card and several hundred Irish pounds, all in twenties.

“Spray or splash on?”

“Let’s try the splash on, shall we?”

Doreen scavenged about for the popular scent and placed it on the countertop. “Who be this for, Mr Johnroshe? She’s a lucky gal in anyone’s language.”

“My sister… She won’t wear anything else. And secondly, take this card — if you want to try out at the Dublin Music Festival. I’m searching for something I believe you have. That is why I am here. Give me a call if you think you might be interested. Tomorrow would be fine. I can drive you everywhere.” His eyes swam outside to where a silver Aston Martin sat waiting. “Keep all the change. Let’s just call it the down payment of my investment, shall we?”

“You’d be jokin’ of course, Mr Johnroshe. You’ve barely heard a tune from me. I can’t possibly accept this!” She gawked at the crisp banknotes — then fell as silent as the sheeted dead. Inside her head, the imaginary wheels of success turned faster than she could cope with.

“Heard enough to know… and it’s Marlowe. I’m deadly serious miss, eh?”

She fanned the cash like a hand of cards. “Just call me Doreen. I may be in touch.”

He left her with a quizzing smile…

Doreen O’Brien drove home that afternoon with her head in a cloud of showbiz mania. Her beloved Deaghlan was working late, as usual, to finish their house he’d started building at Lahinch, on Liscannor Bay, each day after work. He arrived on dusk. As the curtain of night fell upon her that evening, she said nothing to Deaghlan about the auditioning, in case she failed.

After two months of meeting Marlowe three times a week, Doreen’s attitude had changed. An air of importance exuded from her usually devil-may-care persona. Though she still sang around the place they were living at, on weekends, the songs sounded different from the ones he was used to. Still, she said nothing of her surprise. One month later, he began arriving home before her and it was often dark. One night he questioned her. “Aye, I got t’ be askin’ ya, love. What are ye up to these days? I’ve nearly finished the house, an’ ya haven’t visited it for over a month. Y’ seem very tired lately too. Are y’ workin’ a second job or simply losin’ interest in our dreams?”

Gone was the fire in her eyes — replaced by the tiredness of long days. She gave him a peck on the cheek and replied, “I’ve never stopped dreamin’ Deaghlan. Mine are perhaps a wee tad bigger than yours. I’ll be goin’ ta Dublin for a week or two soon. I can’t tell ya why though. I just need ya ta trust me, okay?”

His face, which stared back helpless, seemed as unflustered as fate. “Dublin, y’ say? And what’s so special goin’ on there that ya can’t share it with y’ husband?”

“Oh Deaghlan,” she eased in her rich County Clare accent, “remember what I told ya when we first met?”

“O’ course I remember! Ya drove me mad up there with y’ teasin’ and jokin’ around… on the top of Moher. I’ll never forget it, ta be sure. Damned changed me forever, woman!”

“Exactly, Deaghlan… people are a-changin’ regularly—”

He interjected, “B’ Jesus, I’m comin’ ta Dublin with ye!”

“No! This is something only I can take care of, me boy!”

An argument, the likes of which they had never encountered before, followed. For the first time in their marriage, they slept in separate rooms. In the morning, when he woke up to apologise, she was not there. He was left with no option other than to trust her words. A lonesome week slogged by. Then a phone call. Another week — another phone call. Doreen sounded fine and reassured him that all was okay, and she would be returning on Wednesday, in three days.

And return she did…

The couple moved into the house he had finally completed — however, something had drastically changed. The year that followed was an unpleasant metamorphosis by comparison to the previous twelve harmonious ones. Devoted Deaghlan felt as if he was negotiating an unpredictable roller-coaster ride. Her mood swings increased by the equivalent level that her laughter decreased. He began to feel quite ill, simply putting it down to the stress of their situation. Often distant to him, she began dressing in expensive labels and had changed her perfume from his favourite; Diorella by Dior to Yves Saint Laurent Opium. Their walks along the trail above the Cliffs of Moher diluted to once every three months. He started doing the trek alone, enraged by the feeling of being there without her. Deaghlan grew suspicious and decided to follow her to work. He waited across the street in the cosy coffee shop owned by his mate Conlaoch O’Toole, bass guitarist with The Misty Irish C’s. At 10:35 am, he heard the little bell above the shop door ringing. Deaghlan stared across the rim of his mug, as a bearded debonair gentleman with long hair entered the perfumery. His heart fell into a world of pain when he saw their hands clasping across the counter through the big glass window. Doreen had no idea that she had caused it.

He whispered into the cup, “Holy Motter o’ God, I just hope he’s a relation or somethin’, that’s all.” Deaghlan masked his face with the mug to watch them leaving together. Her beaming smile was the very one which he hadn’t seen for quite some time. Doreen’s laughter made him feel sicker than he’d been before. He left the coffee shop with his heart dragging along the ground behind him. Marlowe Johnroshe was no more a music producer than he was the country’s Prime Minister; he had made a fortune from selling cocaine to rock bands. He was, however, a master of seduction whose charming words and spoils of cash had quickly poisoned her honour. Foolish Doreen had become entangled in his web of duplicity, and she’d sampled more than just his wares of white powder. Her involvement with him had cast the loyal affections of Deaghlan aside like a worn-out pair of shoes.

The burly husband said nothing when they met that evening, because he loved her so much that he couldn’t risk losing her. He went about his business as though nothing was wrong, mindful of keeping a watchful eye on her every move. He desperately wanted to confront the philandering pair but hoped it would soon be over and he would get her back. A month later he fell very ill forcing a visit to his doctor.

“Somehow you are slowly being poisoned by potassium chloride, Deaghlan. The blood tests I have had done on you are showing this almost undetectable increase in your levels,” remarked the brilliant American physician, with a look of unbridled concern. “Who on Earth would want to do something like that?”

“Must be just m’ own stupid self that done it. I’ve been crook recently, so I upped the ante of m’ dosage,” he replied, “I’ll be more careful from now on, Doc!” Knowing that divorce for staunch Catholics was out of the question, he now feared the real truth…

Deaghlan watched his food and drink intake over the next month and began to recover but acted as though he was ill. He noticed the fuss Doreen had been making of him lately and accepted the attention. Still, he said nothing…

On a glorious Saturday summer morning during July 1979, Doreen mentioned that she had to work. Apparently, a new fragrance line from a recently established manufacturer, Renzo Rosso was being instated at the shop and she had to set up the display. Deaghlan waved good-bye, saying he needed to finish a job up in Abbeyknockmoy in Galway, anyway. He told her he would have a surprise meal prepared for her return. They kissed. He drove straight up to the ancient village to paint the customer’s new walls and collect his money. By 2:30 pm he was on his way back and decided to encompass the view from the Doolin Cliff Walk, since it was such a clear day. As usual, Deaghlan tipped his cap to the odd passer-by wishing them a grand day. He observed a pair of peregrine falcons plummeting towards the Atlantic at blinding speed, each seizing an unsuspecting pigeon in mid-flight and flying off. In the distance, his keen eyes caught sight of the little stone ruins of the Viking cottage, and his heart skipped a beat. The sea breeze was minimal, and so, he decided to pay it a visit. Despite his troublesome marriage, with such a fine day surrounding him and a pocket replete with cash, and having just witnessed nature in its rawest, he felt good about life. Keeping well away from the edge, as always, Deaghlan drew closer to the crest of the hill — clear was the stone wall. A smile found its way to his face.

Then the unexpected happened…

As he approached, the distinct sounds of laughter invaded his ears. It was her laugh. His mind catapulted back nearly fourteen years, to when Doreen burst from behind the overlapping-stone structure. His smile sank to a scowl at the sight of Marlowe grasping for her waistline. They sauntered onto the pathway and kissed. They hadn’t seen him. Seeing it right here, in blatant dishonest view, a knife of deceitful shame pierced his heart. Deaghlan saw his love disappear as swiftly as the glint of light does on a turning sword. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay. A voice angrier than the North Atlantic waves shouted, “Aye, I be right the first time around, weren’t I? The devil be in you, young gal!” Deaghlan launched toward their embrace, stopping short because they were near the extremity. “What the hell a’ ya thinkin’? I know all ‘bout ya tryin’ ta poison me! These cliffs were ours! For t’ love o’ Mary, I’m wishin’ I’d never stepped foot up here in me life. It’s drivin’ me stark ravin’ crazy!”

Doreen spun around in Marlowe’s arms. It was impossible to conceal her guilt. She had her full lips pressed silently together. She had her thick black hair free in the gentle breeze and, as always, those piercing eyes, as deeply dark — as are the desert skies. Suddenly, she broke into a Delilah laugh right at his hurting face. In an act of malice, she stroked her fingers through Johnroshe’s hair.

“Who are you?” uttered the brazen Marlowe. Deaghlan did not answer.

“Why lover,” Doreen grinned, “he was m’ husband, once!” She kissed Marlowe briefly, then added, “Ya don’t have to be too concerned, not only is he nearly dead — but the scaredy-cat is terrified of the Moher’s sensational abyss!” She enlarged her eyes. “Boo!”

Within a second, O’Brien stepped forward, placing his strong hands against the pair and shoved them mercilessly over the edge. Their screams vanished into the breaking whitecaps. He stood inches from the cliff face, without fear and quietly said, “Aye, ta be sure, darlin’ — sheer madness. It seems like ya cured me.” Nobody saw them falling…

A preview… never before seen!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author
Hi everyone,
Yes, the days fall into weeks as I pursue my quest of publishing my next novel. I am working on another ten-minute thriller, however, in the meantime, I would like to share a little piece of the novel with you. I hope you enjoy the read and feel compelled to send me some feedback.

THE NOVEL

(The name is yet to be revealed)

Through the dark, a figure carved its way through the powerful white beams creating a giant shadow on the house’s wall. It was her husband. He’d seen the car arrive through an upstairs window, given her time, and then made his way down to greet her.
‘You okay sweetheart?’ he asked opening her driver-side door. She turned her weary face at his. He softly added, ‘I was just wondering why it was taking so long for you to come up. It’s not like you to dawdle.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me. It has just been a tumultuous couple of weeks, Lomax.’ Chelsea hauled herself out and into a hug. ‘Everything will be alright, once I’ve put my feet up.’
He cupped her face with his hands, kissing her square on the lips. ‘Sure! Welcome home, babe. I’ll bet it gets exhausting, carrying that gun around all day!’ She grinned at his joke.
Chelsea flicked off the headlights, shut the door, and squeezed the key’s button emitting that squeaking sound as the doors locked. Arm in arm they wandered up the drive and passed straight through the front door. He’d left it ajar, allowing a steady stream of background music to fill their ears. She had a stack of manila folders tucked under her free arm with her handbag over her shoulder.
‘So then,’ asked Lomax, smoothly closing the door. ‘I don’t suppose you want to fly out to Tahiti, for dinner tonight, then?’ A sheepish expression followed.
It had already surpassed 8:00 pm. Her brow furrowed, from the effort of raising tired lids. ‘Very funny — but they still have me. I have a few things here, to look over. Then an early night. That okay?’
‘Of course,’ he winked, not being able to resist another jest. ‘First a cop… then a wife!’
Chelsea crinkled her nose and poked out her tongue. ‘Somebody’s got to keep this city safe from the impropriety of lawyers and solicitors.’ They laughed. She kicked off her shoes. ‘Did you feed O and H and my babies?’
‘Your fishes… your responsibility sweetie!’
Chelsea sauntered down the spiral staircase — her hand sliding all the way down the curved bannister. Like always, she skipped away from the second-bottom step. Across the room, a tiny colourful shoal seemed to recognize her arrival; swimming over to meet her in the robust tank’s corner. Their eagerness, at her presence, and the anticipation of supper was obvious. At once, there seemed a noticeable increase in the speed of wagging tails and flapping fins. This quiet fishy conversation brought a smile to her face. More delicious black worms for you!
Afterwards, Chelsea removed the constrictive ribbon used to restrain her hair in business-like fashion all day. She freshened up, later re-joining her man upstairs. They dined at the coffee table, over some small talk, before she settled into the paperwork and Lomax withdrew to his own leisurely pursuit.
Their house’s fourth bedroom had been set up as an art studio. It was within the confines of these four walls that Lomax pursued his passion of recent years — sketching, painting and sculpture. He had a natural flair with his hands, which had quickly and easily adopted the skills of using a brush, charcoal, pencil, canvas, paper, clay, and pallet knife. He had all the various tools required, to paint etch and carve. Chelsea had kindly bought him all the necessaries for his birthday, three years ago, as a fair exchange for the cost, time, and effort she had associated with her pets.
She had her clowns… He had his masterpieces.
She’d frequently marvelled at his developing skills when admiring the small art collection, now dressing the studio’s walls and standing atop their pedestals. Her favourite piece was the beautiful life-size bust of her which he had painstakingly made from a solid chunk of beige polymer clay. A vinaigrette-style poem about her was engraved on its pedestal before the piece was fired. At this stage, none were on display throughout the rest of their home, with Lomax not believing them to be of a standard high enough. His perfectionist defiance irritating her at times. ” Just wait till I get good at it!” he would say.
By 10:30 pm, he’d sidled alongside her chair. A persistent annoying fly had buzzed around Chelsea’s near-empty coffee cup, spoiling her concentration. For over an hour, the irksome pest had become her evening sidekick. She’d finally tired of the minuscule creature and taken a swipe at it. She missed the fly but connected solidly with her mug, leaving a disastrous puddle of spilt coffee. This event terminated her interest in the murder case she was skimming over. The couple called it quits by 10:45 pm, crashing instantly to sleep. As the night progressed, Chelsea’s psychologically active juices began to flow again. The surreal dreamscape, unfolding inside her mind, was one she’d not experienced before. The story itself she knew, but not as a fantasy…
It felt, around late winter of 1978. A determined gentleman in his forties stood outside for several minutes, in the brisk August air. Standing beside him, jittered a young blonde woman of twenty-two years. A thin layer of dew still remained visible on the front lawn — its thick olive weave beautifully punctuated by sumptuous azalea and rose gardens. The chilly morning’s freshness converted their breath to a vapour, as each took turns in synchronized exhalations. Both stared inquisitively, at the front door’s robust oak boards, hanging tightly secured by solid but heavily tarnished metal hinges. Neither spoke at this point, as the home’s daunting enormity stole their thoughts. A second thought thief, was the peculiar fusty smell, wafting from the many chimneys scattered atop its roof pitches. The woman tucked her gloved hands deep into the lapels of her coat, rubbing nervously on her upper arms, before glancing over her shoulder. She had momentarily been distracted by a noisy passing car, roughly one-hundred metres away, down the twisty driveway. The man continued his earnest surveillance of the building’s extremities, taking careful note of the tightness, by which all the windows were secured. These large windows were covered on the inside by heavy non-matching curtains.
‘That would seem to make sense though,’ he was quietly muttering to himself, ‘given the current temperature.’
Strangely, no birds were gathered in the bedraggled but plentiful trees dotted around the sprawling garden. This bathed the house in a veil of silence, adding enhanced eeriness to their current predicament. She was crouching down, to keep warm. The woman’s head returned, to make eye contact with him, easing a hopeful smile back into her forlorn appearance. Still, she found trouble forming words.
They had experienced no problem in locating the place — despite neither having been near this district before. The address scrawled on a piece of paper, remained clutched in his left hand, which fidgeted about in his lumber jacket’s furry pocket. She had given it to him earlier on, when they met at his house, far across town.
‘Come on Isabella, he’s waiting for us,’ he encouraged. ‘We can’t wait out here forever. Nothing will happen… unless we make it happen.’
She stared earthward, exhaling a huge stream of mist which spread as it reached the lawn’s tufts of shaggy mixed clumps. A minute darkened patch appeared, where the frost slightly melted. Isabella’s head nodded. ‘I know Mr Carlington, but I am scared for some reason. Now that we’re here.’
From his pocket, he produced a semi-automatic pistol. ‘I will not let anything happen to you.’ The man raised his finger past her hair, pointing to a distant hill, beyond the house. ‘Take a look at that. It might relax your emotions a little.’
The young woman’s eyes followed the length of his arm, to capture an uplifting view. Through the woven leafless branches, of a nearby colossal tree, she witnessed the setting moon. Its yellowy spherical mass seemed exaggerated in size, through the moist morning air — divulging a hazy broken picture of the satellite’s surface craters. The sun had all but risen on the opposing side of the horizon. This left a pinkish hew on top of the cloud-veil, generously draping its way, between the ageing tree and ancient moon. The cloud’s odd formation stepped in tousled layers, as if it were, a pink waterfall. This tranquil picture painted a sanctuary. Too early for shadows. Too serene for disapproval, and far too peaceful, to harbour an unpleasant scene.
One moment later, a solitary owl’s out-stretched wings found the tree’s convenience — landing the hunter, just off-centre. His feathery outline formed a gallant silhouette, as the wingspan tucked neatly in behind, allowing the hefty bird’s perfect balance to freeze into position. Two large round eyes affronted his huge head. The wily nocturnal appeared hell-bent on making his presence felt. After all, this was his hunting ground and they were intruding on him. For the owl, it was rather late, in his stalking-window. He stared back towards Isabella without blinking. Then, in a moment of stealth, the predator silently dropped on an unsuspecting rodent below, grasping it firmly in its talons, and leaving as swiftly and quietly as it had arrived…
‘Not something you see every day, is it gal?’ voiced the man’s calming reassurance.
Her returning expression bore a pair of compressed lips. She beat the back of her right hand into the left’s gloved palm, confidently uttering, ‘Let’s go in, Mr Carlington!’
‘I’ve told you many times before, missy — for heaven’s sakes. It is time you called me Xav. After all, Isabella, soon you are going to become my daughter-in-law. Now, how about it?’ He reassured her by placing his arm around her waist, to guide them back to the entrance.
‘Sure thing,’ she replied — eyebrows taking a dive. I’ll try to get used to it… but somehow it feels peculiar.’
This young Isabella was, in fact, Chelsea’s mother. This man was Senior Detective Xavier Carlington, father of her fiancé, John. Xavier tried the handle — not even locked. He felt the presence of something gruesome, behind the door, and took a lasting stare into her eyes. He raised the gun to his earlobe — finger twitching its trigger. They entered the premises, without knocking on the unsecured front door, and tiptoed through. Suddenly, less than a handful of paces into the foyer was a confrontation with the unimaginable. Through the mysterious eyes of the dream, Chelsea could see it also, as large as life itself. Isabella let out a gut-curdling scream…
Deveare burst wide awake and sat bolt upright in bed. A smattering of vague awareness stained across her face. With blood racing, she panted through her fingers which had found her lips. ‘Jesus Christ!’

How to guarantee a long life?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author
Hi Readers! Well, the editing and polishing continue, and I am really happy with the progress and the shape of my next novel. As I endure this repetitive task, I remind myself that if we stopped the act of repetitive tasks in our life… we simply wouldn’t have life! Breathing is a very important one that comes to mind! This one little act ensures the longevity of our life, so I take comfort in the fact that small things certainly do make a big difference.
Here is a little something to entertain you while I remain focused on my mission…
I was looking back over some of my past posts and there is a short story that reminds me of a good friend of mine. This friend has Triskaidekaphobia. Some of you will know what this is, but just in case you don’t, it is the fear of the number thirteen. Peter, you know who you are! For those brave enough to risk flirting with this infamous number, if you haven’t already, have a read… Lucky Number Thirteen?
Will keep you posted! Enjoy another week everyone.

Can they hear you scream if they don’t know where you are?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

An accident at sea… no-one knows where you are!

  What happens next in this tumultuous ten-minute thriller?

     To discover more adventures,

         check out “Readers of the Lost Arkives!”

 

 

“Tell Me This Isn’t Really Happening”

By Stephen James

 

                When confronted with life’s most challenging proposition of all: “Am I ready to die yet?” Is the answer yes or no? A rhetorical question, perhaps? But… what if I do have a choice about my decision here? Try to imagine a circumstance so dreadful — that it is simply the most unbearable place on Earth right now, and… “I’d rather be dead, than living right here, right now!” This would really test a person’s resolve, would it not? The following story is based on a true one and it tolled on my imagination bell. In it, the hero, a certain Mister X was exactly that. The characters are friends of mine, but I have rattled the plot and changed a few details, including their names. Their privacy is important.
The gusto of the drama still remains the same…

 

The pair had originally met in obscure circumstances. A young spirited couple, thrust together like two world’s colliding, as quoted in INXS’s famous song; ‘Never tear us apart’. A hard worker, Ronauld was never shy of contacts. At home in Brisbane he knew what to get, and where to get it. He was the go-to man. Liara, on the other hand, was from another universe to most westerners. The wild heartland of enormous Borneo island — home to the Dayak race, has been well documented over the decades. Pretty-faced Liara was born of Dayak parentage and she was proud to be one. Here, thousands of tiny islands strewn their way around its extensive coastline. Now in the new millennium, it still remains somewhat untamed. Kalimantan, as it is officially called by its inhabitants, can be as dangerous as it is beautiful. They had first met here, some time ago, and were returning for an even greater and more widespread tour of her homeland for him to experience — open his eyes.

In no time, they had a six-week tour of Indonesia booked. Two people, two rucksacks, two strong personalities, two searching hungry minds. Ronauld and Liara couldn’t wait for the flight’s day to arrive. Finally, the day came… they boarded. From the aircraft’s window, a thousand islands scattered like blotches of forest growing from the ocean, sprawled out, littering the blueness as far as the eye could see. They were close… then, at last, the tarmac…

With her prehistoric escarpments rising from the unstable sea floor, Indonesia lay her forests and small-town marketplaces down as a gauntlet of challenges to be met. The first two weeks went so swiftly by, Ronauld and Liara could barely catch their shadows and Liara showed him a much greater depth of her homeland. The young couple’s budget was not on limits anymore. In this country, your money is worth ten times more. But they were not so foolish as to waste. Their souls grew closer. The arguments, well, practically non-existent. The pair openly confessed their love for each other in front of all who joined in on their merriment. Their reliance upon each other became solidarity. Each called the other a pillar of stone, facing back, so strong and dependent.

This would very soon be put to the ultimate test. A boat trip was planned…

Liara and Ronauld, who seemed to make friends with everybody that they came in contact with, boarded the first stage of their island-hopping five-day tour. A ferryboat to cross the span of water from Lambo Laoosutre to Papo Djkartrahn Island. The mid-sized vessel’s name was The Lady Senwiggi. This ferry was old, rusty, and very basic, with extensive passenger overcrowding.

From down near the water’s level, the island’s perspective is distinctly different than the view from the air. Needless to say, once filled to beyond her maximum capacity, the rudimentary relic-of-a-ship steamed off towards the horizon. It was mid-afternoon, the sunset’s colours would be majestic soon. The excited crowd were soon overlapping one another’s privacy. As the port disappeared out of view for the passengers, a dozen different dialects crisscrossed the fundamental ferryboat’s decks and covered seating areas. Several hours into the voyage saw a change in weather conditions, which raised some concern. Like an unwelcome sea witch, a hot north-easterly began to pitch the waves to an uncomfortable level. They collided in episodic fashion. Her tonnage was not high, and her keel sat rather shallow in the water. The Lady’s stability was not cooperating with the unpredictable cross-current wind very well. The vessel began tossing and turning, which caused some passengers to stumble and fall. Women grabbed their children from anywhere near the railings. Some had already fallen overboard. Nature had thrown them a curve ball, with everything she had. In a heartbeat, the sunset cruise across a seemingly tranquil passage of water had turned into a nautical nightmare…

The Lady Senwiggi started to falter, the constant listing eked the ocean into her hull. Every portal to the daylight was a potential drain into her empty belly. The bilge pumps were suffering under the strain. She sat dangerously low in the water. A freak wave surged below her troubled hull. It hoisted the rusting vessel up like a paper cup and pounded her spine into the blackness of the depths. She groaned like a tortured metallic sea creature, fighting in deep water. The majority of passengers became dislodged from their seats. They lay across tables and on the floor. Many sustained heavy bruising. Again and again, the swell lifted the old steel ferry, as passengers, bracing for the impact, glared into each other’s faces with the raw gasp of drowning filling their eyes. That eerie weightlessness point at the very apex of the wave, then, the freefall to instantly come to a stop at the bottom. Any person who had been managing to hold on to something, now wasn’t. Screaming figures careered down the alleyway between the seats, their heads crashing into one another, their bodies ravaged by on-board debris. With such aggression did the ocean pound the humble ship, it broke the spine of her, then, flipped her onto her back like a drowning cockroach. In a moment of luck, perhaps good, perhaps bad, Liara and Ronauld had decided to have a restroom break several minutes before the weather had angered. In this particular vessel’s restrooms, one single large room branches off to both separate sets of cubicles. Ronauld was waiting in the larger room for Liara when the largest wave had struck. The Brisbane boy stood clasping a stairwell pole attached to the deck above. After the ship was thrown back into the catcher’s mitt, he felt his entire body rotate around. It had saved him on impact. He scanned some horror-filled faces. But where the hell is Liara?

Ronauld felt the gushing surges of water rising up past his knees. Most streams were pouring from above, emptying from her lower hull. He could feel the suction of air rushing past to displace it. In an instant, he knew the ship had been inverted. To him, the burning question was; how long did they have? He made his way to the ladies’ cubicles, continually calling out loudly, “Liara! Liara!”

The sickening screams of terrified injured passengers scrambling along on the ceiling surrounded them. Like panic-stricken human-sized drowning rats, kicking, scratching and fighting, they squeezed through every available crevice. After a minute’s delay — her distressed voice called back, “Ronauld, is that you? I’m in here!” The water continued to rise.

He grappled toward her voice, in the near-blackness, past bedraggled furniture and scurrying people. Many were children. A half-full drink bottle bobbed in the water. He grabbed it. Again, he shouted. “Liara! I’m coming in to get you! Are you hurt?”

Another enduring minute lapsed before her voice became clearer. He fought against the swirling obstacles and rushing water, the doorway was still a metre-or-two away. He heard her. “I’m okay. Just shaken! Hit my damned head on the door!”

At last, they saw each other — but the light was nearly all gone. He helped her to her feet and showed her the way out. The water was above waist-high, soon they would be swimming. Now in the larger room, it became apparent that the exits were completely blocked by the twisted remains of furniture and cargo. It was jammed in like a beaver’s lodge. An explosion of loud calls for help had returned nothing. Liara and Ronauld also now realised that they were the last remaining two inside. They could not hear any voices in the water outside either. Suddenly, a haunting silence fell. All the demonic weather had calmed, and the sea also began to settle. With salty water now deeper than they could stand up in, forcing them to tread water — nothing felt settled where they were. The distressed pair began looking for a weakness in the lodge. The sea-level was ominously close to the deck above their heads. The pair hustled about in heavy wet clothes, to exhaustion, eventually finding a couple of large floating wooden boxes. They climbed aboard one each and reached out to link the other’s finger’s — preparing to die. It felt cold and was now pitch-dark. Each could hear their own breathing. Trapped like this, when she did sink, they had nowhere to go. Hours drifted past. They fell asleep. Both minds hopefully questioning; Perhaps the fatigue will act like anaesthetic?

But it didn’t go down…

Morning brought with it her joy of sunlight— and with that light, an observer from the air could now identify the situation. Their entombed rear section of The Lady Senwiggi had come adrift, leaving behind the ship’s sunken main structure. This self-contained pod of air and buoyant debris had carried on a current. It was miles from anything. Liara’s eyes opened and initially, her mind remained in confused disbelief. Why am I not dead? Was that a horrible dream? The external sun was so bright that it managed to illuminate the water and allow a glow, just bright enough to see by. She saw his silhouette and paddled over. “Ronauld. Wake up, Ronauld!”

Her companion shook his mind into consciousness. “Amazing… Liara my love, we made it! We made it!” He passed her the drink bottle and they surveyed their wounds. If he could just find a way out, they could spend time on the flat section of the hull above them – perhaps flag down a vessel or plane. But his celebrations were short-lived…

A complete underwater search of their portion of the ship revealed precisely; four more full drink bottles, some unlabelled tins of food, a large knife to pierce the tins, several backpacks — none of which were theirs, and some wet cigarettes. As for managing to force their way out, Ronauld could see through the murky depths that large segments of the debris were the very thing keeping them afloat. Masses of it were wedged under the decking between the railings, like outriggers. Besides being impossible to remove without a tool of some kind, if too much was removed, they could go down without knowing what was outside. A good guess would be a huge expanse of seawater — somewhere in the middle of the Celebes Sea. Another important thing about the hull’s current integrity, was that air was finding its way in from somewhere and he daren’t disturb its entry. Hope was the only thing they had. They sensed help wasn’t too far away now. The pair saved their strength and took care of each other until the darkness took everything away.

The next day unfolded in much the same way. The tins of food had been ravioli soup, braised steak and vegetables, peaches, and peas. They conserved water and discussed plans about what they would do when rescued. Swept along with the current, their entombing life raft began to slip further and further off the map. The sound of a light plane roared overhead but it was miles away.

Four more days dragged by, but with no more passing planes. That constant drip, drip, dripping sound that had been with them since the start. The mental side of things – a serious challenge for both. Although shielded from the blazing Indonesian sun, the interior elements were beginning to break down. The stale air was hard to breathe. Their salt-infused skin was dry. They were trapped like a pair of chrysalids waiting to pupate, slowly beginning to dehydrate, but had to keep positive and believing. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right, once we are saved.

Days turned into nights, into days and into nights and back again…

By the eighth day, to Liara, it felt almost prejudicial that she could actually see, because, vision is hope — but she no longer had any. “Tell me this isn’t really happening…” she pleaded, astounded to still be alive. She paddled over to him. “I no longer want to go on. I’ve had it… I’m losing touch with reality. There is no way out—” her words faded into tears.

Ronauld also felt the pressure-cooker situation. The food rations had finished yesterday, and they were down to the last two-litre water bottle. Both had become terrified from loneliness and the fact that they most likely will not get rescued. Neither wanted to confess to the other. The harrowing ordeal had garnished more tax than it deserved. He took her hand. “Now is not the time to quit on me, Liara. And besides, where are you going to go without me?” She forced a fake laugh.

The non-stop sound of dripping water was incessant. As was the monotonous ocean lapping around the walls. This was a living hell, in constantly damp clothes that were now rotten and threadbare. Their limit was surely not far away.

Three days of thirst and hunger later, and, like the water — her laughter was well-and-truly all used up. “I cannot go on any longer. I mean it! Like this, it could take weeks to die. Ron, should we commit suicide? Is that an option?” They held each other’s faces. She’d never seen him cry before.

He hated hearing her words. It was bad enough that his own mind kept rolling the same headline, Ronauld did not want her to help him make the same decision. “No. Don’t even suggest such a thing!” His voice sharp, almost unsupportive.

She couldn’t help it. “I have heard of people who knew it was the end… They… they hugged each other so tightly that the other couldn’t breathe. In a way, it would be a beautiful way to go… embraced together.” She wept. “I am hating every minute of this. It is like waiting to go slowly.”

“Do not speak of death!” He knew that voluntary simultaneous drowning would also be a very difficult one to pull off.

Her eyes met the knife. “Let’s cut our wrists then!”

“I know someone will come. Hold on darling. Just hold on for me.” Earlier, he had caught a fish which was one of several that had found its way inside. He’d killed it with the knife. “Here honey,” he gave it to her to eat raw. “The nutrients will work wonders—” She ignored the food – death now her only friend.

“Please, Ronauld, die with me now, quickly. Or watch me do it in front of you…”

“Don’t make me have to make that choice, Liara!” He watched her wrap somebody’s leather belt from the knapsack tightly around her chest. He sobbed. “I’ll only do it — if I absolutely have to.”

“Then, I shall choose for you! I can’t even feel the sea’s motion anymore,” she said, weak from the elements. She expelled her air, buckled the belt, and jumped in, near the deep stairwell area.

“No way!” He followed but with lungs full of air. Grabbing her tightly as they bottomed out. She began to crush him in bear hug style. He was not prepared and blew the lot out in a festoon of bubbles. Her grip was determined. It was as if she had saved just enough strength to do this and kept them under. Ronauld stared up at the last three minutes of his life, disappearing above his head, in a wobble of silvery bubbles. He hugged back, beginning to think about death and stopped kicking. His mind kept waiting for that moment when you could no longer hold nature back. That moment when your lungs give in to the fight and instinctively inhale. All that liquid rushes in and shuts the whole system down. It’s the wrong thing but it’s too late now…

Then, he thought about the last thing she’d said. There was no movement of the sea. They were no longer drifting. Their personal lagoon had been a spirit level for the entire eleven days, but he detected a distinct angle. He wrestled her free and burst to the surface, took a huge gulp of musty air and dove back for her. Ronauld unbuckled the belt despite her resistance and hauled her to some oxygen. Liara sucked it in so hard, it sounded dreadful. She’d been seconds away from inhaling the sea. He pushed her back on her box and ordered, “Wait!” Ron manoeuvred over to a spot where you could now climb down and stand up with your head just above the water. It was the most illuminated area. “I think we’re run aground.” She watched his elation grow.

He dove down into the water, trying to peer through the maze of debris. Turtles caught his eye. The murky water was too difficult to discern much else. Then Ronauld saw what he’d hoped for. He surfaced for another valuable breath. “If I’m right…” He dove during her answer.

He peered through the weakest debris, noting which pieces would need to be removed and observed sand washing into the superstructure. They were in fact, ashore. He could take the risk of digging them out. If they lost the ship now, it didn’t matter. He surfaced holding a steel bar. Her question was ready:

“Ronauld! Tell me what the hell is going on?” It took all her strength to be angry.

“I can see silty sand coming in through that side section. I’m going to keep diving until there is a clear hole, big enough for you to try and swim through. Now eat your fish!”

He dove with robot-like precision. Carefully retrieving articles one by one. Explaining to her between rests. Ron persisted for hours without fear, ignoring the fatigue. A turtle swam in through his passage. It surfaced near Liara. She knew he must be close. In the end, he’d carved a twenty-metre underwater swim through the debris. The weight transference inadvertently caused a huge list sideways, which suddenly triggered a heavy cupboard to fall. It landed in the escape route’s way, on an angle. Beyond it lay seaweed, sand, and safety. Ronauld wrestled with it. The steel bar was positioned as a prop which held the item at bay. The gap seemed just wide enough to fit through, if you expelled everything your lungs had got left. Your next breath would have to be freedom. If you ran out before then — it would be voluntary suicide. She’d get her way…

He went back for her. “Let’s go, Hon!” he barked from the water. “You’ll only get one chance, okay? If you fit through the hole without expelling, I would suggest you do it. She’s narrow — but it’s all I’ve got to offer.”

Liara rolled in and he guided her through the underwater maze. She kicked gently. The seconds ticked. Liara trusted Ronauld, she had to. However, the petite Dayak could hardly believe that a few hours ago, she was ready to give in — her threshold had been crushed, and now she must do the swim of her life — in order to save it. When they got to the cupboard, she squeezed through first without expiring her air. She turned to help pull his substantially larger frame through. She watched his bubbles vanish and hoped to God he would fit. Liara pulled on Ronauld’s hands so tightly that he felt her true inner strength and resolve. He squirmed, wrestled, and fought. With a badly lacerated chest, and lungs already bursting, he made it and swam on to the next section, with nothing on board. Ron had reached the same oxygen-void point, as she had before — when he had ripped the belt off in order to save her. He now knew what it felt like to be that close. His mind had gone blank and his vision faulty. They kept going. Two entangled decaying corpses, that didn’t make it, stared emptily back at them. He fell hopelessly, coughing and spluttering from inhaled water. The exit finally appeared. Liara helped him to his feet. The lovers staggered onto the gravelly beach. All around was perfect. It was nature in the raw. Not a soul in sight. But where? A jaded walk to higher ground showed the desolation of their tiny island. Merely a slightly larger prison…

What will happen? Will their fate be predetermined? Or, will the fist of temptation, once more, knock loudly on their door of doom — inducing them, in order that they may they succumb to the easy way out again?

Triple Treat – Ten-minute thriller time! Story Two   

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

A Time Traveller’s Trilogy of Torment continues.

Can life’s sequence of unfolding events be true?

Readers: It is essential that you read the previous story before you continue here…

 

 

“Dare to Dream the Truth?”

by Stephen James

 

Here is the second instalment of this intriguing trilogy. Just one more to follow. Remember to read all three stories in their correct order for the continuous storyline of this adventure. The third story is only a few more days away.  If you “follow” my posts you will receive an email alert so you can enjoy reading more of my short stories. 

William Steed Cosgrove stood beside his lathe watching it rotate at blinding speed. He was a master-craftsman who took his trade very seriously. With the advent of sophisticated computer programmed tools forcing his kind into extinction, Will felt privileged and proud that his bare hands could fabricate any timber or synthetic into any shape, large or small — any style, any finish, or into any class of joinery. It was nearly knock-off time at the factory. As the powerful machine whirred to a halt, he was recalling his life’s rear-end journey — since the travelling began. His wife Angelica was a data streamliner/radar operator at Odiham, the RAF base at Hampshire. A woman of high intellect and he was more than grateful that she saw more than just a pretty face in him. She was a considerate and understanding woman who knew that what was happening to her husband, was a far cry from a joke. Angelica also had her master’s degree in IT. Often bamboozled by her conversational pieces, at times he would simply nod and agree. The charming couple were very much in love…

A number of months had passed since Cosgrove’s last disappearing act peppered the pages of the Illustrated London News, following his altercation with the law back in 1867. He had known all along that the degree of pressure which he had applied on his forefather’s throat was way too insufficient to terminate him. For some strange reason, he had avoided erroneous justice. It was a close call and the harrowing feeling had never left him; therefore, he’d decided to seek professional help. Weekly visits to Southampton began.

Doctor Evan Vladminsky, the author of no less than seven published manuscripts, on the topics of lucid dreaming and astral projection, was the mind-specialist instated to explore his subconscious. William had endured lengthy consultations with the top-end psychoanalyst, in an attempt to discover the reason for his incredible time-cheating experiences. When he had tried to explain the truth to the medic, his improbable exposé was naturally scoffed at.

In return, the psychotherapist forced his insistence upon Cosgrove, with lengthy clarifications about the disorder. Vladminsky’s criticism to accept it as reality was harsh and doctrinaire. The man’s autocratic personality always left William with a feeling of inadequacy. The final explanation summary went like this: ‘Simply put Mr Cosgrove, this phenomenon called lucid dreaming, is merely a person’s ability, when in the midst of a dream, to be aware that one is, in fact, dreaming. The clarity can be overwhelming… even false pragmatisms can occur. So much so, that the individual shall attempt to control how the dream unfolds. In certain patients such as yourself, the condition transpires because you have a larger brain structure in the anterior prefrontal cortex. This condition basically causes you to have a higher state of thinking and self-awareness. You proved this to me with your test success rate. Now…would you like another consultation?’

Frustrated yet again, Cosgrove returned home after another expensive albeit fruitless session. Nobody believed his stories, but it was far worse than that. Although the time-leaping experiences could be quite mind-expanding, they could also be quite traumatic. The prescribed sedation tablets were not making any difference, and his textbooks were complicated to read. Will knew he was a lucid dreamer — having discovered at a young age how to control their course. He also knew the obvious difference between a nightmare and reality. What was happening to him in recent years, he was unable to alter the course of. He just wanted someone aside of Angelica to know about it. As per usual they discussed the matter over dinner. The empathetic long-haired brunette, whose girl-next-door looks did everything right, except flatter her astute business acumen, began clearing their plates.

“Are you going to read tonight, darling?” she asked. “I have some study to catch up on, if I am going to be the successful applicant for that position I’ve told you about. I reckon it is between Phyllis and myself. But it’s a toss-up. She is more experienced than I.”

“No, Angie… my head is still swimming with encyclopaedic terminology, after Dr Vladminsky’s dictatorial extraction of my hard-earned cash! Think I’ll catch a Yankee sit-com or movie instead. You go ahead, dear. I know how much your career means to you. Phyllis Buttigieg might well be more experienced, but you are far better looking!” He kissed her. “I’ll clean this lot up.”

Angelica laughed, then trundled into the bathroom to freshen herself up.

The mild-mannered gentleman from Brockenhurst donned his favourite Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas and curled up on the couch with his remote control. As he watched the old black-and-white film ‘Casablanca’ for the umpteenth time, his mind was hopeful that the momentousness of that last journey may have marked the end to it all. He missed the film’s end — whereby Humphrey Bogart pulls out his revolver and threatens Police Chief, Claude Rains, to let Ingrid Bergman and her husband fly to freedom. William had quickly slipped into a deep restful slumber on his couch. He could probably have hit the mute button and have them lip-syncing to his own dialogue anyway. Angelica sat at her laptop, in the office, at the opposite end of their southern Hampshire bungalow. By 10.30 pm his form had vanished into the night once more — she never noticed his peaceful body evaporating, like tiny particles of matter, into the realms of space-time. As this occurred, the cushion and couch he’d lay upon slowly resumed back to their original shapes…

Within seconds, William arrives in the future to the night they go out to celebrate her job success. It is exactly four weeks to the day. Angelica is now a grade five computer analyst and the head of her department at RAF Odiham, as it is colloquially known. Co-worker Phyllis had been the first to congratulate her. Upon Phyllis’ suggestion, her and her husband Raymond were paying for and accompanying the Cosgrove’s to The Whistle Loudly Theatre Restaurant, to see a comedy version of ‘Les Misérables’ with bubbly etc included. The invitation had also been extended to Will’s spinster identical-twin-sister, Janet. They were all very close — with Janet having twice dated Phyllis’ brother Stan. The only proviso was that William drove, because he was the only teetotaller amongst the five of them. As a sweetener, Ray had offered forward the keys to his new Jaguar XF, if he was prepared to chauffeur the celebrators to the show and back. Naturally William approved…

The show was a marvellous success — they laughed till their sides ached. Everything was going beautifully. They enjoyed late-night café lattes and cappuccinos after the play’s conclusion. By 11.00 pm the happy group were buckled into the sleek silver Jag saloon. The car was filled with chattering mirth as it cruised down the M5. William listened to his wife’s joking comparisons with the play’s characters and some of her work colleagues. Perched in the back of his mind was the thought of how wonderful it was, knowing that this night would soon to be happening for real, and how much Angelica was going to enjoy it. She couldn’t stop thanking Ray and Phyllis for their generosity — especially considering the fact that she had beaten her friend to the high-paying departmental head position.

“Not a problem. It was a pleasure to laugh so much together,” replied Ray. “I tell you what, Cosgrove, why don’t you simply drop us off first and take the Jag home. I can pick it up tomorrow.”

‘Are you sure about that, Ray?” asked Will, smiling at the thought and looking at his reflection in the driver side’s tinted window. “She purrs like a cat, hey mate?”

“Don’t forget to drop me off first, Willy,” added Janet to the conversation. “It is a bit foggy out there and I’m getting tired now. Oh, do get a wiggle on Willy, I need to go to the ladies too!”

The sleek cosy car had stopped at a stop sign, after peeling off the major highway. A broken-down bus was parked on the left, where the road swept gradually around a bend, making visibility awkward. William sat with the engine idling for quite some time, to be certain it was safe — eyes darting from side-to-side.

“Of course, I’m sure, Cosgrove,” enforced Ray Buttigieg, patting his hand on William’s shoulder. “I’d trust you with my life old man! What on Earth is a silly old motor car compared to that, hey what?” The beautiful car was in fact practically brand new. “All clear on my side—”

As the car gradually lurches forward across the lane, a warning voice from outside the car calls out. “Stop! Don’t go yet!”

Cosgrove glances right for a second — distracted by the loud call. Inopportunely, he begins falling asleep for a nanosecond, but during that nanosecond, he commences dematerializing. The helpless William is watching as his body begins evaporating. Its atomised foot, no longer able to switch to the brake pedal, allows the heavy car’s automatic transmission to continue rolling it forwards. Through the mist, a speeding semi-trailer is on a collision course. The truck-driver stands on his brake pedal locking-up all twenty-two wheels. Simultaneously, as its huge stainless-steel bulbar ploughs into their car with a perfect T-bone strike, burning black rubber engulfs the Jaguar. The multitude of airbags inflate instantly, resembling a car filled with oversized frogspawn. The force is so immense that the luxury sedan is swept down the road like gutter debris. It stops like the crushed meat in a metallic sandwich, at the rear of a parked FWD, roughly one-hundred metres up the road. A petrol-fuelled fireball erupts. The whole process, only taking seconds, is observed through two despairing ghostly eyes by a disappearing William Cosgrove. Three of the occupants die within several seconds of the enormous impact — identical-twin-sister Janet, somehow survives. A minute later, the pill-filled and half-intoxicated semi-trailer driver is spotted fleeing the scene, by the calling-out bystander…

In a change from the norm, William returns instantly to the couch from four weeks prior. The usual week-or-so away has become modified. His breathing is rapid. His face is white. His hands are shaking. His shock-filled bloodstream is gushing like Niagara. He now knows the horrible future that awaits. He looks down at Winnie-the-Pooh’s innocent little white face, on his pyjama shirt, staring back at him — but cannot smile. It is midnight. Angelica has gone to bed. She must have noticed the TV still on, broadcasting the second Bogart feature in-a-row, but him not there and realized he was timing-out (as they flippantly called it). She has left him a note saying, ‘See you when you return darling’. But… William cannot work out whether to go and wake her, to inform Angelica about the car crash.  He is tormented by the ugliness of the truth. It was the future — only a matter of weeks away!

William switches off his TV set to regain some composure. He can hear Angelica’s gentle snore emanating from down the hallway and rubs his perspiring face, thinking hard of a way to alter the future. He remembers that he is a lucid dreamer and decides to fall back to sleep — to perhaps steer his body into another time-travel. However, he did not know whether he would return to the actual crash and die with her or what? This option was a gamble he would also be prepared to take. Somewhere else perhaps? A good era he was hoping to retravel back to, would be the past, to be reunited with her. Perhaps at a time when they first met or when they first got married, anything but where he was currently at. It seemed worth a try. Unfortunately, he had never experienced a double-travel, like the one required, before. With difficulty, Cosgrove slowly drifts into unconsciousness…

Unlike before, during portal transference, he manages to steer the plot through its roller-coaster, and relives the horrifying accident — but overshoots the runway, unable to awaken where he’d prefer it to be. Cosgrove rematerializes behind the trunk of a giant oak at the graveyard site of St Catherine’s Church, several days after the accident. He is dressed in black. He glances past the tree — watching Angelica’s coffin being lowered in. Their neighbourhood priest is speaking kindly of her. Two other graves with awaiting coffins are there. William hears people, also clad in full black attire, whispering behind their hands. “His wife and best friends too. And what about his poor sister? He and the truck-driver both fled the scene somehow, you know—”

At this moment, he would gladly have opted for that hangman’s noose! This is by far the saddest moment of his life. He holds back his tears, observing with discontentment, whilst staying clear of the massive sobbing crowd. Afterwards, he makes the long lonely walk home.

Days of gloomy solitude and grief-stricken moping at home follow. The man is crushed by feeling the guillotine of guilt, on his conscience, for killing them. Cosgrove’s torment and stress levels are unbearable. He is not eating, shaving, or even washing himself. His mind is exploding — he doesn’t know how to cope with this circumstance. William wishes he was a drinker. Having decided that he cannot continue without her, he sees no reason for his existence and decides to take his own life. One evening William contemplates; ‘Yep, suicide is the only option. How shall I do it though? What is a plain and simple way to do it? What is a painless and fast method?’

He speaks out loud to the hallway mirror. “Death by gunshot is the only way. It’s fast, painless, and above all, reliable. Do it in one hit. Over and done with quickly, just like she was.”

Will knew that his friend, Ray Buttigieg, was a grouse and deer hunter who owned several shotguns and rifles. He’d seen them enough times.  One weapon in his pride collection’s armoury was a large-bore pistol. That night he goes to their home to steal it. Their house is dark and still — he’s inside within minutes, wrapping the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum Revolver up in a towel, then, placing it in a travel bag. A handful of cartridges follow. He returns home and sits down to begin writing a mournful suicide letter. Why — how — where — when — etc, so that nobody else is responsible for his death. He places the letter in an envelope and puts it on the dining room table, in plain view. At the stroke of midnight, Will sits down and picks up the revolver and points it towards his face. His eyes stare eagerly down the big hollow black barrel. He braces himself. He must get it right the first time. His eyes flick across to the wall clock, then, focus back on the gun. ‘Open or shut? Does it matter?’

Will’s interlocked thumbs begin easing back on the trigger. Deep breaths… waiting… waiting… waiting… His sensitive ears can hear the mechanism clicking. Hands begin trembling. He knows he is a fraction of a second away from that projectile terminating his life, and very soon he should be joining his beloved Angelica. Just as the trigger nears the point of no return, his body dematerialises. The undischarged revolver slides right through his pepper-sprinkled hands and drops to the dining table. Cosgrove is yet once more, vanishing off in time…

This time, he re-emerges two-hundred years way into the future, same age — same man, who is seeing the planet for what it has become. Violence is rife. The unbreathable air is locust-thick with airborne miscellanea.  Fires burn and smoulder all around him. He can clearly see the skeletal remains of Big Ben’s clocktower — looming over the Thames River like some ancient relic of the past. The river’s water is polluted with toxic flotsam and jetsam. It is England, this much he knows but it is unrecognizable. The suicide letter is in his pocket — somehow it came with him. He is confused but still wishes to end it all. People all around him are groaning in pain, some bear ugly scars as if their flesh had been scorched and blistered by mustard gas. Nearby, a hooded denizen figure sits in a wheelchair staring at the flames of a raging hellfire, at close range. William steps toward the lost soul and steers the incapacitated victim fifty metres away, to safety. He knows he’s not supposed to alter history, but this poor creature seemed unable to manoeuvre their mode of transport. He steps into the burning building but the moment some flames touch his body he begins to vanish, yet again…

Is he learning anything about what this irregular anomaly is? As he diminishes, William contemplates the possibility of travelling all the way back to when he was a child, to find out what it was that made him so different from every other human being. Why does he have this horrible ability?

Watching the remnants of his hands fade away, Cosgrove now realizes, that this gift which he has been given is; that he is a man who can never die. At any point he is about to die, his body and soul miraculously dissipates to safety.

With all the grotesque memories that have plagued his recent life… is it really a gift?

Triple Treat – Ten-minute thriller time! Story One

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Have you ever wished you could travel through time?

Meet someone who can do just that…

A Time Traveller’s Trilogy of Torment!

 

 

“…Beyond Dreaming”

by Stephen James

 

Here is the inaugural instalment of this intriguing trilogy. There are two more to follow. So, be sure to devour all three stories in their correct order for the continuous storyline to be interpreted correctly. I shall post the second a few days later — and the third a few more days after that. Click on “follow” and you will receive an email alert to let you know as soon as the next story appears. 

 

As William Steed Cosgrove, a forty-two-year-old wood-machinist stepped down from the Hansom cab, its soft suspension sagged under his powerful frame’s weight. His buckled shoe hit the ground in a shallow puddle. The glistening sheen of the pavement flagstones, under the morning’s mist of rain, made their charcoal tones look like billion-year-old volcanic rocks. Several horse-drawn carriages skittered across them leaving tiny rooster-tails of water. This was the year 1867. It was Baker Street, in the heart of London, England. Exactly 9.42 am, on a Thursday, was the time. William had folded-shut the back cover of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ scarcely nine hours previously. Being a Sherlock Holmes junky, he had stayed up late to finish it — riveted to the word-maestro’s incomparable text. After which, the whodunnit’s challenging plot had drawn circles on the walls of his mind, suffice to give him a rough night’s rest. Everything was fine, except Will Cosgrove lived in Brockenhurst in South Hampshire, over seventy miles away, in 2015…

“Don’t remember seein’ you get in, kind sir,” remarked the driver, leaning down from his platform at the back of the cab — hand cupped. “Let’s call it twopence-halfpenny, my good man.”

He paid the cab driver, noticing the stout image of Queen Victoria engraved on the pennies as they dropped. Will raised his top hat and planted his gentleman’s cane between the flagstone joints, politely asking, “what year would this be, driver?”

“That’s a strange question. Why, it’s 1867 of course! What… ‘ave you been sick or somethin’?”

“In a way, yes. Thank you, friend. And a very good morning to you.”

The blinkered horse — tail held high, clip-clopped off with a gentle trot. Fine-looking William strolled off as if he knew exactly what was going on. The truth; he didn’t know but couldn’t let the public determine it. He’d never owned a suit with tails in his life. He was married to a woman but couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. And… this was not the first time he had fallen through time; however, this was the furthermost in years that he had gone. The bleak weather forced him quickly to the undercover awning of a cake shop, where a well-dressed woman stood fidgeting with her bonnet’s dampish flowers. Her parasol rested against the shop’s window beside her string bag. Cosgrove glanced past her pretty-featured face, in order to catch a glimpse of his own image in the glass. His mortal form had materialized, inside the stationary Hansom cab, several blocks away, therefore, he had no idea of how old he was. The face staring back looked barely old enough to shave. Each time in the past during his time-leap journeys, he’d always felt the same mentally — in fact, his knowledge of modern-day life remained entirely up to speed. But there were no cellphones here and no credit cards to flash around. The era he was currently in seemed to be moving at a sloth’s pace. At this second, he was a man in his twenties comprising the wisdom of forty-two years’ experience. An onlooker could be forgiven for believing this to be a Godsend, but Cosgrove was mindful not to intervene with history’s line of chronology. He knew that he was not really supposed to be there. It all felt like a very realistic dream, however, it wasn’t. And that sloth pace was about to change…

“Good day madam,” he offered to the attractive brunette, their eyes meeting in the rain. “Let us stand clear of that breeze. I see your shopping is a trifle damp.” William’s devour-rate of historical novels had put him in good stead of the required language. He removed a handkerchief from his coat’s pocket and offered it to her. Their hands shook twice as she grasped the white cloth.

“Very kind of you sir,” her polite cockney accent replied. “I have just fetched a present for my father. He’ll be fifty tomorrow, you know. I bought him a charming new fob watch from Harrington’s. Solid gold it is… took my last savings, but you only get one proper father, don’t you?” She glanced her chestnut coloured eyes towards the string bag. “You from around ’ere then, are you?”

“Not entirely,” he nodded in reply. “William Steed Cosgrove… at your service miss!”

“Bassingthwaite. Miss Emily Bassingthwaite to be precise. Interesting middle name, that is!” The striking girl’s cheekbones raised with the radiance of her smile. “Where’re you from then?”

At that very moment, before he could answer, a carriage pulled by four groomed Appaloosa stallions drew up beside them. It distracted their focus. On its blind side, a scruffy hooded man skulked in the mist — keeping low behind the horses’ withers. In an opportunistic blur, the nimble thief snatched Emily’s bag and ran a nine-inch knife blade across her stomach. She slumped against the shopfront — tiny hands clasping her blood-soaked dress. In a flash, he was gone…

A stern voice shouted from the carriage window. “Get the scoundrel! Go on son!”

In two minds, Cosgrove swung his eyes to the voice. His strong hands were supporting her hips, but his conscience knew this was meant to be, and his presence wasn’t. There were no policemen in sight. He considered the blade and his own belly but saw little choice.

“I am a doctor!” blurted the voice. “You chase him, boy and I shall look after the girl!”

William had been a good-quality soccer player all through school and represented his local Hampshire Hurricanes at club level, right up until he turned forty. He tossed his top hat and cane aside and took off like a cheetah. From the corner of his eye, he saw the thief vanish around a brick wall leading into a narrow laneway. Scores of people were funnelling-out from its entrance, many being cannoned aside. As they parted, it forged a path for his pursuit. Out the other end and down the street, across between horse-drawn traffic he chased. Ducking, weaving, skidding on cobbles, and side-stepping pedestrians he pursued. Will Cosgrove’s buckled shoe sounds echoed off the grimy brick walls. The adroit thief’s head spun around over his shoulder. Only a few yards away now. A sudden change of direction found them entering another very narrow lane. The walls towered high on both sides. In this alley, there was nothing but darkness. He caught a glimpse of the blade in the villain’s right hand. They were in a dead-end laneway.  It was now or never…

“Back-off or die!” screamed the filthy unshaven individual, turning to face Cosgrove. The look in his yellowy eyes glared as mean as a snake. Knife in one hand — his booty in the other. The threat was real.

William said nothing as he leapt at the man’s waist in a rugby-style crash-tackle. His strong, angry, wood-machinist hands wrapping around the thief like a resolute anaconda. Their combined weight hit the slippery flagstones with an almighty crunch. The knife spun out of his hand. The bag’s contents, strewn around the grappling men, soon revealed the magnificent gold watch and chain. It spilt free from its leather case. The two men rolled on the ground scratching and thumping one another, their faces only inches apart. A small crowd of facial expressions began to appear through the hazy moist light at the lane’s open end. Still no police. Cosgrove, although slightly lighter in stature occupying this younger body, had adrenaline and determination as his allies. He quickly subdued the criminal by applying a choke-hold from behind. But what next?

William couldn’t help thinking about how important it was not to alter the course of history. Between each of his heavy gasps for breath, he wished his mortal form would dematerialize and send him back home to his bungalow at 14 Beaglehunt Street in South Hampshire, where he knew his wife was at present occupying their queen-size ensemble by herself. Alas, something he had learned about with the previous travels, was that he was always away for a period in excess of at least one week. So, that option was not about to happen.

An elderly gentleman and his wife began to wander towards them. He called out. “Who’s down there? Show yourself at once!”

“No!” shouted William. “It is not safe for you! Call for the police at once, please. I have a criminal in my keeping… an attempted murderer, in fact!”

The old man scurried off nodding, in his funny little dottery way. Then something extremely strange occurred. The apprehended man, who was tugging with his own wiry arms, spluttered a sentence past William’s forearm. “You’re a Cosgrove, aren’t you? I can tell—” he coughed.

Confused by the utterance, William gritted his teeth. “You disgraceful contemptable lowlife! What did you just say?”

The man coughed, “I said you are a Cosgrove. I could tell the moment I saw your eyes—”

“Shut your mouth… you damned criminal scum, or I’ll see an end to you!”

“Look at me,” gasped the choking individual. “Stare at your own eyes!” he wheezed.

Impossible; thought William to himself. Then, suddenly remembering his twin sister Janet’s self-compiled genealogy book which she had pestered him to read, he remembered her documentation about a nineteenth-century vagrant from the capital, named Arthur Cosgrove. Time felt like it was standing still. It rained no more. Will’s warm breath’s vapour gathered in a cloud before his eyes. The vagabond had stopped breathing. Cosgrove’s immediate thought was; But I have hardly got any pressure on you — there’s not a chance in hell you could die from just this?

William let his flaccid body settle on the cobblestones. He leaned over the corpse to look. There was no mistake. The now-visible eyes and face, having had the hood fall away during their fight, was a doppelgänger for his own. What wasn’t apparent, was the fact that he had died of a heart attack, brought upon by his efforts to overcome his suppressor. This homeless individual was riddled with Vibrio-cholerae, by virtue of London’s barely-existent sewerage system. His poor respiratory tract and weakened heart had simply given in. Within minutes, two constables appeared from the shadows above them. The tall one’s truncheon rested on William’s shoulder…

The weeks of hell dragged slowly by for incarcerated William. The cold crudely-painted walls of Newgate Prison were his new home. Emily Bassingthwaite, who had survived the cowardice attack, came to visit Cosgrove on many occasions. She grew very close to him and he remained moderately hopeful.  However, way back in this harsh period of history — the law was still the law and scruples were somewhat unscrupulous. Unfortunately for Will, life was decidedly cheap. No medical autopsy had been performed on Arthur. It was still regarded as manslaughter.

On her most recent visit, she opened-up her jar of truth. “This is preposterous, Steed,” she vented sympathetically through the bars. “I have explained the circumstances thoroughly to the authorities, but—”

He frowned back. “Why do you call me by my middle name, Emily?”

“Because I like it! and… I like you, very much!” she qualified.

“Accepted my dear. However, as far as they are concerned, I killed a man and for that, they will hang me. Let’s not forget, that this is 1867 and the laws were quite rudimentary back then—”

“What in Heaven’s name does that mean, Steed?” she interjected, pouting her puzzling smile which was as beautiful as her contented one.

“It means… it means… it means that I am as confused as you. But, if I had answered your very first question when we originally met — when you asked; ‘Are you from around here then?’ The truth, well… the truth you simply wouldn’t have believed.”

Her eyelashes flew apart. “Try me?”

“Guard!” he called out in a loud firm voice.

“Yes, what is it, prisoner Cosgrove?” answered a uniformed gentleman, whose dark whiskers and sideburns, all joined in one, stuck out like a woolly daffodil around his face.

“Pray, let this good lady into the confines of my cell, sergeant. We have much to discuss.”

“Okay. But be mindful, I’ll be watching you very closely, sir!”

“Oh… open the blasted door!” yelled Emily. “Can’t you see that I love him, and—” She hesitated, knowing it wasn’t quite that simple, before possibly making a fool of herself.

William Steed Cosgrove, figuring that he had nothing to lose by telling this charming young lady everything about where he came from, started from the beginning. He had attempted to explain it to the authorities. They merely laughed at his pathetic attempts to be committed into a lunatic asylum. Over two hours later, Emily reassured, “I do believe you, Steed.” Her smile was priceless.

He finished… “Even though I cannot remember her name — let alone who she is, I do have an unborn wife, somewhere out there… So, that is why I cannot permit myself to fall in love with you.  The worst part is; now that Arthur Cosgrove has died prematurely, I don’t even know if I’ll ever even be born. How dreadful is that? In a way, the longer I stay in prison — is the longer I stay alive!”

“As I have told you before, my father is one of the best criminal barristers in London, Steed. You recovered his watch. That meant a lot. At least let him try to get a pardon for you.”

“Greatly appreciated, my dearest Emily, but lawyers definitely do not work for free. I have no money whatsoever! Believe me, from past experience and where I come from, this I know to be one of life’s coldest and hardest facts.”

Emily burst into tears. “He’ll work hard for you — for me, Steed darling. If you tell me that you love me, of course, that is.” Her cute, cockney, Eliza Doolittle accent melted his stubborn armour.

“Time to leave miss!” roared the guard, grabbing her by the upper arm. The door swung shut.

“Go ahead then, I am very fond.” He guiltily kissed her through the cast-iron bars. “Let’s see what he can do.” William could not bring himself to say what Emily was so desperate to hear. She parted ways, blowing him a kiss, which he returned.

Within ten days the Assize judge’s gavel had crashed firmly against its block…

Will lost his speedy trial, despite Bassingthwaite’s legal prowess and strong pleading appeals for leniency. Judgement was passed. Cosgrove’s hanging date was set for November 23rd at precisely 10.00am sharp. The day arrived quicker than a liar’s promise. Heartbroken Emily could not bring herself to attend. The daunting walk played havoc with his mind. William had read a great deal about the punitive penal system before the lead-up years to his folklore hero, Sherlock Holmes’ emergence on to the literary scene. He knew that these gallows were going to be the short-drop strangulation type. The type held in public areas outside the prison walls, as an exhibition for the public’s enjoyment. The passing of The Prisons Act of 1868, whereby, far more humane methods of capital punishment (the long-drop neck-breaking type) were introduced, was not until next year.

He stood at the Newgate Prison gallows — thick hairy noose of rope around his neck — coils resting behind his ear — entire body trembling. His feet were perched on a stool which was about to be kicked out from under him. A large crowd of festive onlookers began cheering. A juggler stopped his balls practically mid-flight to observe the hanging. William’s heart was pounding so hard that it hurt; This was not what time-travel was all about, surely?

“Proceed!” shouted a dark featureless voice.

Suddenly, his body atomised into microscopic particles, then, vanished completely into thin air leaving an empty swinging noose…

His amazing escape caused quite a commotion amongst the Londoners. Over several weeks, dramatic articles sprawled the front pages of the Illustrated London News. Exaggerated versions of the truth surfaced — the unsuccessful manhunt, eventually brought to an end. Emily, however, always knew the truth.

William Cosgrove rematerialized in his own bed to the accompaniment of his wife Angelica’s gentle purring sleep. Conan Doyle’s book sat on the bedside table with a bookmark at the beginning of the penultimate chapter. He glanced at the glowing digits of his radio alarm clock, they read; 10.53 pm. He thought; still two chapters to go? Strangely, he had not returned to the exact time as he’d left — but William now knew the unpredictable ending to ’The Hound of the Baskervilles’.

The following day at his sister Janet’s house, the siblings sat staring at the self-published genealogy book, open at page 191. “What is it, Willy? And, why are you so eager to find out?”

“Shhh,” he said, thumbing down the page. “Oh my gosh… listen. Walter Henry Cosgrove who was our bootmaker ancestor, married a woman by the name of Emily Bassingthwaite, in 1869. The family tree shows they had seven children. It says Walter had a brother come-gaolbird named Arthur. This old census document you photocopied, states that he died at the hands of a mysterious killer, way back in 1867!”

Janet frowned back. “So, exactly why is that so important to us right now?”

Be sure to catch story two soon…

More stories at “Readers of the Lost Arkives!”

Who is a murderer?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Can you guess which event was murder… and whodunnit?

 Follow the trail of accidents and deceptions…

  of this latest twisted edition, in the ten-minute thriller series!

   Discover the past at “Readers of the Lost Arkives!”

 

 

“Wicked Woman… Truthful Thief… Lawyer Liar”

By Stephen James

 

                Oh, what a tangled web we weave — when first we practise to relieve? Well, that is what mushroomed, from this fellow’s necessity to visit the toilet — one brisk Argentine night. For an unlikely young hero, in this mini super-drama, the fusion of fact, fiction, fundamentality, and freedom, forms a very thick soup…

 

It was a busy night at 125 Oakmont Drive, on 23rd March. The inviting aroma of Latin cooking filled the night air. Outside, a thief was removing the pane of glass for his entry. Inside, Stephanie Summers had a knife at her rich husband’s throat. He was completely at her mercy. She had tolerated his womanising. She had enjoyed his money. She was basically over him! Stephanie watched him squirm with fear as she toyed with his life. This blade was nine-inches long. Within seconds, petty house burglar Carrington Warren is through the window and into their lounge room. He cannot help but see what is going on. Surprise keeps the silence. Carrington makes full eye-contact with Stephanie. Her return glare spoke of a woman who had reason to end her woes, and nothing would stop her. She flicked her nod at him, to say; just steal and leave swiftly mister. Carrington at first hesitates, then opens his mouth to speak. “I need to use the bathroom first, Mrs Whoever-you-are.” He started moving gingerly toward the restroom door offering, “I wasn’t quite expecting this!”

“Just go!” Her voice cut his eye-line free. Her head returned to its focus.

Carrington Warren flushed and lowered the lid. He returned to thank her — then leave quietly. Stephanie stood over the body. Its throat was cut. The nine-inch blade, stuck in the table beside the corpse, gave her a look of condemning guilt which she avoided. “I didn’t do it!”

An acidic smell of death hung in the air.

He summed-up the evidence instantly, knew she couldn’t possibly be trusted and forced an answer. “Sounds unlikely… but it could be likely. Either way, what’s next?”

“Rufus and I would often play it… a little rough. But never to this extent.”

“Your husband. Your murder. I didn’t even see you do it. So, I’m outta here!”

“I’m telling you. You fool. Don’t you see? While you were in the bathroom, I reconsidered and let him go. I didn’t want you to turn me in!” her solemnity begging… “I went into the kitchen to cry. I heard a man’s voice and a scuffle. When I returned… well, you can see what I saw!”

He had no idea who she was. “Look, lady. I don’t want to get mixed up in any of your personal problems. I got enough of my own to worry about already, without this crazy kind of business.” Like an inexperienced and pressurized victim of; wrong time – wrong place mania, he grabbed the knife to try to withdraw it from the table. It stayed put, the handle now wobbling.

“Oh, but you are mixed up. For all I know, you may have been the one who planned to come here and kill him. My letter opener just so happened to be quite handy at the time. There is NO WAY a woman could ram that knife blade in quite that firmly.” A tongue of rasp intention spat back.

At this point, Carrington understood one thing. She was right. He noticed this as her fingers peeled a pair of sheer, silken, arm-length, gloves away from each hand and threw them into the burning log fire. The only fingerprints on the handle were his, and whoever it was, who she reckons killed her husband. Stephanie had a wicked look in more than just her eye — she personified the meaning; Usually true when once she had a lover and seldom a strayer. But, when it came to financially fleecing them, she had no clones and no disciples. He knew one other thing; If the pair of them were going to make this one stick, he had to believe her flimsy story. What if there was another real murderer, whose prints are under his? It would be proof, right? They needed each other…

“I swear to you lady, I was in there the whole time. I did not kill your husband,” said Carrington, pointing at the bathroom door. “My brother-in-law, Danny, is a criminal lawyer. You don’t seem too upset?”

“The wealthy bastard won’t leave too many unhappy lamenting people behind.”

Warren’s eyebrows perched to a sharp incline. “You sound bitter.”

“It’s a long story. You wouldn’t be interested. What’s his name?”

Carrington squared her off. “What’s who’s name?”

“Your brother-in-law, Dumbo. You said he could help us.” She seemed nice when she needed something. “Don’t you think the cops will want to talk to us both?”

“It’s Danial Torres.” They both collaborated and dialled the two numbers…

By the time the police arrived, Danny was already at the scene. His Italian suit cheated the room for intricate detail. Calm and poised — the lawyer’s strut was of an alley cat’s. He instructed them never to speak unless he was there. The police were systematic, and a thorough forensic investigation followed. Every microscopic detail was taken into account by both parties. Danny was brilliant. He knitted the beholden-to-evidence couple’s alibis together so tightly, they couldn’t close the case. Even Carrington’s fingerprints were plainly smudged from a pulling-up motion, not a thrusting-down one — as would have been required at that angle, to kill him. There was also a mysteriously untraceable set of prints under his. They celebrated his courtroom work with dinners at the Ritz. ‘The Three Musky Tears’ they called themselves, and they lived it up. Stephanie was the heiress, so she provided the money. Carrington was simply washed along with the whole situation. He only paid a fine for breaking-in because he didn’t actually steal anything. He became the fortunate piggy-in-the-middle-playboy, by accident. Summers and Warren shared the house. On the flip side, there was Danny ‘The Wizard’ Torres, the wayward people of Buenos Aires’ crooked lawyer, who did all their bookwork and legalese, plus kept their noses clean. Stephanie Summers’ inherited Oakmont Drive mansion was located in Downtown El Puerto, not a place noted for its frothy coffee shops nor its Sunday school picnics. Here, the law hovered like dragonflies. At times, the pair were hounded by the police, about the unsolved murder case. The enforcement agency had smelled a rat. It was a matter of which one and how big. Always watching their tails was the sharp-witted lawyer. His underhanded brilliance kept the Argentine law at an arm’s length away.

After waking up one morning with a splitting headache, then, sending some outlandish olive-skinned man home, Stephanie met Carrington by the thirty-metre lap pool. A high-cut yellow bikini was exaggerating her curves. Her face began grinning like a successful used car salesman. Even behind the mask of her blurry, booze-filled, cheeky eyes, it did not prove too difficult to read. He knew she had been putting out. He hated it. Because, ever since the whirlwind started to spin, he had fallen steeply for her. He had become wound up in a story which narrated like a Mills & Boon novel. It had murder. It had conspiracy. They had money to burn. They lived life on the edge. She was evil. And her attractive wickedness had performed open heart surgery on him — he loved her. But he was not her hero in this book. He felt like a minor character. All he wanted was the girl, never mind the rest. She sat next to him — feet submerged on the top step. Contriving Stephanie, of course, knew everything that was going through his naïve mind. She even decided to sunbake topless just to tease him. Her Cheshire Cat smile forcing him to speak:

“Stephie, I have always wondered,” he struggled. “Who actually did kill Rufus on that night?”

“That much, I do know…” she laughed like he was silly or something. “I’ve always known.”

“Why have you not ever admitted this before?”

“Not important to us right now. Is it?” She splashed water on him.

“Stephanie, I’ve not been totally honest with you. When… when we first met, I had no idea it would have developed into this… this… this merry-go-round. The parties and the err, kafuffle are a lot of fun.” His words stumbled — gulping throat dehydrating. “But I want you, Stephanie. You’re all I ever wanted.” It was out there.

The big house sprawled around their privacy. Stephanie kept the silence alive by not verbally replying. She slid into the water, totally undressing at the same time, quiet as a melting ice cube. Her lips begging him in. She was not expecting what happened next…

Within two hours, Carrington Warren had turned the jezebel reprobate inside out. The unsung wanna-be burglar made the wildcat’s boat rock so much, that she promised him everything — except marriage, that was taboo. He naturally complied. His circle was complete, and he could now become the hero of their crazy unfinished story. They put it on public display, but the police didn’t like this. An item, quite this soon? The case still not closed? A body but no conviction? A reinvigorated haze of suspicion fell on them like the shadow from a plague of locusts. They were lucky to have his sister’s husband, Danny, to sweep up the locust carcasses. Danny Torres could make poison taste and sound like honey. In court, his lies sounded better than any truth. Charisma blazed a trail — he merely followed its path. At first connection, Stephanie had immediately gravitated to him when he’d looked her square in the eye and told her, he knew she was innocent; ‘Put your faith in my hands and I’ll get you both off’, he had lied straight at her. To Stephanie, anyone that good could be of use. It wasn’t rocket science. In Latin America, boldness goes a hell of a lot further than manners. She rolled with everything the lawyer promised, as though it were laced with gold.

A mobile phone call broke the chatter one evening. They were out dining. A party of six were halfway through their main courses, when Stephanie sprang up in her seat saying, “I must take this!” Her finger was pointing up to alert the guests. She wheeled away from the table speaking softly into her device. Five annoying minutes elapsed. Back at the table. “Unbelievable!” She regained their full attention. “I’m going to France… Tomorrow!”

“Ye-gads, this is great. I can’t wait to pack,” Carrington thrust his wine glass high.

“Not you, ah, Carrington dear. This is business. You know; boring meetings, endless signings of doctrines, decision-making. That kind of stuff. I’ll be about eight days.”

It hit him like a windmill blade. “What the heck do you do in France, Stephanie?”

“It appears that I now own a vineyard near… the bridge.” She looked at them blankly, forgetting the name of the Millau Viaduct. “Rufus apparently had it as a tax dodge. Some people are making it difficult to claim full ownership. Danny will be coming with me, to sort it all out.”

The windmill blade just became a whole lot bigger: The middle of romantic France. A vineyard. Eight long days. She will not be able to keep her legs together. His name felt like it had just slipped from top-billing in the novel. “This is great news!” He lied, but not too convincingly.

Later that evening, at 125 Oakmont Drive, Stephanie spoke as the outfits jockeyed for position in her suitcase. Her organizational skills were shameless. She could have left that night. Angst, as thick as a railway sleeper, hung between them. They retired to bed at ten. She lay on the bed with wide eyes but without speaking. In her heart, she knew she had hit another jackpot. His night was sleepless.

He waved goodbye at the airport. Danny and Stephanie trudged away laughing. Two days later, a call lets Carrington know that all is going well. Lots and lots of signature work. Not too many vinos. Five days into it, and this time, the call lets him know that they are having a well-earned break tomorrow. Sightseeing and hang-gliding at the iconic, world’s highest cable-stayed bridge and finally, some wine tasting. Don’t worry, Danny will always be there for us. He has a wonderful insurance policy for me to sign. Carrington Warren feels happier, relieved that she’s safe now and hangs up.

The next day, on the other side of the world, a gloating Stephanie Summers is soaring high above the valley. Below them is the Gorges du Tarn, a beautiful river which hosts the Millau Viaduct. The view is breathtaking. The uplifting feeling of flying is exhilarating and she has won again. Danny had worked his magical tongue-twists yet again. The warm updrafts were strong but predictable. They landed nearby the helicopter which had been leased to take them back to the summit of the cliffs, and then later, to a gala dinner at the winery.

“It is still early. Let’s do one more run!” She grabbed Danny’s groin. “You got the balls for it, Danny boy?”

“Pack these back up please, Janêne,” he said, to the French female chopper pilot, his hand pointing to the kites. “We are going back to the skies!”

This was their third run. Getting up there is one thing. Staying up there is another. At the top of the thousand-foot cliff, visible was a fog which had drifted across, partially blocking the huge bridge’s spans. It looked like a massive steel dinosaur skeleton looming in the mist. They leapt together and began circling skyward, crisscrossing past each other, sometimes within audio range. At one such occasion Danny yells across to her:

“We should have been an item, you and me!”

“What?” she shouted back. “Are you mad? You are already married, Danny. What are you saying? Things are great, just the way they are!”

His glider wandered off momentarily, then reapproached hers. “Yes, they are Stephanie. It’s just that… I think you and I have outgrown the others. Don’t you? Look at our strength together.”

Her face, even filled with buffeting airstream, was smiling. Stephanie knew Danny, in a way, was right. Carrington’s sister Kay was even more timorous than he was. No wonder Danny was bored. Her mind calculated… Stephanie had only really agreed to be with Carrington for convenience. She soared in the whistle of the wind, contemplating the debonair lawyer’s semi-proposition. He wheeled away on a gust. Suddenly, everything altered. Stephanie began to spiral out of control. Her hang-glider vanished into the Gorges du Tarn fog. The body took two days to find…

The news hit Carrington hard. He was against it in the first place. But her loss crippled him into desolation. He moped it out, at 125 Oakmont. Eight days later Danny shows up. Two heavies wearing suits are beside him. He pours himself a neat single malt scotch on-the-rocks. Face wearing a broad grin. “Well, old boy. Time to chuff-off!”

“What do you mean?” fired Carrington, surprised at the remark.

“What I mean is… Everything has been signed over to me. Silly bitch was too busy being greedy to read the fine print! That so-called ‘wonderful insurance policy’ she scribbled on, was the rights to both of her entire estates — as the chief beneficiary!” He was so matter-of-fact. “Ta-ta!”

“You killed her! Didn’t you?” Carrington stepped at him, but the two suits blocked his path. “You cut her wretched kite’s strings!”

“She was a wicked woman, Carrington. You knew that. Killed her husband, too. Oh, but you both knew the real truth. Didn’t you? You are such a truthful thief. You always were.” He laughed.

“I say she didn’t! And I also say that you are a lawyer liar! But either way, you have just killed her — for the money!”

“Yes, my boy. If you insist! A wicked woman, a truthful thief, and a lawyer liar… what a bunch of misfits we were. All in the line of business. You know how things are? Well, she’s my second really big fish. You should have gone to school, Carrington, instead of becoming a two-bit-burglar! Here’s ten-thousand US, arsehole! Take him away boys!” He wasn’t beaten – just relocated.

Three months later, it appeared that Carrington was back at his trade. The rooftops didn’t nag him, and the odd house yielded enough for a living. It was a far cry from his heyday — back at 125 Oakmont Drive with the other Two Musky Tears. Life moves on… He removed the window from a stylish Cape Cod house. He was on the roof, meaning, it was most likely a bedroom. The humble thief rolled through, onto the carpet. A man holding a semi-automatic pistol poised at a short woman met his stare. He was about to pull the trigger. This is not possible; his timing is really getting bad — or is it? The man drops the gun and dashes to the kitchen. Calmly, Carrington picks up the gun, goes into the kitchen and shoots the man. Next, he dashes off to the restroom, through his mind goes the words; No, Danny, she didn’t kill Rufus. I did. Didn’t you ever hear of gloves etched with false fingerprints? And… You deserved this Danny, my sister Kay would never hurt a fly, and this is payback time!

He had just calmly but calculatingly broken into Torres’ house, to square the ledger. The truth in fact was, that Carrington was a truthful thief. However, unassuming Mr Warren also quietly ran a small-time contract killing business on the side — not so pleasant.

There’s no love lost between business partners, I suppose…

Faded… Jaded… Masqueraded?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Hot off the press…

 an exciting new short-story thriller…

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“Faded Feathers”

By Stephen James

 Innocent feathers… pretty to look at, soft to touch, but hard to fathom. We all have said or done things we are probably not prepared to brag too much about. The strength of the human mind to retain explicit details of our high and our low points is truly amazing. Offloading the truth to others — as well as forgiving them when they reciprocate can be a rewarding redemption. Let us see what happens to this individual.

 

Beverly Martin sat in her front parlour; hot midday sun streaming through the threadbare curtains. There was nothing remarkable about her appearance, she just looked like any lady you might meet of her elderly years… but Beverly’s past holds a dark secret! She smiles through her wrinkled mouth, as she looks in the far corner where a hideous blue vase was sitting with some faded old feathers propped up, in no specific arrangement. Her mind began to wind back the clock…

A well-proportioned girl, just turning twenty years walks into the Grace with Lace Burlesque Nightclub, located in Sydney’s Rocks District. It was 9.30 pm. A clear view of the famous lit-up harbour bridge, from its old Sydney town surrounds, gave the popular watering-hole a romantic backdrop, extending into the early hours of each morning. It wasn’t sleazy, having a good honest reputation with a variety of local clientele, as well as a strong influx of once-a-year customers who came from all over Australia to feast on the scantily-clad high-quality dancers. The year was 1961. Leggy Beverly had learned to dance the new-vogue style of jazz-ballet — currently sweeping the nation on the heels of the movies and theatre productions about jazz-dancer Gwen Verdon, and the infamous Bob Fosse. After school dance lessons, paid for by her Auntie Molly, drilled her technique and flexibility into a master-class level. She was a natural and felt a shoo-in for the position she had read an ad for in the 17th October Sydney Morning Herald’s classifieds. Young Beverly had only had one previous boyfriend, whom, as was fitting for the era, she had refused to allow past second base — hand-holding and kissing. Aunt Molly had shown her some sexy manoeuvres, and besides, the advertisement had clearly said; performance training would be provided. She entered, paying the five-shilling cover charge.

“Do you know where I can find Wally Luciano?” the girl politely inquired of the stout barman, nervously twirling her sooty-black hair whilst speaking.

He looked her up and down, as if she was a prime cut of beef, stalling before he answered. “I may know where to find ‘im, lovie,” rolled out the side of his mouth. “Course, it’ll cost ya!”

Beverly eyeballed his facial stubble and clutched the top of her old-fashioned Charleston dress’s straps to force a better cleavage. The hand-me-down from her aunt was all she had outside of linen-factory clothes, which is where she’d spent her post-school years. “I don’t have any money. That is why I’m here,” she said, forcing an older-womanish pout.

He laughed. “Just kidding, toots, I know why you’re ‘ere—” then pointed with the white tea towel he was using to clean some glasses. “The boss is right through that door.”

Beverly’s plump full lips parted again, their preceding smile dazzling the barman. “Thank you very much indeed, my handsome friend.” She sashayed off like a Greek Goddess.

After an hour-long interview, apparently, Wally must have liked what he saw — she got the job. “Start on Friday night but be here for tuition tomorrow, at 8.00 am sharp. Clarise will help you to get started — she’s been my number one girl for seven years now. Do as she says, okay? Ten pounds fifteen shillings a week and you keep half of your tips. Split them equally with the bar staff. Is that clear?” The handsome Italian hotel owner winking at her to seal their salutation.

“As crystal,” she nodded back.

Beverly was an honest girl who knew what hard work was all about. The bawdy burlesque outfits did not faze her one iota. Her shapely body, enhanced by the colourful lacey negligees and suspender-belts sent the men wild. They screamed for topless — so, she obliged. The talented dancer utilised the glamorous showgirl feathers and boas cleverly, to tease the onlookers. It wasn’t long before she became the crowd favourite, soon having to accommodate encore after encore. She donned the stage-name of; Cleo the Temptress Jewel of Denial, often wearing Egyptian-flavoured outfits. With her stunning black hair cut in pageboy style, Beverly was at the doorstep of a huge career. Her kicks were high. Her tips were hefty. Her physique grew strong…

As the baton became passed on, then so was the sexual relationship between her and Wally Luciano, who had grieved for only one month after the sad passing of Clarise. Discovered in her dressing room only minutes prior to taking the stage, Clarise’s cold limp figure clutched desperately to his photograph. One grace-saving fact was that the forty-year-old mentor had absolutely no knowledge of Beverly and Wally’s six-month-old affair. The Sydney police suspected Luciano of foul play — but a thorough investigation yielded no abetting evidence, therefore, no charges were laid.

The parlour-sitting old lady had a vivid memory of those blossoming years, under the guiding hand of Clarise. She stared at the drooping feathers that had helped launch her career, their memory lurking boldly in the chronicles of her mind. They had been kept for nostalgic reasons. A tear wept from the sides of her wrinkly hazel eyes, upon recalling Clarise’s strong husky voice, still barking tuitional instructions to her the day before. She wiped the tears away to continue reminiscing…

As the years progressed, Beverly introduced singing to her shows. Blessed with a near-perfect soprano tone and a sharp memory for lyrics to match, the curvy twenty-five-year-old soon outgrew Wally’s Grace with Lace Burlesque Nightclub. He begged her not to leave.

“Please, Bev darling, I’ll pay you anything you ask… don’t quit the show. I don’t have anyone else like you to draw those crowds in. My club will go under without you. I beg of you, stay with me?” he was on his knees. “Don’t you remember who gave you your start?  Marry me, please?”

Her mind was made up. “Sure, you did Wally, and I’m grateful to you. But this is not about the money,” she lied. “This place is too small and I have a public who needs me… you wouldn’t want to hold me back, now. Would you?”

His voice quivered. “But what about us?”

“There is no US!” she laughed. “Show-biz is show-biz, and we are all simply pawns in the game. You of all people should know that!” Her eyes locked in an accusatory fashion with his.

“I didn’t kill her!” he bleated back.

“I believe you! But this is good-bye Wally and thanks for everything.” She took her Marseille woven clutch bag and her favourite feathers and left.

Beverly had already accepted an offer from The Majestic Theatre Company of Sydney. She was to commence in the chorus line, with an occasional support-singer/dancer role — knowing that it wouldn’t be very long before the cracks of opportunity would open for her. And, they did…

The scanty underwear gave way to grand costumes. The expert stage productions were highly professional, with a full orchestra and state-of-the-art lighting. The months leapt by in Springbok-like fashion and along with them, her talents did not cease there. Oh no, her promiscuous prowess percolated through the years, delivering a string of co-starring roles, in the wake of a dozen broken-hearted producers and leading men. Beverly never quite achieved the top-billing, which her ego truly believed she so richly deserved. Until she began an affair with Hugo Michaelson. This multi-talented musical arranger had sat in the audience of one of her shows during the cold winter of 1972. He was awed by her looks and melodious capacity and flabbergasted at the fact that she was yet to score a showcasing role. Fifty-one-year-old Hugo met her in her dressing room after the performance.

After formal introductions, he eagerly said, “Miss Martin, I have written, produced and choreographed a brand new major musical called ‘De la Peña… Genius of the Floor’.” Michaelson grinned with pride, before continuing. “It is about the life and times of the legendary South American performer George De la Peña and I would like you to play the leading role of his ballerina wife, Rebecca Wright. You would be perfect for the role.”

“I’m significantly more than just interested, Hugo,” she replied with a single nod, uncrossing her legs to sit forward. “Who is starring as Mr De la Peña?”

“That will be Lincoln Kirov. You will both have an understudy to work with, naturally.” Kirov was a titan of the theatre and needed no explanation. The man’s credentials were more impeccable than his Giorgio Amani suits.

“Naturally!” Beverly agreed, with spark in her voice, having been an understudy on numerous occasions, but having never had one herself. “And whom might they be?”

“Lincoln’s is Jeffery Abercrombie. Always has been. He knows Kirov’s work like a shadow. And yours will be Juliet Thallon… she was originally going to co-star.” Hugo’s eyebrows shot up. “That is until I saw you.”

“Is it being performed in the Majestic?”

“Certainly, Miss Martin. We are opening here in six weeks, then travelling the entire country for two years. The best theatres in every city. Last show is at Bennelong Point.” He folded his arms and smiled. “So, will you sign a contract if I bring it here tomorrow night?”

Her hand shot out. “Let’s do it over a late dinner, after the show!”

He shook it. “Done!” His smile grew broader. “I’ll watch you again — just to make sure I have the right girl for the part… if so, I’ll join you here at the same time, okay?”

Beverly restrained her excitement, offering a bashful solitary nodding smile. Then, showed him the back of her door for the last time. A happy-dance followed. The subsequent day, after the contract was signed, their secret but full-blown love affair commenced in supersonic flight. Their secret, kept tighter than a movie-star’s complexion, saw them move around from hotel room to hotel room like a couple of spies. Hugo Michaelson was the musical genius in his family, however, his wife Margot was his wallet. She had the family money of her late father, which had been responsible for putting him there. She was also his accountant. If she ever found out, he would be finished. The production became a box-office success, mainly due to Lincoln Kirov’s billing, which bolstered beautifully with Beverly Martin’s encouraging recitals. Her beautiful black tresses returned to the middle of her back and were on full display. Now comfortably in her thirties, party-animal Beverly spent her money like it flowed from the perpetual fountain of youth. She was travelling the country in style but as a concubine, and it did bother her…

One night after making love she offered… “Why don’t you leave Margot? You and I could really become something. Why, with your talent and my panache, we are practically unstoppable!”

“You have mentioned this proposal many times before, Beverly dear. But it isn’t quite that simple. She has me over a barrel. Things are complicated between us—”

Now kneeling on the bed, she barked. “For Christ’s sakes, Hugo! You told me yourself, that you don’t love her anymore!” Her hands found her hips. A scowl found her face. Anger filled her brain.

“Beverly honey, it is difficult—”

“Difficulties are made to be overcome! This is bull-shit! What am I? Your wife-to-be! Your convenience! Your lover… or your prostitute!” Fire blazed in the songstress’s teary hazel eyes.

He hadn’t seen her like this before. “Shhh dear, it’s nothing of the sort. Go to sleep. I’ll see myself out.”

“You bastard! I shall quit the show!” she seethed.

“If that’s the way you feel… Juliet can always do it!”

Beverly’s own words to Wally Luciano of; “Show-biz is show-biz, and we are all simply pawns in the game. You of all people should know that!” rang like a proverbial gong inside her head. She watched him quietly leave. The hotel door thudded, as a champagne bottle crashed against it.

In the weeks to follow, Juliet Thallon filled the role of Rebecca Wright admirably with five months on the road left, covering Brisbane and finally Canberra, before returning for one Grand Finale day of three sessions at The Sydney Opera House. On the eve of that day, a mysterious letter arrived at Margot Michaelson’s Sydney residence. It was not mysterious to Beverly because she wrote it. The letter was neither signed nor bore her name:

Dear Mrs Michaelson
     It pains me to write this. For the past few years, I have been conducting an illicit love   affair with your husband, Hugo. I realise this news will extremely distress you, however,     I believe you should know the truth. This is no fault of yours. It is with regret that I am writing to inform you as I now feel the need to clear my own conscience of what has been going on.
   He has told me on several occasions that he no longer loves you but does not have the courage to tell you, let alone leave you. The man is a mouse, although I do still love him and can’t help myself doing so. You don’t know who I am, but I have heard all about you.   I hope you can find a way to forgive me and try to understand. I am sure his own conscience is making him pay.
          A remorseful friend.

This nasty spiteful letter was simply to provoke a hornet’s nest into a frenzy.

After the Opera House curtain calls were accepted, on Saturday 23rd November 1974, Hugo returned to his dressing room for the final time. He had previously participated in a celebratory toast. His dead body was discovered by the security guards at 11.58 pm. They had been knocking for some time. Known as a man who required space to himself, they’d been slow to react. Once again, the investigation came up empty-handed. Unable to cope with the loss, Beverly disappeared into seclusion for forty-five years. Until now…

The fallen-from-grace entertainer, now nearing her eighties, leaned back against her favourite cushion, allowing the sun to bathe her face. Her re-cycled from old-bed-sheet curtains doing precious little to block out its rays. The thick layer of dust on the welfare accommodation’s window ledge resonating her soiled integrity. Beverly thought about the delicious drink made from Atropa Belladonna, that lethal but untraceable poison she had twice used for vengeance. How she’d drank a toast of wine with both victims, only hers contained added blackcurrant juice not the lethal toxic berries of Deadly Nightshade. With Clarise and Hugo’s murders weighing on her conscience, she was encouraging the grim reaper to take her to wherever it was that multi-murderers, such as herself, ended up. These two ugly heinous secrets, she would take with her. Beverly had been quite famous, even performing in front of Lady Isaac Isaacson and Sir Garfield Cuthbert-Allington. The wry smile on her face was a fake one, as she lifted the wineglass of Deadly Nightshade to her lips to draw the final sip. Beverly now realising her faded feathers merely represented lost love and a lonely life… instead of fame and fortune…

 

 

Gold or Gone… in ten-minutes!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

You never know where your next life-long

      friend will emerge from!

            So never lose faith and never give up…

 

“A Second Chance at Success”

By Stephen James

Adversity, as it would appear, unquestionably extracts the very best from most champions, regardless of their inclination. In this short, fictional, life-and-death story, I certainly hope you barrack for the hero with the equivalent level of passionate enthusiasm as I did when contriving it.

 

When ace Spitfire pilot Tyrone McAllister pressed the firing button to discharge the final few seconds’ worth of machine-gun rounds at the BF 109 Messerschmitt in his sights, he wasn’t prepared for the next thing that happened. It was 1941 and his fighter-plane was over the English Channel. A dogfight between twenty-two, brave but heavily-outnumbered, RAF pilots was drawing to a close. Fuel was low on both parties, as was ammunition. The battle against thirty-seven of Germany’s finest warbirds had worn-on for over an hour, and had only come to fruition when the bomber-guarding planes had long-since left their duties to engage with one another. All deployed planes had diverted to a separate airspace to avoid collision with the slower heavier returning bombers — thus rendering them with minimal protection, but it was identical for the Germans too. Unbelievably, the allies had squared the ledger number-wise, to eleven apiece, with Squadron Leader McAllister personally responsible for six of the kills. The Australian-born gifted pilot had number seven in a merciless position, diving for an escape route toward the water, in an inverted barrel-roll. The G-forces became unbearable as Tyrone closed in close enough to be positive of a successful airstrike. With only a few spurts left in his four Browning machine-guns, the courageous flight-officer knew he would have to return to base immediately, and did not wish to leave his portion of the squadron outnumbered. He had previously emptied his twin 20 mm Hispano cannons during the assault on the Luftwaffe bombers. He also knew that his foe, with superior dive-speed, would be gone if he waited any longer before squeezing the Dunlop gun-firing button located on his spade grip handle.

Sqn Ldr McAllister waited for the precise moment, then let him have it…

The BF 109 Messerschmitt took the full brunt of the Browning .303 bullets which drained his every last round. Tyrone, as per usual, said a prayer for his much-respected adversary. “God rest your soul if you don’t jump out pal… C’mon bailout for me now, please. Bail out now!”

But this was just the beginning of his tale. He heaved the Mk VI Spitfire’s joystick against the almost disobedient moan of her straining Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. The man’s blurring mind pleading a second prayer, with centrifugal forces nearly stalling the savage V12 brute mid-dive. Her wings were screaming under the strain. Moments after the ace pulled out of the nine-hundred kilometre-per-hour dive, he shook himself back into a reality check. The exhausting hour-long ordeal had left him with a lather of sweat which adhered to his flying suit like watery glue. Fear had saturated his veins with an intoxicating degree of adrenalin. The continuous bombardment of G-forces rendered his vision blurry and had stolen his usual clarity of thinking. He climbed to 26,000 feet. McAllister’s teal-blue eyes searched for his loyal and every airman’s best friend, the horizon line — and finally found it. The sun was low in the sky. The green fields of England loomed in the distance. The command to retreat was given. The pilot took a brief minute to reflect upon his two life-loves. His mind cast its way back to 1936, two years before he had even considered becoming a combat pilot. His first love, a beautiful, young, budding, British actress, Annabelle Strike, had been watching in the crowd, cheering him on to the finish line at the Berlin Olympic Games. His second love — that of being a world-class 5,000 metre runner had blossomed to reality, on the big stage. Although he did not win a medal, this eighteen-year-old athlete had proved himself a worthy contender by making the semi-finals. The look on his beloved Annabelle’s face was all the wiry young man had needed to empower him onto the next scheduled summer games in 1940, where London had won the right to host them. Needless to say, he never competed in those games — as history tells us they were cancelled due to the Second World War. He did, however, marry Annabelle whose face filled his mind at this precise moment in front of his Spitfire’s acrylic bubble canopy. His fatigued mind forged a wry grin onto his battle-wearied face. The brave squadron leader’s memory held a clear-cut vision of that day when the world had yet to be at loggerheads, and the only combat for him was on that running track in Berlin. He had been comprehensively beaten by Hans Frocklemüller, the elite German middle-distance runner. Hans eventually went on to claim the gold medal the following day in the final. He’d never forgotten the kind words of encouragement offered by Frocklemüller when he offered his big hand to haul Tyrone off the track. McAllister had engineered his personal best by just under four seconds, to try to reel in the leading pack. The Herculean effort had shredded his body to utter exhaustion, causing an ungainly staggering collapse, just metres past the finish line. The, then skinny, young up-and-comer had merely stared in awe of the maestro-of-the-track and just moments before they embraced, had replied; “You just wait Hans, in the next games in London, I will leave you in my dust!”

Frocklemüller’s reply of; “I certainly hope so my young comrade… your spirit deserves it. I certainly hope so!” was exemplified by several solid pats on his back. The two bonding athletes had no notion whatsoever of the war which was to follow three years later, and how they would never meet again to compete.

The powerful memory was rich in his heart. But it was short-lived…

In this battle-retreating daydream of less than two minutes, his life changed forever. A burst of cannon-fire tore through his Mk VI Spitfire’s fuselage.  He had been caught by a rogue bandit coming out of the setting sun. The large calibre shells tore through the hydraulic tubing, gauges, levers, switches and vital operational mechanisms of his aircraft. It all happened so quickly that he never even felt the two that had buried themselves into his right leg. One in the thigh and one in his calf. He checked his gauges — some were working but not the altimeter. The P8 compass was fine. He checked his rear-vision mirror — a small stream of smoke, perhaps burning oil. He increased the throttle — the V12 Merlin was still responsive but for how long? He scanned the skies for the enemy BF 109 — a dot was vanishing triumphantly in the distance. He tried the radio — it was dead. Altitude was his friend now because Tyrone knew he may have to glide home. He knew his plane was nearly empty, plus, the distinct smell of fuel was filling his cockpit. He put her into a steady climb and began counting to estimate his ceiling, but realized his cabin pressure was non-existent. The spray of cannon shells had put pay to that. The icy air was freezing through his gloves. He said out loud behind his oxygen mask. “I reckon that’s about 30,000 feet Annabelle. Should just be enough to limp ‘er home by, when the prop gives up. See you soon Darling.” His voice shivering. His right leg now burning with pain. So this was it.

When the Spitfire levelled out, Tyrone had a clear view of both the British and French coastlines. The dogfight had drifted all combatants due-west and his final engagement had happened over the Channel Islands of Guernsey and Jersey — these distinctive outlines he also well-recognized. Occupied by the Nazis, neither of these were a desirable landing option. The distinctive silhouette of an approaching Spitfire would be shot out of the sky in minutes. His target was Exeter RAF Base in Devon, over a hundred and twenty miles or two-hundred kilometres away, with little fuel left. Thirty or so minutes he’d estimated. A risk he had no option but to take. He turned her nose north-west to home but his elite warbird did not respond. Again and again, Sqn Ldr McAllister nudged the joystick towards the left to tilt her home. The controls were suddenly not responding and to make matters worse, the tailplane elevators and rudder movements were locked into position now. She was airborne but severely wounded. The compass showed him a gentle drift to the right and there was nothing but the English Channel below. Bailing-out was not a viable option…

Next, the Rolls-Royce spluttered to a halt. The three tips of his propeller rocked to a standstill. Tyrone was on a course for Nazi-occupied France. The quick-thinking ace attempted to straighten her out using the main wing flaps and it worked, however, he knew full well that this delicate adjustment was costing him altitude. Altitude he could ill afford. The flaps were retracted. He wondered how much blood he was losing and laid his head back, expecting to first faint and then slowly die. The wind whistled through the gaping holes in the aluminium fuselage skin. He was not scared but felt very alone. Annabelle’s face once again filled his mind — he convinced himself not to give up because he owed it to her to stay alive. The dark blue water beneath him transformed into dark green fields. The sun now disappeared. The undercarriage fortunately lowered and a flattish field was searched for. With visibility at dusk level and surrounded by silence, he felt like he was gliding in on the back of a wounded bat. He estimated it must be about five minutes from touchdown. Beauvais was the name of the closest city he was approaching, although Tyrone had no knowledge of this. He merely wanted the surrounding paddocks. He stalled her using the main flaps to wash-off airspeed and raise her nose. Minutes ticked by. Closer… closer… closer, she dipped and yawed, eventually ploughing into the fields of Montreuil-sur-Brêche without being shot at. The fighter-plane skewed around like a rum-sodden sailor, before tipping onto her bent propeller.

The tiny French hamlet with its stone walls, fourteenth-century buildings, gravel roads and clustered haystacks must have seemed like a dream-come-true to the very lucky pilot, who unclipped his Sutton harness and took an enormous sigh. His gloved hands cupped a pair of weary eyes. Having spotted several enemy military vehicles, when coasting in, the Australian-born ace knew he had to attempt the fastest exit possible. Or worse… the remnants of fuel vapour left in her tanks could erupt and blow them to kingdom come! Two fumbling hands managed to force back the acrylic canopy in its sliding tracks, but he had lost all feeling in his right leg. Tyrone failed to haul himself free from the cramped cockpit. Suddenly, he heard a clambering sound, which was joined by the fearsome barrel of a German Luger pistol at his temple, seconds before Tyrone uttered what he thought were his last few words… “I’m going to die in here, aren’t I?”

“Englander… out now! Oder sie sterben!” shouted the chiselled-featured enemy officer. “Schnell! Schnell!” The pistol forced his head back against the firewall.

Tyrone screamed back — hands raised — fingers pointing frantically to his legs. “Beine! Beine sind gebrochen!” It meant broken legs and was enough to convey the message.

The officer waved his Luger in the air, shouting to two uniformed men carrying Mauser Karabiner 98k rifles. “Unteroffizier, holen die bahre mit — schnell!”

It was the last thing Tyrone heard before he blacked-out and slumped against the joystick. The two under-officers returned promptly with the stretcher. The three Germans hauled his flaccid body from the wreckage and carried him to a nearby tavern. He was barely alive…

Squadron Leader McAllister woke up several days later, in a gloomy room at that same country tavern. He was considerably cleaner now — free of the filth of battle but riddled with the remnants of morphine. A woman was sitting on the bed applying a wet cloth to his burning forehead. She had a French look about her. She smiled. He smiled back. He was under some bed-linen. His eyes flashed down to where he thought his right leg used to be. The pretty woman’s eyes glanced away. Tyrone shut his. She had merely cast her eye-line towards the door where the German officer had just arrived, its heavy oak panels blocking his uniform from the bed. All she said was…

“Monsieur Kapitän, he’s awake now.”

McAllister’s eyelids flashed swiftly apart, like separating lovers.

“Danke dir, Michelle,” he replied, still out of view. “You may leave us now.”

Michelle got up, nodded at Tyrone and slowly backed away to the door, without breaking any eye-contact. He swallowed hard contemplating the facts. Still, the Nazi officer did not enter the make-shift ward. Instead, seemingly eschewing the patient, he spoke with calm across the room in a strong accent. “So, my Spitfire pilot. It would appear that you have probably flown your last mission, yar?”

Tyrone envisioned the bleak harshness of a P.O.W. Camp. His face broke into a nervous sweat. He gritted his teeth. “Why didn’t you just shoot me there and then, Captain? Why this? I would have probably preferred to die — instead of failure.” He’d yielded his plane to the enemy.

The Hauptmann laughed from behind the door. “Still have that same spirit I see—”

An uncomfortable silence filled the next three minutes, as the confused Sqn Ldr tried to piece the odd statement with the semi-recognizable tone. He had already used up his first two strikes, shot down and crash-landing — thus, daren’t say anything to further jeopardize his circumstances.

“Your legs let you down, yet again!” sparked the stern voice, breaking the silence as it emerged from behind the inn’s bedroom door. “But do not worry, 5,000 metre runner, Tyrone McAllister, I have had them saved for you!” He stared his enemy right in the eyes — face unyielding but smiling. “By my own Bavarian hands, plus much help from her.”

“Hans Frocklemüller! It is you. I can’t believe it. After all these years, we meet again!”

“You were extraordinarily lucky on many counts,” Hauptmann Frocklemüller replied, offering his hand to shake. “I am the surgeon-general for our battalion. Hauptmann is my true rank but she calls me Kapitän. I am only here for a short time… and you arrive at my doorstep. I have saved your legs and you may well even walk once more. Tyrone, we are enemies for the moment, but somehow, I feel we shall be friends for life.” He called Michelle back in and whispered to her at the end of the room. She nodded obediently.

“What is going on?” asked the bewildered Sqn Ldr.

“I have made some arrangements and she will take care of you,” he winked. “But not a murmur to anyone. Do I have your word on that?” Their hands locked like a vice.

Tyrone’s eyes stared with determination. “Of course, Hans… but?”

“Say no more on it. Look me up when once this disgraceful war is over. Is that a promise?”

“This is as good as any gold medal I could have taken from you,” said Tyrone, with a hint of a tear in his striking blue eyes.

Hauptmann Frocklemüller laughed. “I think that I always had your measure, airman!”

“Perhaps you are right. Good luck and thank you. I’ll definitely look you up!”

Several months later, after spending time with the French underground, by virtue of Michelle dú jeu Bois, the near-rehabilitated RAF officer made his way to Switzerland and eventually, back to England. His now-accomplished actress wife Annabelle was patiently waiting. Tyrone went on to fly a further sixteen assignments, claiming five Luftwaffe bombers and nine more fighters, before reaching the rank of Wing Commander — then switching to become a land-based fighter attack strategist.

After the conclusion of The Second World War, three years on during the Christmas of 1948, Mr and Mrs McAllister along with their five-year-old son, Hans, flew to Geneva to link-up with Dr and Michelle Frocklemüller. With him, in a beautiful velvet case tucked tightly under his arm were his two latest loves. One was the Distinguished Flying Cross he had received for bravery — the other was a gleaming gold medal for winning the men’s 5,000 metre, in the rescheduled 1948 London Olympic Games. In the years that followed, his autobiography became a global bestseller and later, a feature film. It co-starred Annabelle as herself…

Can your viewpoint alter in the next ten-minutes?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

We all think that nothing of serious importance happens in life’s daily drudge…but merely going for a stroll can lead to quite the unexpected!

 

“I’m Watching You!”

By Stephen James

 

For anyone entering Heaven for the first time, the gates are always open. For anyone trying to leave hell at any time, they are always locked. Our eyes see plenty but our mouths stay shut. Our ears hear the wickedness of the world but our tongues prefer to taste the sugars of success. Our noses sniff out trouble but we feel the touch of a stranger to be a step closer to a friend. Oh, yes… Our alert senses feed us greedily with so much information, choices simply have to be made.
                This unfortunate observer had to make some ugly decisions…

 

The wooded surrounds which blanket the many-hectare state-owned forest outside Crossbow Falls was teaming with wildlife. Here, at this fishing village, on the Texas shoreline rim bordering on the Gulf of Mexico, life is peaceful. Well, it was back in April last year after a good season’s catch had repeatedly filled the bellies of the fishing boats. The men all drank heartily at the Crossbow Inn and the women-folk tolerated their boisterous mischief. It was set up in a Davy Crockett-meets-William Tell styled motif. The centuries-old village had a Cajun atmosphere about it, not violent, just very, very, old-fashioned. Lessons were taught an eye for an eye. You took your punishment when you were wrong. What happened in the bedroom – stayed in the bedroom. A few hundred miles around, is where the incomparable Rio Grande empties its daily unwanted burden into the gulf.

I had wandered off course accidentally. Crossbow Falls, or even its surrounding forests, was not my usual neck of the woods. I am an out-of-towner from upstate Texas; more a mountain-lover than the water’s edge, who just so happened to be visiting. Just out of town about two miles past Hogey Johnson’s farm, there is a winding track leading Creekside to a broken-down hardwood pier. Nobody goes there anymore because rogue alligators from the nearby Florida wetlands are fairly common. Here, the trees meet the water. I had decided to wander the Creekside gravel road and see where it took me. Diving seabirds hauled-off their prey, each catch swinging like a helpless prisoner in their powerful clutches. As each struggled for freedom, the morning sun’s glint lit up the creature’s scales with a silvery reflection. Mangroves reached out on their tiptoes as far as they dared. Trickling water lapped the shoreline. The view across the gulf was breathtaking. Silence filled the air. Aside from several dilapidated timber structures, there was no sign of mankind. I found a beautiful spot to take a short nap. Dappled in semi-shade beneath a glorious fat-trunked evergreen, with one of its branch-tip’s touching the water, a lush covering of grass had my name on it. My makeshift mattress curved its way up a grassy knoll comprising of two tiers. Later on, I had my choice of either one to sit on and watch the water. Asleep in moments…

A man’s voice woke me up. It’s macabre timbre, a tad shy of the clattering-sound made by a cargo ship’s anchor chain being hauled up, broke the silence. A woman’s voice soon accompanied it but hers was suffering. My ears pricked to feel the wind brush my face. Good, whoever this pair is, I am out of earshot for them. I kept still. The hillbilly-drawl, not clear, continued on like a stick in a bucket. Do I eavesdrop?

Her cries grew louder…

I moved slowly in the grass to keep quiet. Step by step, crawling up the slope, to where a scruffy shrub blocked the view suffice to see closer, without being seen. An old beaten-up truck sat in a clearing. I’d not noticed it arrive when asleep. I settled in to listen. A woman of good health was sprawled out on a large boulder, on her back. Her wrists were tied with old-school rope to four posts hammered into the ground. She could just move. Her clothes had been removed and she was crying.

“Your answer?” He asked, inches from her face, coiled-up whip in his hand. A rifle sat leaning up against the boulder. A sledgehammer cast aside was crawling with ants.

“You know I can’t tell you the answer to that horrible question, Vernon,” she screamed.

“You cheap bitch!” he cracked the whip next to her face, the tip split her cheek. “You make me look a dog-gone fool in my own town, Sarah-Jessica. That, I cannot forgive!” Again with the whip… but this time, he launched it across her body. Her scream so loud it startled the nesting sea eagles, but nobody else could hear. This place was completely deserted, except for us. He whipped her six more times, then kissed her. “Goodbye, Sarah-Jessica!”

I had woken up at a bad time, in a bad place. My nerves started to tingle. This situation did not look good. In front of me, almost as far as you could spit, this bearded hayseed — as big as a house, was about to terminate his woman. She, it would seem, has been accused of being unfaithful. Is this really how these people carry on? I was totally powerless to prevent it, and any attempt to run away would disclose my presence. KEEP STILL.

Vernon picked up a leather medical-style bag and ripped it open. He seized hold of four knives in his huge hand and tossed the bag to the ground. He circled her punished physique three times. The whole time his mumbling jargon waffled-on about how hard done by he was now. And, how is he supposed to live without her now? He placed the eight-inch-bladed daggers across her belly and held them in place with one hand. He smiled like a hangman.

I watched in total disbelief, as Vernon took the first knife and thrust it into her but not into a vital organ area. She had been squealing so much that it seemed impossible to exceed the previous ones but this brought it out. “You deserve it! You filthy whore. Cry in hell!” Her cringe spilled the other three knives to the ground.

I checked left, then right, then left again. Not a soul in sight. It was still just us. In the process, my nose filled with the indisputable coppery smell of freshly-drawn blood. Quite sickening. I watched on, as he drank from a large glass container and wiped his chequered flannelette sleeve against his chin. This man looked and smelt so dirty, it was as if water was illegal or something. Did he sleep with fish? He seemed in no hurry. I, on the other hand, was contemplating the best and fastest escape route possible. Either way, I had to return via the gravelly road, which went right past in full view of this creature from the netherworld. The hottest burning question was… when to go?

Vernon selected his second blade. He flipped it in his right hand, always catching the handle, regardless of its rotations. He forced it slowly into her side. “I’ve always liked to have a drink with you, Sarah-Jessica. Pity it’s our last!” He swigged on his glass container. “And, of course, it doesn’t really matter how long we spend here together. It’s not as if you’ve got any place to go, afterwards.”

I yawned, more out of fear than anything else, I guess. A sea otter let out a shrilling call from the undergrowth on the riverbank behind me, my heartbeat fluttered. This was not my brain’s idea of A1-time-passing. Although, what was happening in front of me was mildly intriguing, possibly only because of the fact of my complete stealth — uncertainty became my ever-present companion.  Decision time fell upon me, in guillotine-like fashion! The risky gravel road stood beckoning… or was descending away, and slipping into the gulf and perhaps off to the patches of beach, which I had noted a bit further around upon arrival, a good one? Now that’s my last option. I could smell the alligators from here. Like it or not, I had to see it out and wait for him to leave…

The local-yokel stared up at the sun, shielding his dirty face from its powerful rays. He staggered several alcohol-effected rotations on the spot. He picked up his third tool-of-chastisement for Sarah-Jessica and began banging its blade against his trouser leg. Vernon sneered at her flagging expression, his eyes reflected the soul of a deep-seated lie. But they were the black hollow eyes of a shark. One of these people was evil. If it was the woman, then the man is vengeful. If it is the man, then he is evil and vengeful, and she is an innocent victim. Needless to say, he would get his way. He circled the boulder with stiff strides. The strides of an unhappy man. He began talking to a person who no longer was hearing. She was dying.

“Of course, I would have taken it all back, if?” Vernon placed the third dagger nearer her heart but still not fatal. He leaned on it. “…If you had told me what his name was… and why you killed him!”

I could see her pain, though now, she had lost the ability to feel the physical trauma or at least it appeared that way ─ because no words or screams were forthcoming. The sounds of the forest, to my ears at least, had fallen silent, almost with her. She now had over twenty-inches of steel in her, the wounds all bleeding and I had witnessed the entire process! I had been here every inch of the way. Locked away inside my mind was this wicked sacrifice. I knew that I could never share it. I hunkered down to watch the fourth knife finish her off. Vernon went to where Sarah-Jessica’s staked-out naked body could still be seen breathing. Her eyes were still open, alas, they would be seeing very little, right now. The shattered-mess-of-a-man sat next to her on the boulder. He took another big guzzle from the container, popped the cork back in, and dropped it to the floor.  In a deliberate trait to stall the entire process, he began to shave his beard with dagger four. Vernon tilted his head up, maintaining his; now you’re sorry, eye contact with her; just get it over and done with, idol stare. He stroked the clumsy blade down the side of his face again and again. His hand always stopping the blade when it neared the necklace, crudely made from reptilian teeth, which surely looked stuck to his skin in a balm of sweat. It took an eternity. When you have cheated death yourself, as indeed, I have on a number of occasions, you can sense when it is nearby. My keen sharp eyes and live-by-your-wits nature have come to the rescue a few too many times for me to deny what a fine tightrope we all walk. The seconds ticked agonisingly by. They became minutes. He kept shaving. Her eyes were closing. My breathing slowed. The wind changed direction. I felt suddenly vulnerable and shifted my weight. I was terrified. What would he do next? A nearby twig snapped under my foot. Did he hear that?

“Who’s there? Come out and show yourself. If you’re game.” The hillbilly stood up, knife still in his hand. His eyes were affixed right at mine, my only screen was the scruffy shrub. I remained statue-still. “This is a family argument going on, fair and square. Now, show yourself, or take yourself elsewhere.” He scanned the vicinity, coming closer and closer to my hideout. Vernon stopped suddenly, he heard Sarah-Jessica speak:

“Jarryd Walhavern, it was,” she coughed. “Because, he told a lie about you. That’s why I killed him. Sorry if I let you down.” Her head was raised from the boulder. It wobbled with her words. I could now see how pretty she actually was. And how broken she now appeared. Eyes like frozen flames. The last thing I heard her say was, “Yes, your own brother-in-law. There was no affair…”

He turned back to watch the last few moments of his wife’s innocent life trickle out the door. It was nothing to do with how she’d answered his stupid questions. He had already made up his mind long ago. The control lever inside his head had swung across to the premeditated mark. He thrust the knife into her heart and held it there. “Liar!” he shouted at her corpse. Like all killers think: He was right and she was a liar, of course.

In the strangest of circumstances, with discreet secrecy, I had watched the entire diabolical episode pan out, in complete disbelief. Was this fiendish creature of the same breed or race? I felt confused not understanding anything about the what, or the why.

Suddenly, in the remoteness could be heard the wailing sounds of the law. Within seconds, distinct human voices yapped like distant foxhounds. My cue had been sounded. The protective surrounds of my vantage point were no longer required and I was not going to speak of this to any soul. This much I promise you. My long pointed nose shan’t be sticking itself anywhere that it shouldn’t. Well, not in the near future, anyway. I scurried away towards the water to dance with the ‘gators. It was the risky route but…

This immediate vicinity was definitely no place for a timber-wolf like me to be loitering. I had seen enough!

Here is the first ten-minute thriller for 2019… Dive in !!!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Thinking of becoming a writer yourself?

After reading this story ─ you may want to reconsider…

 

“The Bestseller”

By Stephen James

 

                Think you’ve read them all, do you?
I shan’t tantalise this story with an inviting paragraph of elevator-pitch. Just hoe straight in. See how long it is before your penny drops. I see both the humour and the horror in it. I hope you do too…

“I can’t take it anymore!” screamed the confused man, who sat with his hands clasped firmly over his eye-sockets. He was rubbing so hard, that his wife’s concern, pitched her out of her comfort level. She came to protect his sanity.

“It is alright honey, another opportunity will fall your way.” Her hand found his shoulder.

“Thanks for the throwaway advice, woman. Next thing you’re gonna say is… ‘We’ll be able to dig our way out. Take it easy. Blah! Blah! Blah!’ Well, I don’t care anymore about them! And, I don’t care anymore about the money! And, I don’t care anymore about you!”

The moderate house had a dangerously-silent chill suddenly engulf its every fibre. All the years of pent-up frustration had consumed this usually mild-mannered and intelligent man, turning him into a psychopath. He burst from his chair and turned on his wife in a rage. He was behind her in a flash, arm around her neck. She wore him like a cloak. Her heartbeat cannoned against her ribcage. His hands found their way to her throat. They were alone. She fought desperately, grabbing for his eyes and tearing at his hair. He locked his fingers with unnatural expertise. They began to squeeze the lifeblood out of her. She coughed a gargling last-gasp and fell limp into his arms. The poor woman spoke no more words. He had murdered her out of pure frustration. He hated himself at this point and knew life would never be the same again. One stupid act. One huge price to pay…

His hands, though not strong ones, had easily enough power in them to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. Here, he placed her on the bed and called the police. “Hello. Yes, thank you. I wish to report a murder.”

 

THE END

 

“Well, what did you think of it?” Sparked Barney Petkovic, arms folded, a grin you couldn’t bargain for your kid to have on Christmas Day. He had just finished narrating the final two chapters of his novel from his computer to his wife. “I’ll bet you never ever would have picked that ending.”

His wife of one score years clearly was taken aback. Mary had been his rock all through his literary journey. Mary was a gentle but forthright woman. She loved seeing him this happy.

“It truly threw me. I love your paraphrasing’s style and descriptive parameter layouts. At the main part of the story, I was beginning to think it was almost a vicarious biography of your life, cleverly told through somebody else’s eyes. On deeper thought… No, it is nothing like a biography.” She twirled in theatrical adoration. “But, in all honesty, after you spun things around in that ending… A mountain, then a valley, a forest, then quicksand, twist, turn, turn, twist… I was left breathless…”

Barney had even considered changing his author’s name. Some wise-cracking friends had told him that his books would sell better if his name had more flair. He hoped one day his words would do his talking for him and was exploding with expectation. This was a masterpiece. He knew it was good. He was positive that nothing had ever been written like it before and the likelihood was, that nothing would ever be written like it again. It stunk of bestseller. They were on a goldmine, all he had to do was select which company had the privilege of producing his work.

“This will shut all my critical non-believers up. Hey, Mary? I can’t believe how I pulled it off. The sub-plot is so cleverly hidden right in front of the reader’s face.”

“All you need now is a brilliant synopsis to really punch a hole through the stone walls of the plethora of potential begging editors who will quickly want to get their mitts on it. Let’s get straight to it, shall we?” Her eagerness seemed as profound as his own.

“I’ve already prepared it,” he gloated, flicking a mouse command to open a magnificent three-hundred-word précis. “I have sharpened this collection of paragraphs so much, it could cut through the coldest of stones.” He scrolled through the concoction of literary genius. It described in crisp clever word usage his story, minus the ending, knowing, wondering, hoping, and teasing her to read it ─ he was red hot and ready-to-go!

“May I?” She asked, in an irresistible tone, her hand on the back of his ergonomic chair.

“Oh, very much, yes! I’ll open a bottle of champagne. You get ready. Give me five minutes but please, don’t start until I return. I want to read your expressions!” He dashed off.

She sat back and gently rubbed her eyes in preparation of her injection of English language wizardry, which she trusted would erupt from her husband’s penmanship. He already had four previous self-published creations, all of which were quite well accepted by the writer’s platform he had established over the years. Mary thought about the toiling hours she did on her own computer, to help with the enormous behind the scenes work, which goes into creating a novel. Eight-and-a-half years they’d been at it. She had been behind him all the way with her sharp ideas and brilliant memory. Nothing had quite really hit the big time. Not yet anyway…

When he returned, with the fizzy reward for his efforts thus far, her eyes sprang open in surprise. She had been immersed in thinking about the last ten years of their lives together: The publishing work. Her own job, done in tandem with being his personal PA. That interfering woman who came between them nine years ago and befriended Mary out of a lot of money. The fact that Barney couldn’t hold a real job down. His bosses always saying his head was in the clouds and he wasn’t concentrating properly. Belittled by his personal peer group, especially the women. All of these traits were traits of one of the characters, albeit, no reader would know it was Barney who was cleverly woven into the plot in cryptic genius. She admired his ability to fool the public. It was what good novelists did best of all. And after her eyes sprang apart, he kissed her nose and said, “I think we should down one first.” He handed the slender glass of bubbly liquid.

Weeks flew past and turned into months…

He had started by sending the manuscript off for perusal to the biggest publishing houses in the country. Several per week with enticing email heading grabs. The excited couple had gone through all of the correct procedures without a reply. They knew it would only be a matter of time. It was too good not to be grasped. The world is short of quality storylines, after all, that is what you constantly hear. Why else are there so many sequels and remakes and rewrites ─ only on steroids?

Then, gradually the months grew into seasons…

The fire in Barney’s belly had taken a dousing. He began to self-judge about the quality of his work. Truth was… nobody had bothered to read it yet. Publishers are so snowed under, that very little of the works submitted even get a look in. He was simply a statistical part of the make-up of the mind-bogglingly huge galaxy of writers who get flicked. This was not how Barney took it. The feeling of dejection began to absorb his mind. They began calling literary agents. None were interested. He pulled a few strings with an old buddy who had become a solicited author. No luck there either, they were only taking drafts from previously-established authors. Mary began to sense how much of a failure Barney was thinking himself to be. “Of course you will write again! Don’t ever say you’ll chuck it in dear,” she would constantly reply to his mood swings.

After over a year of unsuccessful attempts…

The Petkovic’s had pressed every single available button to become recognized, at least with the courtesy of an email. They had several horrific arguments. He felt utterly destroyed, because the world, for some stupid reason, didn’t want to leap out of the blocks to feast upon the delicious fruits of his painstaking efforts. Barney had sunk to an all-time low and lost his job, yet again. He had decided to investigate matters at blood-cell level. He must challenge his ego and rationale, to make sure that he and Mary weren’t simply imagining how good it was. One morning after a sleepless night, Barney felt ready to revise his document. He had breakfast with Mary and sent her off to the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. Barney fired-up his laptop occupying an astringent expression on his chubby face. It began at six-forty-five that morning, immediately after she’d departed for work. He had been so unhappy and had to dive back into his pages to see where he had gone wrong. Hour after hour he sat reading. All four-hundred-and-sixty-two pages had to be devoured before she arrived home… The manuscript had to be dissected, consumed and examined for weakness. There had to be a reason? He barely ate any lunch, it was a coffee-powered day. As fast as he dared to swallow the pages, he immersed himself into the twists and turns, searching for poor choices and sentence quality, but there were no weaknesses. The novel was infectious. He could hardly believe that he was actually the person who wrote it. Barney couldn’t believe it when he concluded reading the manuscript. It was even more powerful now than it had been on that night they celebrated the finished article. His tired mind began to spin in a whirlwind of frustration. He had read the book like the world’s number-one cynical critic ─ all the way through.

Mary walked in the door and stood near him. She was tired but always supportive. It seemed obvious he wasn’t alright. He spoke first. After everything that had happened, he fumed with angst.

“I can’t take it anymore!” screamed the confused man, who sat with his hands clasped firmly over his eye-sockets. He was rubbing so hard, that his wife’s concern, pitched her out of her comfort level. She came to protect his sanity.

“It is alright honey, another opportunity will fall your way.” Her hand found his shoulder.

“Thanks for the throwaway advice, woman. Next thing you’re gonna say is… ‘We’ll be able to dig our way out. Take it easy. Blah! Blah! Blah!’ Well, I don’t care anymore about them! And, I don’t care anymore about the money! And, I don’t care anymore about you!”

The moderate house had a dangerously-silent chill suddenly engulf its every fibre. All the years of pent-up frustration had consumed this usually mild-mannered and intelligent man, turning him into a psychopath. He burst from his chair and turned on his wife in a rage. He was behind her in a flash, arm around her neck. She wore him like a cloak. Her heartbeat cannoned against her ribcage. His hands found their way to her throat. They were alone. She fought desperately, grabbing for his eyes and tearing at his hair. He locked his fingers with unnatural expertise. They began to squeeze the lifeblood out of her. She coughed a gargling last gasp and fell limp into his arms. The poor woman spoke no more words. He had murdered her out of pure frustration. He hated himself at this point and knew life would never be the same again. One stupid act. One huge price to pay…

His hands, though not strong ones, had easily enough power in them to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. Here, he placed her on the bed and called the police. “Hello. Yes, thank you. I wish to report a murder.”

Barney Petkovic had flipped. He realised he had just swapped twenty years of marriage for twenty years of prison. Go figure?

There is one upside to this tale, so relatable to all writers. Barney’s novel did go on to become a bestseller. One of the small publishing companies Mary had contacted came back with a mouth-watering offer. The police allowed it to proceed. The incredible irony of the plot mirroring his life catapulted the manuscript to unparalleled success. People simply love a scandal, don’t they? Barney Petkovic still types from his cellblock. Prison life has opened his mind to deprivation.

His fifth instalment, in the current third series, is already satisfactory for copy-editing…

Is it a curse…or illicit murder? The ten-minute thriller reveals.

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Is the curse of death and murder one and the same?

    Can an inanimate object hold such power?

         … or is she really alive?

 

“The Black Widow of India”

By Stephen James

 

I am one who believes in the theory that; to conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom. This may or may not be true. Either way, fear of unknown powers has always haunted mankind. The mystic supernatural and spectral paranormal beliefs and disbeliefs have been ever-present throughout time, in all the fetching four corners of global society. What has always intrigued me, is the odd fact that a person who can enter a dark forest alone under the blackened cover of night, can be the same person who freezes at the sight of a mouse. Or an individual who can go into battle wielding a sword, facing the highly-possible chances of certain death, can wince at the sight of a spider…
Such is life. Go figure?

A poorly-paid Hindu miner swung his pick at the wall, deep down in the oil-lamp-lit chamber of the Ramji Bangla-Masood diamond mine in the Rayalaseema region in the state of Andhra Pradesh. It was a lucky strike, missing the enormous rough gemstone by millimetres. At his feet, but yet difficult to discern in the poor light, lay the largest black diamond ever discovered. Still clinging to a house brick of worthless ore, the near-spherical back of the widow offered a faint glint of her ravenous beauty. Then, his well-trained eyes caught the immense crude shape leaning against his ankle forcing a shriek of exasperation. It challenged a cricket ball for size supremacy. He knew he would be rewarded for the find. A mere pittance compared to the rock’s true value, but to Shamata, it was more than he could have ever have prayed for. He summoned his foreman. The unusual stone, totally opaque in appearance, was brought to the surface. Unfortunately for Shamata, he died in an obscure undisclosed circumstance the following day ─ never receiving a solitary rupee from Ramji Bangla-Masood Diamond Mine Company for his remarkable discovery. Was it murder?

It had just turned 1893. The country, known then as British India was in the middle of its crown rule period known as British Raj. This century-long rule which terminated in 1947, followed immediately after the country’s pillage by the East-India Company, 1757 ─ 1858. This financial giant of a company was an ugly autocratic organization funded on the back of the opium industry, trading mainly to China. After the Indian Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, the British government assumed full control, dissolving the trading company. Queen Victoria’s Imperial rule destroyed India’s local handloom industry to fund its own industrialization. India finally gained her own independence in 1948. And the rest, as they say, is history…

Even back then this flawless coal-coloured stone was worth a fortune. Carefully revised ready for cutting, the uniquely-shaped jewel had a main pear-shaped section with eight auxiliary stumps attached ─ hence the name. The gemstone’s enchantment grew when it was seen to have the need for very little cutting-waste. Only a fool would have cut it down to a more traditional shape. Within a year of delicate and intricate fashioning, its pendeloque-cut contained over four-hundred facets, and boasted nearly five-hundred carats. The ‘legs’ each contained thirty facets. The Black Widow was immediately implemented for sale, in an attempt to recuperate the mining company’s losses, which had steadily built-up as the mine began to run dry of stones. She fetched £125,000, the equivalent of roughly £13,000,000 in today’s money. Traditionally, opaque stones are not as valuable as clear one’s, however, her unique shape and size forced the value up.

Now proudly owned by Sir Riley Pompous-Stwitt, and worn by his wife on occasion like an imitation-paste fake, the prized bauble was never taken seriously because many believed it to be too large to be real. Sir Riley Pompous-Stwitt was the owner of a merchant shipping company containing twenty-eight cargo vessels of varying sizes. In an obscure turn of events, fifty-two-year-old Riley passed away in the arms of his lovely wife Mildred in 1903. At the time he was in perfect health. According to Mildred, now the owner of the twenty-eight-strong steamship fleet, the last thing he heard was an eerie whisper. She described it as obscure. This bizarre phenomenon continued, with the unique diamond going missing the following day. Rumours surfaced about her selling it on cheaply to fuel her gambling habits. This she categorically denied. Fourth and final chapter of the ill-fated Pompous-Stwitt’s saga, was the regular monthly sinking of her fleet. Tee-totalling Mildred committed suicide as a pauper…

Lost for over three decades, the rare gem turns up in Turkey. It was during the winter of 1936 when a Russian diplomat, on appointment to Ankara, discovered the Black Widow in a second-hand shop sitting on a window shelf, flanked by two snow-globes, a tardy historical ashtray and a chunky dolphin-shaped paperweight. At first sight, Ambassador Trikarchstrov who was with his wife, strolling past at the time, stopped to admire the ashtray. It was engraved with a Gallipoli memorabilia poem in brass, but appeared to have not been polished since Armistice Day. She drew his attention to the black jewel which had a price tag of fifteen lire on it, saying the necklace would be nice to wear when she accompanied him to the next conference. They purchased it without knowledge of the gemstone’s true value. She wore it to the symposium, getting compliments in abundance, only to have suffered a dreadful car accident when being driven home. Adding venom to the VIP’s twin deaths at the hands of a speeding truck driver, was the callous stealing of the necklace from around Mrs Trikarchstrov’s throat by their chauffeur. This man, an Afghani by birth, now working for the Turkish government, had emerged unscathed after the truck T-boned the car’s rear section. He fled the scene with it in his keeping. So enigmatically dramatic were the circumstances, including the hostile accusation of an assassination conspiracy, that the missing rare diamond was completely overlooked.

Time, as we all are aware, waits for nobody…

A further nineteen years which included World War Two’s intense theatre, slipped by, without the rock showing its beautiful alluring charm to society. Thought to have been missing for over forty years, the once-legendary Indian treasure unexplainably turns up in France during 1956. Popular actress Amelia Bourgeon juá Aqua purchases it by auction for the sum of 260,000,000 francs. The glamour-queen, beehive-wearing, superstar managed to wear the prized neckless on several occasions. Her pizzazz completely stole the gem’s attention. When shooting a movie on location at Switzerland’s Jungfraujoch, an accident happened. Soaring views over Aletsch Glacier from the railway station, which is carved into Mt Jungfrau Mt Mönch and the Eiger north face, attracts thousands of sightseers annually. The waterfall scene became too much for Amelia Bourgeon juá Aqua who plummeted to her death in tragic circumstances, swallowed by the passion of the moment. Her irretrievable body, now part of the mysterious web of legends that encompasses this unusual place. She was not the first.

The jewel, housed nearby, was nowhere to be found when her premises were searched. The fortress-like security had everything locked like Knox. It had not been stolen. The Black Widow of India disappeared again for just shy of twenty years…

The tabloids couldn’t keep a lid on things. Media-hype blew out of all proportion. ‘The black phantom diamond’ was more popular when it was missing than it was when it was around. Rewards were offered but nothing surfaced, until, private antique collector Astropheles Contropholous, found a pottery tea kettle he liked. It was three-hundred-years old and its lid was jammed firmly shut tight. He got it cheaply because of this fact. In his excitement to draw pleasure from glaring soulfully at his teapot, the Greek billionaire accidentally broke the pot on his kitchen table. His house, on Lake Chesapeake, erupted when the big black widow spilt out onto the table. He knew what it was the moment it rotated to a standstill and faced him straight in the eye. Its chain trailing out the back resembling a thickish thread of interwoven spider’s silk.

Now on permanent display, guarded by the very latest 1973 technological devices available at the time, the enraged carbon arachnid sits in his armoured basement. It is set up for privately invited guests only. Behind a series of glass windows, were glass shelves, each one adorned by a magnificent piece. Astropheles would visit his collection daily, every piece had a story attached, and each meant far more than whatever it was that he’d paid for the item. The extraordinary amount of money he spent on security was not to protect the monetary value, it was to safe keep their stories. Astropheles donated most of the contributions from visitors who offered money for his time and efforts, to the local special school. He loved all his treasures and said the widow seems to move about at night. He maintains it has been caught on infra-red CCTV. He never showed his legend-fluffing promotional video-footage to anybody, simply because, he never would part with any, therefore all their secrets were locked inside his heart. The new accidental-owner was not a greedy man, therefore did not deserve to be punished, nor was he a flaunting type. He wasn’t a womaniser. He had no enemies.

Well… that certainly would be the case in fairy-tale-land…

Sixteen months later, after a wonderful journey of sharing his wealth and joy with the world, everything changed. Winter of 1974 brought a new twist in the spider’s tale. For no reason other than plain outright daredevil, gentleman thief; Bamberg Astmoton had decided he must go for the legendary rock before spring has turned, to prove to himself that he was indeed, the finest jewel thief in the country. What brash young Canadian, Bamberg Astmoton had no idea of, was that, at exactly the same time, not five miles away, Joanna Chase was planning an identical heist. On the identical day. Both had chosen Saturday 7th December to hit the Contropholous stronghold. Astropheles had a much-publicized trip to Las Vegas planned. He would be away for forty-eight hours.

The few remaining guards were to Bamberg simply pawns to make his job more exciting. Joanna Chase had other ideas. Her plans were quieter, lighter, one step behind, to become one step in front, less visible… a smaller cat.

Bamberg scaled the walls easily without being seen. It was midnight. The ruggedly attractive thief wore complete black. He felt the guards’ presence as if by sixth-sense. He moved silently and cleverly, out of view of the CCTV cameras. His briefcase of high-tech tools flashed in the moonlight. The door locks were like a child’s toys, as were the alarm systems and laser-protected shelves’ control systems. Bamberg needed very little light to see. Joanna watched his every move. She was already there. Joanna was completely at home with these magician-like moves. Her shadow was even smaller than his. The last thing he knew was, by replacing the identical weight of the stone with his dummy weight, when he had his hands on it, the rest would be simple. Without this, an alarm was sent by micro-code to the head guard, now outside, smoking. His escape route was planned to perfection. He just can’t afford any mistakes. There it was in front of him, staring back saying ‘Please steal me!’

The gem was lifted with surgeon-like care – the dummy slipped into position as though it were alive. Eyes snap-frozen. Ears wide-open. No sounds or mistakes. Time to leave. Bamberg Astmoton knew that the laser light web, which crisscrossed the entire home would change its code in fifteen minutes. It would be reinstated. The alarm’s disablement was only a temporary one. His gloat had to be a momentary one and there was no such thing as a ‘selfie’ back then. He whisked his way towards the rear where waiting, was the famous glass elevator shaft, which followed down the cliff to Chesapeake Bay. It was where only two guards were placed and where he had a small boat waiting.

But he didn’t get there…

Waiting at the top of the see-through glass shaft was Joanna. “Put it back,” she said, firmly.

“Are you mad? Where did you come from?”

“Put it back!” she said, a sterner reinforcement in her tone.

“Why should I? Are you the police? We both have to be gone in…” He checked his Rolex. “In less than eight minutes, or…”

“Look. I’ve caught you red-handed. You don’t know who I am,” said the woman, her voice melting with an ambient glow through the glass walls, into a spell. “If you try to escape, I may be forced to shoot you. If you put it back, then, I may be enticed to fall in love with you!” She stepped closer. He stopped completely. A small gold revolver sat firmly as a gravestone in her shapely hand.

“Now, that’s very flattering miss?” he waggled the priceless gem like a pebble. Its chain flopped, resembling a swing below his wrist. He noticed her suffocating beauty in what light there was. “I may not want your love!”

“You’re wasting time, Bamberg, I have you in a catch-twenty-two situation. Put it back and I’ll let you go. I’ll even give you my number. I think you are breathless!” Joanna’s nitro-glycerine body formed an alluring focus. “You don’t want to get caught.” She already had him at; Put it back!

The charming thief had no plan B here. He had no time to stall. He indulged himself with twenty-more-seconds of her beauty, turned and replaced the black diamond on its podium. Their paths crossed, she winked, placing a card in his gloved hand. Her face could stop a tornado.

“Miss Chase,” she said. “Miss Joanna Chase… Now, say nothing and go!”

Stunned by it all, Bamberg scampered towards the elevator shaft and dropped his nylon rope. He secured it, just as planned, minus the gem. He waved. “Au revoir!” In a way, he had stolen it. And gotten away with it. For a few seconds at least. He puttered off into the night.

Upon return, Astropheles was distraught. He couldn’t handle the drama of the reported intrusion. For three days he festered. The muddled-minded Grecian jumped into Chesapeake’s freezing bay, in the height of winter.

Three weeks later, the Canadian dials the number next to her name…

“Yes, hello… Who is this?” her voice still like Swiss chocolate.

“It’s me, Astmoton.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you have called. Christmas is spent but I can see you for New Year’s Eve?”

“I’ll come at seven. Where?”

“45 Dear Lake Pass Drive. Come at five…” Joanna had a wicked laugh. She hung up.

At precisely five, he stood in her doorway. The buzzer enticed a reply through a speaker. “Is that you Bamberg? I might keep my word.”

“It is I,” he said, a little trapped by it all. Was she a cop? Was this her clever way?

“Good. It is now unlocked.” Her tone through the speaker warm and inviting. “Please come and make yourself at home. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Sequestered by her timbre, he pushes the door and proceeds, his footfalls still feline. In his mind, he hoped she was some book writer, after the ultimate thrill story. In his heart, he hoped it wasn’t the FBI or similar. She met him in the lounge, seated. A magnificent lacy dress with tight satin midriff pleats washed down the leather chair like a waterfall. He started at the bottom, where her shoes rivalled a dancer’s and worked his way up to her neck. Her hands clasped together in her lap. He strode up closer. She lifted the pendant around her neck and revealed its widow bauble. Her significant smile nearly knocked him over. “I couldn’t steal it. If it wasn’t there now, could I? No offence meant or anything.”

“You spicy little minx. You had me put that back. Just so that you could steal it as well?”

“Kiss me you fool! What does it matter which one is the cleverer thief!” Joanna stood up like she meant business here. “It is ours now.”

Bamberg leapt into her arms, attracted by everything about her. They hugged so tight that in a strange turn of the wrong page, both somehow choked to death on the chain, there and then. Again the widow vanishes from the scene. In July 2018 the stone was discovered by accident in a diamond mine in India called Ramji Bangla-Masood. Long since closed, the mine is now a theme park for the daring cave-loving types. It sat in the same rock wall, covered with rubble-mud, back to where it came from over a hundred millennia ago. A New Zealand girl on tour picked it up.

Released again, against its spidery will…

What bloodshed will she inflict during her next century’s travels?

Can you ever really trust the people who love you? The next ten-minute thriller!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

How well do we really know those people we love?

     Is blood really thicker than water?

          Or… is it just a weird strawberry thickshake?

 

“Chords of Revenge”

By Stephen James

 

Music, so it is wisely declared by some, is the delicious wine that fills the empty cup of silence with happiness…
Or perhaps it is simply just me who believes this to be true. If you are somebody who enjoys the arts in any of its forms, then I am sure you will relate well to this intriguing story about the joy and splendour, bridged with reward, as well as the mistrustfulness’s and jealousies, which can evolve from the genius of musical composition…

When Brixton struck that final chord, then twisted his G-string, allowing the note to feedback through his amplifiers, he knew the crowd was his. The maturing rock performer took a well-earned bow. He had given his all and the standing ovation’s cheers and whistles were deafening. Moments prior, the moth-eaten but ruggedly handsome idol’s mesmerising work had just had the entire forty-thousand-plus gallery punching the air in perfect unison, to his hypnotic Texas Blues guitar rhythms. Brixton Pierce was one of the best around, no question about it, and when he stretched his vocal cords beyond their sensible limit, his clever self-taught ‘Swamp King’ timbre echoed perfectly with his music. Between verses, his manly fingers moved around the guitar’s neck so skilfully, it seemed inhuman. The tips of his left hand caressed the fretboards with the delicacy of a pollen-chasing bumblebee. His bar-room-brawled right, with the homespun muscle-shell plectrum, firmly clasped between forefinger and thumb, striking the steel strings with venom. Every note perfect. Every limit pushed. Every sound loud…

But deep down in his heart, he wasn’t complete. This backing band behind him wasn’t his original line-up. Only his best friend, bass guitarist Lefty Skankhorn, remained alongside. Their name was different now and the band had two female backup vocalists. It’s an old story; rock and roll musician has a fight with the band, therefore, they part ways. This story has a whole lot more to it, as you will discover. When Brixton pulled out of his bow to thank and introduce the other players, he rattled-off their correct names and instruments etc. Then finished:

“…And we are known around the various digs as ‘Brixton and the Murderer’s Ghost’. So, tell ya friends how much fun ya had now.” It was what he used to finish every show with, back when the others were together (this being the old band’s name). The stunned audience began clapping, hoping it had been a deep-rooted message or hidden rock star innuendo. The new band was called ‘Brixton has Murdered his Ghost’.

“Good-bye and God bless you all!” said the other stymied musos into their respective mics.

Brixton Pierce vacated the stage on cloud nine. Another great performance to a grateful audience and the guys didn’t miss a beat. His Les Paul Gibson, in the shape of a purple coffin, had resonated in a million different languages and squeezed out distorted webbings of notes, in bizarre fuzzed sounds. His fingertips were fried. He was also oblivious to his Freudian-slip to an ocean of sweaty torsos, their lungs screaming for more in the very-familiar auditorium known as Sound City Dome. He played here more than anywhere else. Brixton Pierce was adrenalin-powered at this moment. His mind had completely forgotten about the unfortunate death of his manager, Phil, and also the death of his wife. The now thirteen-month-old double-murder case had stalled to a slower than snail-paced limbo, due to the bamboozled police’s inability to convert the minuscule amount of evidence into a convincing arrest for prosecution. No murder weapon was found. All of the crime scene photographs seemed to offer no clues. Being the one left standing over the bodies, moments after, with their flesh still warm, Brixton had become the leading suspect after a cleaner had called the authorities. The distraught Scotswoman was the second person to enter the murder scene’s vicinity.

An awkward thirty-five-minute verbal stoush erupted in the dressing room after the show. Pierce’s new band’s manager, Brian S, as he liked to be referred to, asking where the hell the maturing rocker’s head was at. Brixton guzzled from the neck of a bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whisky, passed to him by a hopeful blonde groupie who had again secretly forced her way in. The scantily dressed twenty-six-year-old, whose fountain of naturally blond hair ─ thick as Bougainvillea, tressed in bunches to her waistline, and was the shade of ripening wheat. The girl’s name was Nadine and her wading-bird legs seemed longer than realistically possible and out of scale with her large well-rounded breasts. She was beautiful beyond reproach. The other band members did not like her meddling into the group’s personal affairs. They didn’t approve of Nadine’s fondling hands, each time she brushed past the superstar. Backbone and right-hand man, bass player, Lefty Skankhorn, called her Barbie Doll even to her face, but the temptress pouted his comments into oblivion. Brian S said she was a slut and not a good vibe to bathe the band in. Brixton called her Nady Sexy Lady and told them she was just harmless eye candy. When the dust settled on the heated discussion, a combined promise of the band’s future became heralded as their chief priority. The other instrumentalist left along with the two backup singers. New manager Brian stared at the brooding virtuoso guitarist.

Brixton sat, picturing the scene in that very same dressing room, where his dead wife, Cassandra, lay naked donning only her wedding ring, alongside the body of his previous manager, Phil Slipphiery. He too was wearing precious nothing but his solid gold Omega watch. Both corpses bore the gunpowder burns of a near-point-blank, instantly fatal, gunshot entry wound at the heart. Brixton’s head rang loud with the lead-up week’s ugliness. His ears burning at her words of; “You are never here, bigshot! If you don’t stop touring, Brixton, I might have to find somebody else to cut my grass!”

Shrewd manager, Phil Slipphiery, had paid everyone the same measly amount, despite Brixton being the founder and mainstay. He had written and arranged all of their music and coined their lyrics too. Pierce was cool with that in the pop group’s heyday, believing showbiz to be a combined effort of talented synergy. After all, it was Phil who had packed the giant stadiums year after year, thus had a lot to thank him for. However, when once the pop group’s differentiations had escalated out of control, to the point of separation, he felt his nose slipping out of joint. He’d threatened: “Take a hike you promotional nightmare. I’ll play my own songs with good quality session musos and manage them all by myself!”

Phil Slipphiery had responded with: “Then I shall hit you with a crippling contract-breaking lawsuit!” Stressing further with disdain: “You dumb guitar-plucking hillbilly… you should have read the fine print! You will be left with nothing but your ego!”

Manager-dynamos, Brian and Phil were in fact brothers. Brian S’s previous clients, ‘The Thieves of Indiscretion’ had lost popularity due to the progression of music trends through the years, eventually disbanding altogether. He had propelled them to five top ten songs, three of which had charted in the number one spot. In the end, trapped like lamp-driven moths in the worn-out nineties grunge sound, they had fallen to fresh idealess cover songs. Out of coincidence, blended with convenient collaboration, Brian took over the ‘Brixton has Murdered his Ghost’ reins during the aftermath of his brother’s and Cassandra’s tragic passing ─ minus the contract’s ambiguous fine print. Snookered and stranded, Brixton was left little option but to comply…

Nadine sat quietly brushing her dazzling woven locks in front of the enormous bulb-clad mirror, out of earshot. Brixton’s head hung low. Speaking with the same haunting ‘Swamp King’ vocal tones used to sing with, he said with alacrity to Brian, “It’s frigging hard to keep myself focused and wired in, mate. You can imagine what it’s like. You have been in this business as long as I have. Always keeping fixated. Giving the crowd your all. Reading the knee-jerk, bullshit, negative, tabloid press. Trying to constantly come up with a great new sound!” He looked exhausted.

Brian, sucking hard on his Spanish filter-tip urged, “Leave it all up to me. But, don’t forget Brixton… that love triangle which you, Phil and Cassie were involved in throws an ugly beam of light on your image. Are the police still harassing you, champ?”

“Yeah, I gotta go visit them tomorrow at ten. And it wasn’t a frigging triangle, pal!”

Brian blew out a huge ball of cigarette smoke in Nadine’s direction. “Whatever… Are you feeling concerned or scared?”

“They reckon they may have a new flaming lead. My neck is practically in the proverbial noose!”

“Dumb detectives, wouldn’t know a criminal if he walked in off the street. Bet you are pretty angry still, Brixton?”

Pierce’s response came sharply. “Hell yeah! You know they full-on suspect it was me… I loved the bitch.” He swallowed a huge, neat, heart-stopping-for-most slug of his best friend Jack and dropped the half-full bottle on the carpet. “Should probably have given up the industry after all. Like she wanted me to. Damned hooked on the adrenalin-filled junk, wasn’t I?” Nadine flew from her chair to retrieve the dribbling golden liquid.

“Tell ‘em whatever crap they want to hear. Just don’t admit anything…”

His defence came even more loaded. “I didn’t do it damn you, Brian! Sure, I had all the reason in the world… Frigging ass-hole was fleecing my money and screwing my childhood sweetheart. What do ya reckon? I’m over the flamin’ moon about going to prison, just because the cops can’t pin it on any other bastard!”

“Okay, okay, okay… settle down maestro. Why don’t you, you know?” Brian had flicked his eyes down towards Nadine’s all-fours position with impious intent. He made a fist and vulgarly raised his forearm. “No one will tell, now that the others have all gone home.”

Although he was whispering, she easily heard and smiled like a deer fawn. The prostitute-red mini-skirt she was wearing hid little of her thighs and both men could practically see her navel between her fighting-against-gravity breasts’ cleavage. Brixton looked at her and said, “You’re just a kid, Nady Sexy Lady, but you’re a good-looking one. Don’t get mixed up with me. You may live to regret it.”

The glamourous groupie seldom spoke, her figure did most of her communicating, but on this occasion, a voice reminiscent of evocative molasses did offer “I love you Brixton. I always have, ever since I was a little girl.” The girl rested back to a kneeling position screwing the lid back on to Jack’s neck, her engaging blue eyes invading his spirit. “I have seen almost every single one of your concerts. But, I will wait forever or until you are ready. If you ever will be. I would even kill for you. I have never taken a lover. I’m still a virgin you know…”

Two speechless male jaws dropped open like oven doors. Brian S stood up and left…

At the police station, the rock performer sat in clouded disillusion as a series of photographs were spread out on the table in front of him. “Look,” launched a fattish balding superintendent. “I can’t believe we missed something so bloody obvious.”

“Nothing’s obvious to me, DSI Spokane. I’ve seen these before,” replied Brixton, staring at the horseshoe of hair which wrapped around the back of his head.

“Well, let me explain,” said Spokane, sliding one particular long-distance image into Brixton’s view. “It is hard to see at first, so we had this corner-section enlarged, just after this arrived yesterday.” The Detective Superintendent flipped over a photograph which had been inverted and put to the side. Next, he began hauling a small black booklet from his briefcase. “It is this… and as you can faintly see in the other snapshot. It is resting on that side table under those music sheets.”

Brixton held the two pictures juxtaposed. He glared at the distance one first. His tired eyes squinted to focus on the microscopic image. “It looks like a notebook or similar type of writing book. But I don’t recognise it. What’s this all about?” He had begun to study the much larger but distorted, fuzzy, enlarged, printed photograph.

Then it appeared…

A slapping sound, as it hit the desk, accompanied the arrival in front of him, of the small book shown in the police photographer’s enlargement. There was nothing on its black cover except for an embossed golden cobra in the top right-hand corner. Brixton’s heart skipped a beat upon sensing its recognition. Cassandra had the identical image tattooed on her front upper pelvis. Through his confused mind raced one question: What in the hell?

“Open it,” said the calmly-toned Spokane.

The first page bore the title: ‘Chords of Revenge ─ The Diary of a Frustrated Cassie Pierce’. Brixton started engrossing his way through the vividly-worded explanations of her steamy ongoing love affair with Slipphiery. Six months of disgusting lust. It described how her feelings for the rock star had waned, once the intellectual mind of the conniving older brother had encapsulated her attention. This minutes-older brother was, in fact, Brian, the new manager. Anger speared its way through his heart. He had already been torn in half ─ now it felt like quarters.

Spokane continued on. “It all became quite obvious to us once the diary was handed in. Brian was the one who had pulled the trigger on her and his own brother in a two-pronged alibi attempt to score your talent, and cast blame in your direction to confuse us. As you can see, he was clearly the one who was having an affair with Cassandra. It is our belief that he somehow set up the entire crime scene situation after, and I’m sorry for having to elaborate, Mr Pierce… after making love with your wife moments prior. He must have telephoned his brother and shot and stripped his clothes off to make it appear as though Phil was the adulterer. Then, dressed himself and hustled away with the gun. When our DNA tests were performed on Phil, the sperm residue had a matching, almost conclusively perfect result. Who would have guessed that his identical twin would actually be that donor?”

Brixton snapped the diary shut. His pulse was racing. His face fell into his interlocked hands on the desktop ─ eyes weeping. He mumbled into his web of moistening fingers. “Who handed it in?”

DSI Spokane eagerly answered. “She was a tall woman with blond hair. Quite attractive, in fact. Gave her name as Nadine Faithful, you know, like that old-school singer…”

“You mean, Marianne Faithful I think,” Brixton interrupted.

“Yep, that’s the one. Anyway, when we asked why, where, when, how, etcetera… The girl just said she somehow picked it up a day after, before the crime scene had been cleared. How she got in and out is a mystery, and she’s refused to tell us without seeing you first. Go figure? Very soon all the facts will be revealed.”

Suddenly, passing by within metres, an escorted and securely handcuffed Brian Slipphiery enters the police headquarters, head hung low. Brixton and Spokane’s head’s spun in unison.

The venom in Pierce’s voice, no longer imminent blurted, “You rotten, lying, conniving piece of dog-shit!” He left his chair to confront the dual killer ─ face painted to its extremities with loathing.

A tall sexy woman, who’d followed in the entourage’s shadow, stepped between them ─ her hand touching his chest. “Over a year I’ve held onto it. Didn’t want to break your heart any further, if you saw it, I mean… I… I…” she said, trembling in her high-heels. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

He looked shell-shocked but relieved. “Talk about waiting until the eleventh hour!”

She uttered five more simple questioning words. “Are you ready this time?”

Brixton’s demeanour changed quicker than a used car dealer’s smile. His indebted reply took twenty seconds to materialize. “Never readier! This has given me an inspiration for a song! Okay woman… Let those wagons roll…”

How strange? A ten-minute thriller with intriguing results…

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

We are all seeking that magical moment of recognition!

     But, is it what you really aspire to?

            … Or is it deceptively twisted into something else?

 

“Ancient Egyptian Dilemma”

By Stephen James

 

 As humans, the fascination, lure and excitement of an unexpected paragon discovery is an extremely powerful attraction. Many of us live in hope of a personal triumph which awaits just around that next corner. The chance of a lifetime. A financial windfall. Fame on an epic level or perhaps simply meeting the best person possible, for that very first time! It spells intrigue with a capital I. Blinded by this ‘Gold Fever’ attraction, often there is scant regard for the consequences…

Born in the north of Spain, a mild-mannered man was cruising peacefully through life, minding his own business and treading on nobody’s toes. He was forty-one years of age and abstemiously handsome. Initially from the small town of Aguilar de Campoo, Alex Harames had moved south with his wife Olivia of fourteen years. They now lived in Málaga, a substantially larger metropolis by the coast, but still below a million inhabitants. Olivia had urged Alex to install a substantial backyard in-ground swimming pool to entertain their four young offspring. After price negotiation, a contractor had been commissioned for the undertaking incorporating a five-week window for the scope of works. An excavator arrived days after the deposit had been paid and digging began. Alex took the day off from his job as a helicopter pilot, who flew guests staying at the ritzy Conquistador Ambassador Hotel out over Gibraltar and the narrow straits between Casablanca in Morocco ─ all the way to Seville. A career he loved. As work proceeded, the shallow pit grew to become a large hole. He stood by watching his backyard disappear into the tray of a dump truck, picturing the finished result. Suddenly he noticed something glinting in the sticky reddish-brown soil.

“Stop for a moment! What is that I see?” he called out sharply to the supervisor. The extensive hydraulic boom halted immediately. Alex and the workmen peered down with modest expectation. An obscure discovery was made. Partially uprooted was the inverted head and shoulders of a bust, about triple life-size. Fortunately, a thick layer of clay had separated the metal teeth of the machine’s bucket, suffice not to damage or scratch the statuette. Very carefully it was brought to the surface via a chained cradle and prudently cleaned. It appeared to be Egyptian. The face was of a man’s, depicted as heavily into his thirties. The features looked unlike the usual style of statue originating from Egypt. Comprehensively embossed with gold-plating, though tarnished and dull-looking from what must have been centuries of burial, the enchanting piece appeared genuine. A small section of the bottom corner and a portion of the statuette’s face had been broken away. Excitement followed, Alex thought he may have stumbled upon a small jackpot. His wife Olivia said it must be just some old knock-off artefact, perhaps a turn-of-the-century replica. To her, it made little sense that a relic of this size would have any reason to be this remote from its home-of-origin, but pragmatic Alex thought otherwise. An Egyptologist arrived from Madrid to verify the hieroglyphic engravings for authenticity. The significant statue was deemed worthy of further study. Alex figured his discovery, if genuine, would more than pay him dividends. His almond-shaped eyes rolled like the tumblers of a slot machine ─ the pupils aligning like a pair of winning tokens. After all, the golden coating alone must have been worth a fortune. After heuristic identification, all would be revealed…

The Spaniard escorted his prized carved stone to the Museum of Cairo. It weighed several hundred kilograms, costing him more in transportation than he’d bargained for. A relatively short jaunt east by ship across the Mediterranean, perhaps, but nonetheless with his passage included, the time and bills soon mounted up. He maintained a strong belief that his investment would prove rewarding. Alex stayed for a week, enduring an endless array of associated red tape to ensure that the M.O.C. authorities knew of his self-appointed ownership. Once satisfied, he returned to inspect his near-completed swimming pool.

At the museum, a buzz of intrigue soon followed. Hieroglyphics on the bottom perimeter were worn but just visible enough to see that they were pertinent in assisting with the ID. After many weeks of investigation, which incorporated Archaeomagnetic dating, it was identified as Freesias Chrysies Mahmood, a 4600-year-old Pharaoh. The little-known king had ruled for seventeen years before being cursed and put to the sword by his own people for iniquity and adulterous behaviour. Mahmood had been part of the Old Kingdom or 3rd Dynasty ─ through to 6th Dynasty, just following the unification of the upper and lower parts of the Nile River Basin. The only facts known of him were levelled around his constant philandering with neighbouring Queen Shamanic Ninaracia, ruler of Khartoum. His most-favoured of his eight wives, Ribuckalmahn is said to have orchestrated the murder. This, of course, had no way of being proven, other than her image on the few remaining tablets held by the museum bearing her in hierarchical proportion with a blade at his throat. In these depictions, Mahmood has a Canid (the African golden wolf) head, suggesting he was soon headed for the afterlife. These engraved images of Ribuckalmahn are dated prior to his death, said to be 2596 BC. In an unusually non-Egyptian typification, Freesias Chrysies Mahmood’s mummified corpse had been laid face down in his sarcophagus – as if in shame.  Alex’s unearthing had proven to be a vital missing link in the story’s chain. The giant alabaster statue had been fabricated when he was at the zenith of his rule. Included in the etchings around the base were depictions of Khartoum’s Queen Shamanic Ninaracia, in poses of submission to him.

Word of its historical value was sent back to him in Spain. Elated Harames caught the next available plane to Cairo, leaving Olivia to care for the family. His parting words were: “Just relax in our new swimming pool my darling, and await my return. We are rich beyond our wildest dreams!”

When he arrived and stood before his prized relic, beside which sat the sarcophagus, several ancient artefacts, along with some skin and hair belonging to the Pharaoh, housed in the sterilized chamber, Alex could hardly contain himself. It stood on a pedestal a metre or so off the ground. He gazed at the austere, triple life-sized and frozen-in-time expression on his bust. The golden face was identical to the other artefacts. All carbon dated and DNA tested for authenticity, these priceless treasures were part of the museum’s extensive collective of ancient memorabilia. The Spaniard was keen to discuss his discovery’s future…

“You have given back to the world a priceless link in our country’s fractured historical puzzle, Mr Harames,” remarked Director Ptolmec Kissentsta ─ head of research. “My research informs me that the curse placed upon Mahmood’s disrespected soul is what caused the disappearance of his magnificent effigy, some four-and-a-half millennia ago!” The seasoned scientist peered frugally over his silver-rimmed spectacles. “Can we come to a realistic agreement for him?”

“Immortality perhaps. Maybe a journey into the afterlife?” joked Alex.

“That privilege is one only for the Pharaohs, Mr Harames,” laughed Ptolmec. “Let us speak in United States dollars, shall we?”

Alex rubbed his fingers across the hieroglyphics around its base trying to feel the sheer age of his sculpture and read into its history. He wasn’t a greedy individual but knew what it meant to the Cairo-based museum. A great deal of money was offered for the relic, which he accepted. An advance of fifty-thousand American dollars was paid for expenses, with the remainder to be transferred to his bank account after he returned home to Spain.

Alex phoned Olivia with the good news. “Yes, I have accepted several million for old King FCM,” he boasted. “You won’t mind if I stay in Cairo for a week or two to celebrate, darling? There are some formalities to go over, plus photographs for the museum’s records etc. You and the kids can come over if you like.”

“If you really feel it necessary to stay, Alex, go right ahead. I fully understand how elated about the whole thing you must be feeling. You were right all along and I was wrong. We shan’t come. Just enjoy yourself but be careful and don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

“Nobody knows anything, Olivia. It has been all kept very secretive. Ptolmec Kissentsta, the director of research is a wonderful man who, due to its value, insisted upon complete discretion. I am simply going to relax for a while in a high-class hotel. Maybe take a day trip excursion on the Nile…”

“Sure. Have fun,” she blessed. “See you when you return. I’ll arrange a party for us!”

He smiled like a cat with its mouth full of mouse. “Bye Darling.”

After two days of officialdom and governmental formalities, Alex Harames decided to take his Nile River cruise. The mystique of Egyptian culture had begun to tug at his emotions. The country was immersed with ancient tradition, much like his home of Spain, only in a different way. Now that money was no object, he decided to see as much as it had to offer in his remaining few days. The enormity of this ambling river was overpowering. The pyramids took his breath away. The endless chain of eateries, bazaars and coffee houses engulfed his exotic culinary desires. The antediluvian fabric of a humble society, so old and yet so untamed. The contrary of his hotel room – so clean and upmarket.

One evening, Alex saw an enticing promotional leaflet in the foyer’s stand. It caught his eye. It read: ‘Explore the charismatic sights of Khartoum! Home of the Gateway to the story of Scheherazade in… “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights” ─ don’t miss out.’  He folded it up and pocketed the glossy brochure. He was hooked like a majestic Black Marlin.

Sitting at a bar in an older part of downtown Khartoum, feeling like a man with the world at his feet, Alex was approached by an exotic woman. She was ferociously attractive, with eyes like burning sapphires and a waistline you could fit a dog’s collar around. Alex was mesmerized by the female stranger, who made herself at home at his table. In a miasma of smoke and wild African music, they shared half a bottle of blue agave Tequila, her black-as-a-raven’s-feathers hair shone under the full moon. Her silken dress did little to camouflage what supported it. Through his mind raced the words of the promotional leaflet. Through his veins rushed the hot blood of a Spaniard. Through his conscience ran the spirit of what had gotten him there in the first place. However, he never told her anything about the almost-priceless golden sculpture.

Intelligent but foolish Alex couldn’t resist the smoothness of her bronzed flesh…

Her name, or so she told him, was Rhianna. A woman from a nearby town. They romanced for five days straight and enjoyed breakfast afterwards at a small café not far from the bar where they’d originally met. His betaken mind remained empty of any thoughts of Olivia. Forsaking his cell phone, he had even forgotten to call her or even return the ones she was sending. Rhianna had him totally and utterly. Alex was spending his money on her with reckless abandon. On the sixth day, Rhianna, after breakfast said:

“You haven’t told me that much about yourself, and I really don’t know exactly what it is that I find so attractive about you.”

“Nor I you,” he replied, barely able to shake his vision from her beauty ─ cheating hands clasping tightly around her wrists.

“Do you think we might have a future together?” enquired the naïve local.

“Let me think about it. You are headed uptown today, aren’t you?” He stared wantonly into her oblivious blue pits of adultery, trying to rationalize what the hell he was doing. “I’ll see you this afternoon at the usual spot, at 5 pm. I shall tell you everything, Rhianna. Yes, I do think I love you!”

“And I love you too, Alex.” She kissed him hard on the lips. The vixen disappeared towards the marketplace, vanishing like a gust of hot desert wind.

But at 5 pm Alex was not waiting for her in their usual spot…

Within an hour of her departure, Alex was brutally murdered at the café by three men. So swift and silent was the strike, that the offenders escaped without identification. The men had thrust him without provocation or any seemingly apparent motive, with blades of steel. Alex was dead before he hit the ground. In a touch of incredible irony, when his post-mortem DNA was checked, it was discovered that Alex Harames was of a very similar chromosome code to the one preserved in the remains of Freesias Chrysies Mahmood. Undisputedly, he had to be a 4600-year-old, to the power of God only knows how many times, great-grandson. It appears that the pitiless curse of his many-aeons-past grandmother, Queen Ribuckalmahn, is flourishing and still being brutally adhered to.

When Olivia received the Cairo Police’s tragic news, albeit, without knowledge about his infidelity, she contacted Ptolmec Kissentsta, only to discover that the splendid statue had vanished into thin air on the same night as his death. Perhaps it had returned to The Valley of the Kings?

The full remuneration payment was stopped. Alex’s bonanza had left Olivia with no money, no husband and no explanation…

 

Ten-minute thriller, ten-second fantasy or momentary spectre… You decide!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

This account should tug on the heart-strings of even the frostiest of individuals.

     Think you’re pretty resilient?

         Okay… this challenge is meant for you!

                Dare to make it to the end?

 

“Gone with the Angels”

By Stephen James

 

Just as this story’s title would suggest, the conjured thoughts of an individual’s tragic loss, immediately spring to mind. There is probably no greater test for the durability of our resolve than overcoming the loss of someone close to us. Sometimes it knits the survived even closer. And sometimes it rips them apart. See how you go with this one…

The day Gwendoline and Jerry Forsythia gave life to their first-born, a healthy cheeky-faced boy with hair the colour of barley straw, they envisaged a life of happiness lying ahead. They named him Timmy after her father, Timothy Edwin Strolling. The baby was large for a newborn, much like her father was a colossus of a man, hence the naming in his honour. Timmy learned things very quickly, soon becoming able to talk to his parents with astonishing maturity. Visiting family members fussed over his attractive bright personality. Two years later, their home in South Carolina again experienced elation, when a gorgeous baby girl was brought home from the hospital. She had fair hair and an olive complexion. The tiny tot was the spitting-image of Gwendoline. Timmy stared down at her in the crib in disbelief of her loveliness. It was the spring of 2013. The young Forsythia family forged a simple but loving life together. Their needs were humble, but their love provided the family with strength and resilience. This strength ensured attentions were not side-tracked by the materialistic pressures that burden mainstream modern society. Theirs was a template which prospered through kindness, was strengthened by trust, and flourished where others struggled. The town of Lexington painted a perfect back-drop for their virtues to uphold. Most of the townspeople knew Gwendoline, as a point of actual fact, her father Timothy had once been the Mayor.

Four years on, Gwendoline felt a third bump in her tummy and grew excited. But she was not prepared for the years ahead…

Pretty-faced Amy had a huge collection of stuffed furry animals ─ all in bright colours. Her father, Jerry, spoilt her as a reward for his lack of time spent with the child, due to his work commitments as a police officer. How could he not? Her two blond ponytails poking out sideways, aside of that face of perfection, left him spellbound. Sapphire-blue eyes twinkling with innocence ─ melted his paternal heart. She oozed an unrivalled infant allure. Add to this a soft-as-honey voice, as bright and happy as a thousand dancing fairies. Yes, little Amy was the centre of his orbit. In her room frolicked this imaginary farmyard of synthetic companions. Amongst them were twelve teddy bears, three giraffes, a dog, a cat, two elephants, four unicorns, a hippo, a gorilla and three other types of monkeys all in varying poses. Jerry would often have to wait his turn in line to converse with her under her bed. He would climb beneath the lacy valance and squash in beside her, sharing the cool glow from her mushroom-shaped light shining on all their little faces. She played with them all equally, except for one who conjured slight favouritism. This creature was like none of the others, which tucked easily under her tiny arm. It was a huge pure white Polar bear named Snowbell. She was the very first cuddly toy Amy ever received. The infant did not remember first getting Snowbell ─ because, at the time, Amy was only one. All she had been told was that her brother Timmy had saved up all his pocket money for two years to get the great big soft bear. He was the one who had told her that the Polar bear was really alive. Every night, she and the whole collection would have a big discussion about who did what today and with whom. Amy used a different voice for each animal and never got any of them mixed up. Her mother would stand by the bedroom door watching her beautiful little daughter chattering away with her furry best friends.

Spotted pink wallpaper surrounded a richly-pink bedspread which now straddled a big person’s bed. She was so very proud after her fourth birthday when her mum and dad had allowed her to upgrade to a proper ensemble. Naturally, her sheets were also of the lightest shade of pink, in an effort to throw some contrast into her room. Amy’s bedroom was always kept immaculately tidy, regardless of how much time she spent placing the creatures on and off her bed, or on the carpet next to her doll’s house. Timmy had helped his father construct the house, also adding his own touch of paint. The little girl did not share a lot of time with her three dollies, saying they were not that nice to cuddle. She much preferred the stuffed animals. Each day when Amy would go to kindy, she would take with her a different friend, but since Snowbell was nearly as big as Amy, she had never made the journey. Before leaving, the charming infant would place each wide-eyed face at the toe of her bed and tell it to wait for her to get home. Whichever’s turn it was to go with her was tucked carefully under her arm. Cautious to keep them clean, Amy sat the lucky one at the back of her classroom until it was time to be picked up by her mother. On arrival back at home, she would dash straight for the group to talk about her day. “Time to go back on your shelf!” she would smile, like the first day she had met it. Then turn to place its fuzzy feet or bottom carefully into position. “Now you can sit here, Mickey,” she would say to the crouching monkey. “You can stand over here, Shaggy Bear,” as the one without swivels took his place on the third shelf. “Where would you like to sit today, Big Ears and Big Nose?” as the two grey elephants were scooped up in her arms. Each name was called, and each answered her obediently, in his or her voice. Snowbell, who took up the most room always came last. Sometimes the gigantic Polar bear would be allowed to stay on her pillow, if she’d been good that day.

Jerry would come home late sometimes and play with her and her friends. He loved Amy so much that his patient demeanour allowed her to explain what they had all been up to, sitting on the shelves he had built in her room. These shelves increased in number as her fluffy family grew.

Big brother Timmy protected his sister from anyone or anything that tried to upset her in some way. The boy did not baby her, knowing full well as when it had been his turn to learn, the rules for all applied equally. If she fell, he let her cry. After she’d finished crying he would sit and explain where she had gone wrong. If she lost something he guided her on where to find it. If she ever asked a question of him, Timmy would first think then answer in her way of understanding things. As time rolled its merry way along towards her fifth birthday, and the bump in their mother’s tummy grew to a beholding sight, autumn covered the small town in her blanket of golden-brown leaves. Timmy would take his intrigued sister for a thirty-minute walk most afternoons, hands clasped tightly together, her voice asking question after question of him. Each time, the siblings took the same route, most times little Amy would ask the same questions. She adored nature, especially the small wild animals which made the surrounding parklands their home. Her pouting little face would stare up at the gigantic trees, searching for movement. Amy was enamoured by the beauty of their enormity, but was overwhelmed as to how and why all the leaves let go after changing colour. One of her favourite games was watching and waiting, till a bunch fluttered down past her face. Through a priceless smile, she would giggle and try to catch the feathery golden airborne treasures. Any caught were brought home to show Gwen and Jerry when he arrived. After which they were shared-out amongst the toy animals, who all commented back to her about the pretty colours from the edge of her bed.

As winter swapped places with autumn, the next metamorphosis, comprising of a fat layer of white snow collecting upon everything, spurred the infant’s inquisitive nature into action. “Where does it all come from, Timmy? Why is it white? Who makes it all? Can we take some home to show Mummy?” The lad struggled to find answers for her. Together they strolled past the awesome frozen beauty, coats and gloves, at Amy speed. Timmy shared this time with his little sister ─ sensing something was wrong. He knew they may not have long together.

Then the dreadful day arrived. The loss was devastating…

One night, after Amy had been separated from her brother Timmy, she found herself crying in her bed. She sat up and began calling for her mother, but she wasn’t answering. Again and again, she cried out, with little success. Their parents’ bedroom door, although shut, was only across the hallway. She had been told not to disturb them in the middle of the night – unless it was very important. Well, loneliness is very important, especially for a little girl.

Her mother had told her that the angels had separated them forever. A nasty wicked witch called leukaemia had cast a spell, shattering the tight-knit family. They had all fought it hard but the spell was too strong. This had happened only last week and the confused little girl wasn’t handling it very well. And so, Snowbell absorbed the bulk of her tears this particular night, along with an hour’s discussion about how unfair it all was. After Timmy had left, Gwen had told her that Snowbell had said that she felt a very special soul come down from heaven and pass into her big chubby white body. Amy cuddled her polar bear’s broad neck and fell asleep whispering into her big curvy ear.

For this first terrible traumatic week, she was permitted to stay at home from school. It was a very difficult adjustment to have to make. She missed his voice. She missed his hugs. She missed holding his slightly-bigger hand. She was missing everything about him. Life to Amy felt cold and empty now. When it was time to resume classes, she had decided not to place her animals out anymore. Only Snowbell was allowed access to her bed. The rest stayed still on the shelving. None of the creatures sat at the end of her bed waiting for her to come home from school.  None of her creatures went with her to school. Gone were the lengthy discussions with her father under her bed, sharing the glow of the spotty red and white mushroom light. After Timmy left, at school, she never spoke a word to the other children about him. Gwen and Jerry tried desperately to console the heart-broken child. Even the promise of a new baby sister, about to arrive any minute, failed to rekindle the once-eager youngster’s enthusiasm.

At six o’clock one evening after the family had finished eating, Gwendoline was heading down the hallway with some clean folded washing. She hesitated outside Amy’s door looking in, hand on her pregnant tummy. She turned and called back to the dining table. “Did either of you place all of these animals back at the end of the bed?” her expression was a frowning stare. “And take Snowbell away for any particular reason?”

“No. It wasn’t me,” replied Jerry. Her stare shifted a little.

“No, I didn’t either,” came the second answer. “Why Mummy?”

“Because, much as I would like to believe they are real… How do we explain this?”

Jerry joined his lovely wife by the door and Timmy stood between them. Their eyes were treated to a picnic-like meeting of colourful fur balls all facing one another. How on earth did they get from the shelf to the bed? The creatures seemed to look happier than usual…

“Honestly Mummy,” said Amy’s distraught brother. The last remaining image of her pretty little smiling face before passing away, as if life was such a party, locked deeply-within his mind. “You know I would never touch them without asking her. Especially now that she has gone with the angels!” The merciless disease had taken her.

The remanence of the family stared, wiping away their rolling tears, through the open doorway into the empty-of-her-presence room’s pink aura. On the wall, staring back, hung a large photograph of that same face which Timmy’s mind was seeing. He was a shattered mess.

But Snowbell was nowhere to be seen…

Buckle-Up readers… your next chilling ten-minute thriller!!!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

There’s nothing like an unsolved mystery to keep your

     inquisitive nose poked toward the what-ifs!

          Sleuthing is for anyone who dares…

                Or is it?

 

“An Axeman to the Rescue?”

by Stephen James

 

                Solving murder is a specialist’s job. It certainly is not an enviable task, well… not for the layman or lily-livered fainthearted kind. Think if you wish, about the unknown possibilities or probabilities available, not to mention the sight ─ after discovery, many hours thereafter. Accusations, would-be, could-be, and may-bes begin to flourish as new evidence emerges.
Unless that is, of course, there isn’t any…

A lean brindle and white Staffordshire bull terrier dog lay across a mound of soil. He wasn’t fidgeting in any way. Just… lying there. It was a scorcher and he looked tired. The metre-high mound carried a wisp of bush-couch that really could have used the same water as this poor old dog. He was miles from anywhere. The time is now, but this tale goes back a long way. Thargomindah is an outback town in Queensland Australia. The last official census, back in 2016 declared 270 to be the population. The shire of Bulloo, where the fractionally-just-above a whistle-stop town rests, is 1,100 kilometres west of Brisbane. Time moves slowly out here. Visitors are scarce. Everyone knows practically everyone, and their memories go deep. It’s hot. It’s dry. It’s dusty.

… And, a traveller who suddenly caught sight of the animal, pulls up in the red outback dust. The drifting cloud swamps the dog, but he doesn’t flinch an ear. He steps out, FWD door is left open. “What’s up fella? You look a little lost.” He offered his inverted hand. “I have a drink for you.” He unscrewed his drink-bottle, saw it was low and poured it into his palm. The dog lapped feverishly till the bottle was empty. The stranger ruffled the dog’s ears with the palm of his hand. When done, the good-Samaritan tried to encourage the pooch off the mound and into his truck. No dice. A growl sufficed to tell him to move on. He left his five-minute-friend, to head for town. The dog watched him leave then re-rested his head between his paws.

Half-an-hour’s drive sat his truck outside The Bent Horseshoe Motel, where the traveller stood booking his next week’s accommodation, listening to the answers to his questions.

“You see, ‘e used to belong to Katie Mulling-Brown,” yarned the motel’s owner, cigarette in his mouth, beer in his hand. “She was the daughter of old Sid and Daphne Mulling-Brown. Never came back to town after she went missing. Some folks say he’s been seen layin’ out there somewhere. But, you’re the first to say he let ya touch him. Don’t know how he’d survive. Poor thing. His name was Axeman. She had an imagination, did young Katie. Stay away friend, that’s all I can say. Rumour has it she was murdered… Nothing’s been proven. No body. No evidence. Just a few stories about boy trouble. Hostile stuff and very loud arguments. She probably lives out at Cunnamulla now. Bloody dog’s most likely waitin’ for ‘er. Like I said before. It was over three years ago now, folks have all but forgotten. Most just ‘aven’t forgiven her for walkin’ out on her mutt!”

“Police investigate?”

“Nah. We only got one cop. He’s busy handing out the odd traffic ticket and enjoying a beer or two. We usually chip in for each other for any traffic offences, then Stan brings the cash into the bar! Everybody’s friendly ‘round here. Ya have ta be, matey.”

“All sound’s way too spooky for me, fella. I’ve come here to look for work. I’m just a bloody stockman. Reckon she may return after all. I sure hope so. Poor bastard,” said the man, thinking about the dog and how far back on the main road he had left him.

The motel owner offered a steely stare, then spoke beside his mouthed cigarette, eyes squinting from its tip’s swirling smoke. “Have a good stay, pal. Good luck finding work.”

“Thanks for the heads up, mate,” replied the weary roamer. “It’s a good story none-the-less!” He gathered his bag and trudged off to the humble lodgings, thinking; People don’t get murdered all the way out here. Too many spies to get away with that!

At six-fifteen the following morning, the man was awoken by a noise outside his motel room’s door. He wiped the road grime from his eyes and opened the weathered door.

“What the devil?” he whispered. His early-morning eyes locking-on with the Staffordshire’s sallow dark pair behind it, tail wagging. “How did you know where to…? More importantly Why in Heaven’s name?” The dog circled the small floor rug and yelped quietly several times. More water and the man’s half-eaten dinner were quickly disposed of. “Now what?” asked the man, watching the estranged-minded dog leap into his truck’s rear tray, with a bark. “Got nowhere to go?” More barking. “Got something to show me?” He unlocked the cab, let the hound scamper aboard and headed back to where they’d met, under barked instructions. Once there, the battle-scarred animal leapt from the window and fussed over the mound. The stockman had nowhere else to turn. After his recently made acquaintance, his mind was now intimately involved. The humble man-of-the-land was as tough as goat’s knees ─ he had seen it all in his days and not many things could ruffle his feathers. This was a fellow who’d be very useful to have in your corner.

An hour’s digging of the mound did not reveal a body, such as the thoughts running the gauntlet of his mind had predetermined. The man whose massive frame made his shovel appear like a teaspoon, persisted, inspired by the panache of his yelping four-legged teacher. Carefully he tilled through the compacted soil. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. At last, an object appeared in the sun. But it was not what he had expected…

A little bit of finesse soon exposed a length of chain. At one end was a loop of links, at the other a tatty collar. Axeman pounced into life, seizing the collar between his teeth. “Poor old bastard,” he said to the dog ─ mind an avalanche with negative thoughts about how Katie must have dumped it and her dog, to escape her ill-fated love life. “Is this yours? S’pose you want me to take you for a walk now, hey fella?” Axeman did not yield his old chain. Instead, he leapt back into the FWD’s cab and nose-pointed through the windscreen. “I’m Jake, in case you didn’t know,” he mentioned, almost believing the dog could understand. “What the hell is it this time? Where to? What is it that you know?” Jake grew suspicious but believed the town’s lawman to be disinterested.

He followed the dog’s crude yapping instructions. In an area which comprises of about as many roads, as occasions when a lawyer undercharges you, a simple nose-pointing woof here and there easily guided them to a quiet destination. He shut off the motor. Jake accidentally bumped his truck’s horn. Axeman dropped the dirt-clogged leash onto Jake’s lap, who now sat fondling the chain while looking sideways out the window at a tired wooden house. It had a feverishly-rusting corrugated-iron roof. The house sat about eighty metres down a gravel driveway, beyond a locked three-barred timber gate. Man-mountain Jake felt fairly secure beside his new four-legged pal. However, it did not stop him from wondering why he had allowed himself to become involved. He took a heavy breath and stared. The canine whined with importance in his doggy voice as Jake looked down at him.

Within seconds the front door opened, revealing an unshaven man in his sixties, of average height and stature. “What do you want?” he shouted, without leaving the shallow front porch.

“I’m just taking a look around, friend!” Jake hollered back. “Looking for work!”

“You won’t find any here mister. Now, get going!” The veteran’s voice was aggressive and had an unpleasant dismissive tone associated.

Axeman growled, just out of sight, below the dashboard. “Easy fella,” said Jake, cautioned by the dog’s response to the man’s rudeness also.

“What’s going on, Pop, is it trouble?” asked a much younger man who’d arrived alongside the older man. He was carrying a rifle. Axeman elevated his angst, staying out of sight.

“I know when I’m not welcome!” yelled Jake, starting his engine. “So long gentlemen!”

Back at his room, at The Bent Horseshoe Motel, he lay on the bed thinking – Axeman by his side. Do I go to the police and tell the only person in town who seems likely to listen? Or is this animal simply planting false ideas into my head? Stan, I believe his name was…

“We’ll go and see him tomorrow, fella. It is the best way,” he said, patting the grungy old mutt on his head. Axeman whined as if agreeing. “But for tonight, you wait here. I am going to the local. Check out if I can scrounge up some work.” Axeman shot a short sharp yap back and rested his head between his paws. Jake dozed off with the chain and collar on the bed beside him.

At 6.00 pm, after showering, Jake drove through the heart of the outback town and chose one of the pubs. A weathered sign hung on an angle from its searing roof swaying in the hot evening breeze displaying the name; The Last Watering Hole Hotel. He heard its internal rowdiness before climbing from his cab. A stale smell of spilt beer wafted from the door. It brought back memories for Jake, who’d been off the wagon for over a year, since his wife Mel had passed away. It was casual work that had brought him here to these ramshackle digs, not liquor. In his dinner-plate sized hand, the burley-shouldered stockman carried Axeman’s collar and chain. It coiled around his wrist. He’d figured it might come in handy, if any trouble started. The murmur settled slightly when his massive frame ducked through the doorway, but soon rekindled when he smiled heartily to the locals, hat in hand. Across the room, Jake noticed a policeman’s uniform. Inside it stood the cantankerous stranger who’d sent him packing hours earlier. He was joking around with a small group of dirty-looking men and two rough-edged women. Their raucous laughter rose above the rest of the bar’s occupants. The policeman did not acknowledge any recognition. Jake simply figured that he must have not seen his face earlier, and so, saw the opportunity to introduce himself more formally and on more amicable terms. Perhaps book a meeting for tomorrow to inform him of his odd findings. He approached the group. “My name’s Jake MacOrigan, sir. Don’t know if you remember, but earlier on today we met.”

“OH, really? Where did we meet, Mr MacOrigan?” asked the officer, shaking Jake’s outstretched hand. His stare fixed firmly on the coiled links and thick studded-leather collar.

“I think I may have been at your place by a coincidence. But it doesn’t matter now. My mistake. Can I see you about something tomorrow?”

“Sure. Name’s Stan. PC Stan Mason, it stands for Police Chief, not Police Constable, okay? I’d say you were over at my brother, Vincent’s. Not a very friendly guy. He’s my older brother, we’re often mistaken by passers-by. Nine in the morning do you?’ His eyes still fixed incongruously downwards.

“I’ll be there, sir, on the button…”

“Where did ya get that from, Mr MacOrigan?” He nodded at Jake’s arm.

“It just turned up. I found it. I only liked it because it reminded me of a dog I once had. Keeps me thinking of him. Nostalgia reasons. No other. Why Stan?”

“My brother was a friendly bloke… till our sister’s son came to town several years back. What a handful he turned out to be. Victor moved in and Vincent changed. Never came out much. He won’t even talk to me! The deranged kid used to walk a dog around here. Exact same chain. I’d know it anywhere… It was his girlfriend at the time’s dog, though. Haven’t seen the girl or the dog for quite a while. See, she took off to Cunnamulla and took her mutt with her. Naturally, Victor is upset. Nobody bothers them and they rarely come to town. Works for us all.”

The stockman felt an urgent suspicion mounting in his brain but his manner was smooth to cover it. “It all sounds like a movie storyline to me. I just arrived in town to look for work. No point in meddling in new-town politics. I’ll see you at nine and we’ll discuss some other minor issues.” They shook hands and Jake wheeled away to leave.

“Jake!” The tubby middle-aged cop said. “Whatever you do when you leave, just be careful.”

“Thanks, I’ll take your blessing, grab some tucker here and crash for the night. Been a long day.” He knew this afternoon’s rest would serve him well. He was damned glad the dog was still back at The Bent Horseshoe Motel ─ that one he couldn’t explain. Not enough time. For certain something just wasn’t right. He discerned she may still be alive. The big question was, where?

Jake grabs a hasty over-the-counter meal, then saunters out, jumps in his truck and heads back to the house, several kilometres out of town. He knew the way and couldn’t think of anywhere better to start. What would be behind the gate? Would they both let him in? He smelt the stench of an ugly capital T ─ in trouble. If there is any sign of a girl, would she even be alive? Or dead? Or what? Or is this a wild goose chase? I must try…

He climbed the triple-barred gate and began sneaking toward the low-lit structure. Silence was his friend. As was the darkness. Jake figured as he tiptoed; I’ll have to find a rear entrance first, tread carefully and be ready for anything.

As he found the faint glow of a moth-filled porch light, a whimper caught his ear. The feeble attempt at calling-out emanated from a secondary structure further into the darkness. The call grew louder. Jake took a gamble on the house’s occupants versus the unknown situation happening inside the scruffy cobwebbed back shed. He had no time for fear. He scurried for the wall. A glimpse through a smeary window showed him just enough. Inside, under candlelight, Jake could make out the silvery metallic outline of a cage. It was a two-metre by three-metre enclosure, approximately. A woman was inside but nobody else was around. She looked dirty, tired and unhealthily thin. She had the same dog collar around her neck which was in his hand. It was chained to the cage’s bars. Same chain also. Her shabby clothes were practically non-existent. Relief flushed his body with keenness ─ she’s alive! Katie Mulling-Brown was being held captive by the young man and his demented father. He shuddered at the thought of what they may have done to her…

Jake stabbed his elbow to break the window and climbed through. He could see a large padlock’s curved chrome bar feeding snuggly through the door’s metal loops. The young woman, who was lying on her side, wobbled her head up and gave him a gratified half-smile. Jake reached for a crowbar which hung neatly beside some other corroded garden tools. He put it down when his eyes found a huge axe. His mind raced. This will blast straight through it.

The sound it made when he crunched through, in one massive blow, would have woken-up ‘The Ghost of the Lake at Thargomindah’. (But that is a whole other story).

Next thing, a door behind him allows a shard of light to pierce the candle’s glow. A thud across Jake’s neck knocks him to the ground. He falls heavily and immediately a further succession of thuds by what felt like a sports bat or similar piece of wood, like a rifle’s butt. Jake could hear two distinct male voices but it was a blur what they were saying. He felt dizzy and his breathing was subdued with a cloth rag. The girl called out. “NO!” Jake had not been sufficiently careful.

Then it happened…

A crash-of-glass brought the rest of the window in. Four brindle feet hit the shed floor. An angry canine had come to help. The power of his jaw locked-on to the arm which carried the rifle. It fell free of his grasp. The dog’s momentum had knocked Victor off his feet. Vincent tried to hinder Axeman. The dog, having no part of that, went ballistic between both men using his ferocious gnashing jawbones to their absolute pinnacle. Victor went for the gun. Axeman latched on. Both were forced to cower in the corner or suffer blood loss. In gingerly fashion, Jake scrambled to his feet and ripped the cage door open. He could see another much-smaller padlock, holding her leather collar duplicate tightly around her neck. A bowl of water sat just out of her reach. She looked terrified. Jake twisted the lock in his bare hands, in due course, managing to tear the steel ring completely away from its bindings. Katie dove straight for the water. Her immersed face guzzled as if death was only minutes away. He gave her time, using it wisely by seizing Victor’s rifle. He checked its breach was loaded. The dog’s growling was deafening. “You right to go?” She nodded. He picked her up and shouted, “Axeman! You keep them here till I give you the word! Then follow us. Got it?”

Axeman spun his body in acknowledgement, knowing he could trust him completely. A brief pause in his growling sent Jake on his way, He placed her inside the truck and grabbed his worn-out mobile telephone. It was just un-prehistoric enough to have a camera. He returned to fire-off pictures of the shed’s interior until his battery faded. “C’mon boy!” he called. Axeman backed away very cautiously, his yellowy eyes affixed on the men’s bloodied limbs. Jake shouted, with venom in his tone – eyes of resentment. “If either of you tries to follow. I’ll kill you stone dead. Is that perfectly clear?”

They left the premises and the town that night, driving past The Last Watering Hole Hotel on their way. Katie had been rescued by her own dog. Jake never did score any work in Thargomindah. They never even saw a lake on the way out of town, either. The gutsy stockman emailed the photographs to Stan, at nine o’clock the next day, with an explanation and an apology for not showing up. Axeman and Jake are now inseparable.

…And I believe Katie thinks quite a good deal of Jake MacOrigan, also.

Another ten-minute thriller! “Mister Imperative”

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

I hope you are ready for this week’s story…

   I love a good hurry story, don’t you?

Hot-blooded egos… places to go, people to see,

appointments to be kept, deadlines to meet!!!

But, at what cost???

“Mister Imperative”

“Never get you ambitions confused with your capabilities!” say the cautious. “Always aim higher than your target!” encourage the wise. “You snooze… you lose!” inspire the eager. You be the judge on which best fits this quirky little storyline…

The time was 7.15 am. The place was Gold Coast Queensland. The date was 19th March 2008. An early morning storm had funnelled its way through the state’s south-east corner. No serious damage ─ just a couple of ghost gums down, the remanence of flash-flooding, and the odd sheet of dislodged corrugated iron roofing sheet still flapping against wherever it had landed. Apart from these expected fragments of collateral damage, the drizzling had begun to subside, thus the busy week-day could resume as normal. It was warm but still overcast. The still-wet roads glistened. Early-morning suburban coffee shop owners had set up their beckoning-signs, along with the outside furniture. Excited, pavement-hustling commuters started to infiltrate their way from the dry-comfort of their kitchens to their cars and bus shelters. One such commuter was Terry Skylark-Smith. At this exact moment, he stood in his rented house’s kitchen gulping down the strong cup of instant coffee he had made to cure last night’s mild hangover. ‘Imperative Terry’ his mates all used to call him – because everything he pursued was attacked at full-throttle.

Terry was very proud of his hyphenated surname. “Got a touch of class about it!” he would often be heard saying, when new acquaintances bothered to make the inquiry. His current girlfriend, Layla Vanstone, had already left for work at six. She was a nurse. Thirty-two-year-old Terry, a qualified computer systems analyst had fallen victim to a company downsize situation, received a small payout for his five years of loyal service, and hit the dole queue with alarming dissatisfaction. In his eyes, he figured himself to be one of the best in the business. A resource of compelling magnitude to any firm lucky enough to inaugurate his services, whose previous lucrative positions had all surfaced through word-of-mouth recommendation. At this point in time, things had dried-up somewhat. Still suffering the consequences of the Global Financial Crisis, Australia, like most economies, was reeling on the slow road to recovery. Nevertheless, he knew the importance of being gainfully employed, therefore had buried himself deeply amongst the scant echelons of career opportunities on offer on the job search websites. Never one to stoop to the lowly stigma of being kept by a woman, Terry had secured an interview at 8.00 am sharp, at Elphinstone and Montgomery, a trusted financial planning corporation. He knew that there would be the usual Noah’s Ark queue of applicants lining-up outside the enrolling officer’s door, so a good impression must precede his stupefying qualifications, in order to land the position. Terry had spoken in person the previous day with Gustave Elphinstone, the son and now chief human resources person at the huge company. “As you are more than aware young man, things are the tightest they’ve been for decades, especially for an investment firm such as ours,” he’d stipulated, in his unique honey-soaked timbre. “If you are as worthy as your resume speaks, you have a good shot with us. I don’t have to tell you how important it is for us to secure the dedications of the correct person for the job.”

Gustave’s gracious and direct, but punctual, manner mirrored Terry’s own. Armed with his good-looks and outrageously-priced Amani suit, imperative Mr Skylark-Smith rode with a master-class surfboarder style on a wave of confidence, he knew he would win the jostle against all the other applicants. He glanced at his cellphone after texting; wish me luck, to Layla, only noticing there and then, quite how late he’d left it to make the close-to-peak-hour trip into Ashmore. His house was at Currumbin Waters, usually a good forty minutes at best to get to the growing business mecca, near Surfers Paradise. The astute-minded systems analyser had asked for the earliest appointment possible, hoping to beat the extra clog created by the school kid’s traffic. Terry was a very competent driver. He had to be. The Gold Coast’s M1 is one of the premier traffic-choked highways in the entire state. Wrestling with the busy motorway’s early-morning mayhem had become but mere gravy on his meal during the previous five years spent working for his previous employer. He knew all the craftiest techniques to get the upper hand on all the mobile chicanes out there (one of his favourite sayings). Terry exploited these practices to their maximum.

He downed his coffee, grabbed his jacket and slender briefcase, swiped the car keys from the hallway table, and scurried to his awaiting scarlet-coloured 2006 BMW 5 series. Need a good run, he thought to himself, inserting the motivational self-speak audio disc into its slot. Before he had even made it to the arterial road, the pleasant sounds of Marjorie Pullman’s positive mantras were filling his ears with annotations on how to be the best you that you can be. As luck would have it, Terry, carried on the sturdy back of belief of the voice’s reassuring affirmations, whisked his way towards the main carriageway ahead of time. His smile widened, adventurous mind picturing the cover-girl looks of Marjorie Pullman, whose arousing velvety voice pitted perfectly with her beauty, whom he had seen speak live at the Convention Centre six months prior. He blended onto the three-lane M1 and immediately crossed into the fast lane. The usual procession of tradesman’s utility trucks and white vans littered his path, their rattling ladders and toolboxes blanketed by Pullman’s downy intonations. Ducking and weaving ─ weaving and ducking, Terry interlaced past them with the seasoned precision of a rally-driver, the speed-limit was one-hundred kilometres-per-hour, and he was entitled to it. At last it thinned-out a little allowing one hand to grasp the wheel, the other grooming his blue-black hair.  A string of caravan hauling holiday-makers crawling along in the far left lane posed no problem.

Until he glanced at his fuel gauge…

“Oh no!” the hurrying driver said out loud, noticing his car was about to attempt to get there on mere fumes. “Damn bloody hell. I knew I should have checked yesterday. What are we gonna do Marjorie?” he asked, half-expecting the wizard-of-success to supply an easy answer. Do I risk it or stop for petrol? Cost me ten minutes at least! His thoughts angered, doing the calculation.

A service station waved a tempting arrowed sign in his vision about two-hundred metres ahead. He optimistically guesstimated, deciding to speed past its entrance ─ the bowsers looking at him like an oasis in the Sahara. Suddenly the rows of tail-lights up ahead began to illuminate. “Darn it. Brake lights!” Most of the vehicles he had flown past began to drift back past him at the logjam. Some drivers even grinning at him. They had observed his unmistakable scarlet blur shoot past five or ten kilometres back. The BMW’s digital dashboard clock now read 7.40 am. Skylark-Smith knew that there was a carpark out front of Elphinstone and Montgomery, but he also knew how far he still had to go. The time and distance simply weren’t going to add up. Another fact he was fully aware of was that crawling traffic made his car a good deal thirstier. He wanted this job. He simply had to get there. He came to a standstill. Pressure began to mount in his head. His pulse raced with rage. The steering wheel became a drum. He hated this and no longer cared about Marjorie bloody Pullman!

A brilliant move not yet needed, was the old driving up the emergency-stopping lane. He knew this section had a fairly broad one. Terry squeezed his car in between a pairing of nose-to-tail angry motorists, nearly scraping their vehicles to get by. He manoeuvred out to the shoulder of bitumen and planted it. His grin returned as he pulled up behind a like-minded Harley-Davidson rider ─ the impatient pair coasting past dozens of frustrated faces. An even bigger smile swept across his face upon seeing the reason for this delay up ahead. The police were attending a crash. In front of it was clear sailing. His illegal manoeuvre had to be thwarted. Terry quickly ducked back in to blend with the gradually-accelerating exasperated mob. He zigzagged his getaway-path to leave them in his wake. In the process, his car clipped the front of another commuter, focussed Terry never even noticed. The angry driver watched the headlamp and indicator of her quaint little lime-green sedan tumble past her side window. She shook a fist but Terry was gone, swerving through the traffic and honking his horn, there was some serious time to be made up. The BMW was up to about seventy at least. The turnoff was only about five kilometres away now, but the dashboard clock reading 7.52 am glared him in the face like a ‘YOU HAVE JUST LOST YOUR BIG CHANCE SPORT’ neon sign. Its digits seemed to be moving swifter than he was. Again it began to bottleneck on the approach to his turnoff. Back down to a low-gear crawl, he was trapped in the wrong lane. His heart began to hammer…

Gustave Elphinstone sat at his pure white desk waiting, wondering and rehearsing his questions, but not panicking. He was fully-aware of peak-hour and its problems. He liked the sound of this Terry Skylark-Smith fellow, who had ticked every box, and had pencilled him in for the role. The interview felt like a formality, but company protocol still needed to be adhered to. As far as he was concerned the position was his to lose. The two had hit it off on the telephone. All he wanted was a reliable, well-mannered, capable person. Suddenly his phone rang. He answered. “Human resources section, Gustave Elphinstone speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Mr Elphinstone, I must apologise. It is Terry Skylark-Smith here. You know the usual, sir. The M1 is going to make me late. Please keep my seat warm. Shan’t be too long!” He spoke in a rehearsed apologetic voice, which displayed all the inflexions of grief.

“Not a problem, Terry. Thank you for letting me know. I can’t expect you to control the influences of other drivers. Just the influences of our computer systems. Hey what?” he joked, to settle the future employee’s nerves.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down! I’m probably about ten minutes away, depending.”

“If the car park is full, take my spot. It is on the far left. I came in early with Sir Frank Montgomery to prepare for the interviews. You’ll see my name-plaque near the rose garden. Bye.”

“Thank you sir. Bye.” Terry grinned. He knew he was in!

Marjorie Pullman was back through his speakers once more. She calmed the final ten minutes of his eventful trip. At last, he had made it. The impressive building loomed before him. Research had demonstrated the firm’s success and it was showing here. Terry fed his flashy vehicle into the plaque-marked spot as Gustave had asked. He stared at the fuel gauge and clasped his hands together as if thanking by prayer. His eyes turned left. Montgomery’s gold Rolls-Royce dwarfed his red car, plummeting the would-be big-shot back to Earth. Next, his eyes spun right to notice the empty space marked with a plaque of its own stating Chief Financial Advisor. “Must be where the other Rolls sits, huh Marjorie? I’ll bet the three of them sit in a row here. Probably gold silver and…”

Imperative Terry didn’t guess the last colour. Instead, the quaint little lime-green sedan, now with only one eye coasted past and filled the spot. A mousey, little, bespectacled woman wearing a business suit climbed out. I guess they all came in with the boss. Must be one of the other applicants… he thought to himself. But said, “Hello miss. Going for the job are you?”

She didn’t answer the question straight away, instead, asking him one. “Excuse me,” she hesitated, sounding like she was about to ask for a piece of stale cheese. “Are you aware that your car collided with mine on the way here, young man?” She pointed at the missing headlamp.

Terry pulled on his Amani Jacket, laughing. “Don’t be daft lady. You can’t pin that old one on me! That could have happened anytime or anywhere. Nice try, by the way, I admire your spirit, toots! But you probably just don’t know who you are talking to now. Do you?” He cockily flicked his head and straightened his tie. “Good luck with your interview. You’re going to need it!” He pressed his bleeper to lock the doors and strode off. Her pointy-faced head dropped.

After sitting and waiting beside six other nervous-looking candidates for no more than three minutes, a tubby middle-aged woman called him into Gustave Elphinstone’s office. It had been barely enough time to get his text-message away to Layla, saying; the job’s all mine! The big white desk looked like the landing-deck of an American aircraft carrier. Terry’s jaw dropped like an anvil. Behind it was Gustave’s smiling face and a mousey woman wearing glasses and a Judy Montgomery: Chief Financial Advisor logoed broach pin. She said. “Yeah, you never know who you are talking to. Do you Mr Skylark-Smith. Next please!”

“A Matter of Perception Really!”

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

I hope you are getting a feel for my mini-thrillers!

    Here’s another coffee cup challenge for you…

         Ever wondered why paying attention is so important?

 

“A Matter of Perception Really!” 

 

Just because you are looking at something, it doesn’t necessarily mean you are taking too much notice. As mortals, selective control of our senses is abundant; we see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, touch the things we like the feel of, and prefer to believe the things we choose to like best, to be correct in most cases.

A sweltering day in the small desert-fringe town of Horseshoe, New Mexico had left the ground dry and hard. The inhabitants were irritable. A slow arid breeze wasn’t helping. Swirls of dust collecting on that breeze felt like sandpaper against any soft surface. Time seemed to be slowing down. It was as if the sun had paused to hover at its most potent heat-point in the western sky. The eerie silence was deafening. As the pressure of the uncomfortable afternoon built, parched onlookers swaggered along their own paths not daring to raise the attention of any would-be enemy…

Two strangers of complete disproportionate credentials were approaching each other across the gravelly road. This road was extremely broad from shoulder to shoulder, but just by coincidence they happened to both have decided to share the exact same portion of brown dust. At a short distance, with senses raised the pair of individuals began to slow their movements. It was as if each had decided to size-up the on-comer. Patience required, heads slightly raising and lowering, the weight of aggression gradually began to build within the unlikely far-smaller of these two potential combatants. He was trying to appear cooler than a polar bear’s backside. And so, the circling commenced. The looks grew steelier. The flaring of torsos now very evident of an ensuing contest added zeal to the many observing-at-a-distance females. A clock-tower ticking at fifty metres sounded like a metronomic hammer driving an endless railway spike into the ground. Without reason, the less-aggressive larger being suddenly took it upon himself to back down. An expressionless stare started to meander in the opposite direction with its hulking body slowly following. This was observed as a cowardly move by his minuscule but wiry opponent, who by this time had begun a fidgety shuffle as if securing a solid foothold on terra firma. Now with his back being the only view visible, it appeared that the antagonistic bluffing behaviour of this pint-sized challenger had prevailed. The giant waddled off, seemingly disinterested in engaging in an exhausting battle during such a searing afternoon. Shorty was having no part of fainthearted behaviour irrespective of the temperature, he wanted a fight ─ so it was a fight he would have to start, regardless of this weak-minded foe who was now several metres away and retreating at a rapid rate of knots.

A challenge deserves to be met. A charge was initiated. The first contact deserved to be made from behind. After all, it appeared only fair considering the size discrepancy involved here. Shorty scampered swiftly across the ground landing his inaugural blow to the back of the withdrawing spineless one’s head. It was barely felt. The gigantic stride continued. Another blow and another, but this time far harder caught the attention of the docile adversary. His head stung but his legs did not buckle. Like a storm turning a calm sea into a frenzy, the huge frame spun to permit a beady stare to meet his irritating enemy. They eyed each other up in hushed tension. Their silence was suddenly severed by the sound of the mission bell echoing from its tower in the city’s centre square. Amid two ticks of the clock tower’s roaming second hand, the grappling pair suddenly embraced. Hissing fury bridled pure physical strength as the war between two complete strangers erupted. Blow after blow, cannoning off seemingly without effect was infuriating the giant. He picked up his energetic little rival and tossed him away like a feather. Back up in seconds and feeling no pain from the fall, shorty launched another attack. This time with the momentum of full speed available, he seized his chosen enemy’s midsection and latched on driving with the power of his legs. The entwined couple began rolling in the burning desert grit. Over and over they tumbled, striking, kicking, biting and scratching one another whilst scraping every extremity in the process, neither prepared to recede or allow an inkling of fear to be on display. Tiny weeps of blood dripping to the ground were absorbed by the dust in seconds. Clinched together like two rampaging stags fighting for a doe’s affections with locked antlers, they spun and heaved at their opponent’s body. Fatigue started to overcome the brute. He stopped for recovery holding his lesser-strength nemesis at bay. The clock-tower sounded the hour with four clangs of its bell…

The relentless sun was showing no mercy to the foolish display taking place in the centre of the quiet street. Fortunately for our two contemporaries, this bout of ego-driven belligerence was occurring on a Sunday, hence the traffic was practically non-existent. Perhaps for the enraged duo, an interruption via car or truck would have seen an end to the boldfaced brawl. The bell ceased its marking of the hour.

In an instant, they were back at it. Both had sensed at the interval that only one would be walking away. The gauntlet had been laid in no uncertain terms that this was to be a duel to the death. Both bodies were quivering in the heat. Sheer power began to force dominance towards the favour of the large. On the ground once more in the choking dust, he seemed primed to afflict the fatal last strike but missed. A victory chance gone begging. In truth, after ten minutes there was still no clear showing of either being dominant. If anything, the only thing dominant here was the silent hatred that both had deep inside. A clever manoeuvre by the half-sized main aggressor enabled him to break the shackles and circle in preparation for the next assault. His speed and agility were clearly superior. Lunge after lunge was beginning to impede the sluggish movements of the big guy. But, he was not done with yet, there was his pride at stake here. A virtue of principle to be won. No tiny being can possibly be permitted to saunter into his territory and demand that he step aside!

A huge grey cloud steered its way across the blazing golden ball. It altered the light slightly. The twiddling bystanders felt the change of temperature and a host of glances tilted toward the heavens. Could this bring a termination to the entanglement of arrogance on display before them? It had little effect. If anything, in fact, it seemed to re-empower both ─ well beyond their second-winds by this time. They crashed together like two atomic particles for what seemed, a last gasp of hope, at the obliteration of the others meagre existence. A trip on a stone brought the large one to his back in an agonising thud. The little guy, now straddling, had his opportunity to suppress life via strangulation or dish the fatal blows. The merciless foray began. A blur of tiny impacts ground their way onto the bulky head. Again he refused to yield. Legs kicking, he summoned every last shred of energy to force off the expectant smaller combatant. A quick twist regained a foothold back on the grimy road. He backed away to recompose. At a momentary pause, a stalking promenade of respect for the other’s tactics kept them apart a slight distance. Gyrating at a similar speed at opposite sides of an invisible wall of separation they lowered and raised their centres of gravity in an effort to seek the upper hand.

The grey cloud moved on to shade another part of New Mexico…

Out of nowhere, an old black Cadillac careered around a nearby corner, it’s suspension compressing to maximum, under the heavy car’s mass. A bearded man with fire in his eyes wrestled behind the steering wheel. He had ‘couldn’t-care-less-fugitive’ scrawled across his face. A huge cloud of desert dust followed in the car’s vortex. With reckless abandon and total disregard, it shot by narrowly missing the fighters by inches. The focused pair appeared to not even notice. Both were running on empty.  Both driven by nature, who was in complete control now. By twenty past four, this exhausted couple had well and truly had sufficient time to analyse the other’s strengths and discern loopholes or weaknesses. They had seen and felt each other up close. Different species from a different side of town, with nothing in common ─ except for the will to win. It was zero hour. A glowing aura of pride awaited one, and a miserable humiliating death in front of his kind lay in store for the loser. Which was it to be?

As they came together for the final time, the fierce brutality magnified. Ripping, tearing and mutilating at will as if nothing else in the world mattered. And for them, it didn’t. Legs became severed in the process. Within a matter of moments, a big motionless carcass lay cold in the dirt on its back. Our honoured victor hobbled away. The arduous microscopic sumo-wrestling match ceased. The tiny ant had defeated the large beetle…

Did I fool you? I hope so. If you did not break into even the tiniest of smiles, perhaps you either misread the closing few lines, or maybe did not get my message. If either is true, then try this on for size: Look back at the story’s title and ask yourself about perception. Take our little protagonist for example. Ask yourself, how does he view the world? Can an ant see an elephant? Can an elephant see an ant? Strange, one might say, how two such dissimilar creatures both bare the same three letters in their names, isn’t it? It’s all about perception, and speaking about three-letter-words, let’s look at another. Try this on for size: SEX?

Got your attention this time, didn’t I?

Yes, the odd little three-letter-word that has helped sell more magazines, books, movies, TV commercials, billboards, soap operas, sitcoms plus whatever else you wish to name. Why, it has overthrown presidents and even affected royal families. Powerful little sucker, isn’t it? How on earth can one silly little word have quite so much influence on us humans? Well, look back at my depiction of the word and notice it is punctuated. What does this mean? Adding this conjures-up all sorts of different perceptions again…

Allow me to supply several answers to this tiny riddle. How you portray them may vary depending upon your own personal gender. Remember; voice inflexion also changes what is being asked. Say the word in your mind prior to each answer, and the word was SEX.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m married.”

“Sure! Where? When? How?”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

“My favourite word… how did you guess?”

Male.

Female.

Transgender.

“Not with you, pal. You are not in my league!”

“Certainly miss! But aren’t you being a little forward?”

“Thanks for offering, but you’re the wrong… well, how can I explain?”

“Sorry, I’m far too busy for that. My friend here is free right now.”

“Okay! How much do you charge?”

“How rude! No way, not even if you were the last guy on the planet!”

“Are you for real? What do I have to do to impress you enough to marry me?”

“I can’t. War wound you see…”

And, what about this one, the pièce de résistance: “Sure, but can I put your offer on ice for a couple of weeks? I’m stuck with this proper bitch. But once I have ditched her, we can get right at it!”

A little word ─ big meaning. Hope you got a chuckle this time and please remember my stories and blogs are all for pure entertainment, plus you could learn a little in their hidden meanings.

Cheers, Steve.

 

Third ten-minute thriller!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Buckle up for this little sizzler!

“Lucky Number Thirteen?” 

 

People will go to extraordinary lengths for revenge when challenged by deceitfulness or humiliated internally. Pride is a powerful magnet to the steely heartstrings of the desperate individual. Especially one in complete denial of his or her own misguided treachery.
You’ll soon see what I mean…

The tension of anticipation was collecting at an alarming rate when, head of his own construction business, Teddy Polaris, finally made up his mind to do away with his once-friend, now Chief Accountant of the firm, Oswald Brickfielder. Teddy had suspected for some time now that the lucrative firm’s figures were simply not gelling. He had called in an undercover auditor to verify the last few years’ transactions, and didn’t like what he saw. Nancy Spindloff had covertly posed as his new secretary, while feverishly scrutinizing the multi-million-dollar business’s materials invoices, travel expenses, insurance premiums and wage documentation etc. Put in simple terms; Brickfielder’s figures did not add up. Within three weeks, the Meg Ryan look-alike had revealed an ugly truth.

“Oswald has gleaned you of three and a half million over the last thirty months, Teddy. But it will be very hard to prove,” she said, arms folded, eyes not blinking, consonants sharp and deliberate. “You barely made a profit this year, Mr Polaris. The money has been transferred as a ghost salary for five staff members who simply do not exist. He funnelled it into a Bermuda bank account at regular monthly payments; even paid their artificial expense accounts. There is verification evidence on everything, except for these people’s birth-certificates. They even have fake social security numbers. He’s not a nice fellow.” Her lips had closed slowly after speaking.

“Thank you for enlightening me. It was just as I’d suspected.” He’d replied blankly. “You have performed admirably, and just as we had planned, when he arrives on Tuesday to address the summit, you and I shall have our petty argument. After which, I shall over-react and fire you. Is this clearly understood?”

Nancy had agreed. “Clearer than Oswald’s bookwork, sir.” Her perfect rosebud lips smiled at his nod as she accepted his more-than-generous remuneration.

Something not mentioned to Nancy, was the ongoing love affair between CEO Teddy and ten years his junior, Mrs Yvette Brickfielder. Likewise, Oswald had mentioned nothing to Teddy’s face, despite having caught them both embracing in the tower’s elevator some years back. Yvette had said that she had caught Teddy after he fainted. The smudge of lipstick on his chin happened by accident. When grilled as to why she was even in the Polaris Constructions Tower, Yvette quickly remarked; “To come to see you, of course, dear!” It now glared Teddy hard in the face that, the former best man at his wedding to his own wife Jane, had squared the ledger with both Yvette and himself, in a far cleverer way. Teddy knew only too well after yesterday’s long lustful lunchbreak with his secret lover, that the mere fact she’d mentioned that balding Oswald was going skiing next week, meant he was really headed off to the tall mountains of Bermuda. Tall mountains of Teddy’s cash that is!

When Tuesday arrived, the scheduled argument ignited like a tiny clockwork hand-grenade going off perfectly to plan, moments before the minutes were to be read. Teddy leered at her with artificial condescension. Nancy stormed out of the meeting, never to be heard from again. Stage two was about to begin…

The Polaris Constructions Tower has seventeen floors. The company’s motto was: Never introduce bad luck in the construction business. On the thirteenth floor, large stainless-steel padlocks sealed shut all the doors. As a result of this unwritten ethics code, no staff member was to ever enter these premises. A secret lay behind the innocent-looking doors. It was within the confines of these rooms where a lavish-style romance room, fully-equipped with all the necessaries, bar, bed, shower and closed-circuit TV cameras, waited for twice-weekly usage. The only sets of keys were held by Teddy and Yvette. One was in his desk, another was in his wall safe along with a loaded .38mm Smith & Wesson pistol, the combination of which, Oswald had privy to. He never abused the privilege of knowing the combination, but on this occasion, a trap had been laid for exactly this to happen. It involved the snaky prevaricator Yvette, who would giggle to herself each Monday and Friday after saying goodbye to her accountant husband, as she hung the gold-chained key around her neck. The key’s cold metal serrated edge tickled between her ‘too-perfect-to-be-realistic’ breasts. Through her mind would drift the words: ‘This key is the one which will unlock the freedom in my heart…’

Naive Yvette, who was a bottle-per-week platinum blond, had actually fallen for Teddy’s promise that he had fully intended to leave Jane before Christmas. What she didn’t know was that the expensive cosmetic surgery enhancements she was receiving to sizzle Teddy’s loin’s lustfulness, were paid for by her lover’s embezzled finances. It was an ironic loop. Another upshot that the silicone-filled Barbie-doll was unaware of, was the fact that she was soon to become the patsy in Mr Polaris’s murder plans. When Friday of the same week came around, as per usual, Oswald played dumb, kissing Yvette goodbye to head for the office tower. He had no notion of the fact that this was scheduled-in, to be his last day of breath. The plan had been laid. The bait would be arriving at around eleven o’clock. The ledger would be squared. His adversary would fall victim. The thievery would soon be avenged…

At precisely five to eleven, the elevator, filled with her favourite perfume, began making its way up to the thirteenth floor. Yvette’s smile grew heartier at the thought of what was to transpire over the following hour or two. She twiddled the key between her fingers. An excitement flourished. Her palms sweated with anticipation. She wore a short skin-tight white dress for impact. A morsel of a man with a manila folder tucked under his stringy arm joined her on the seventh. He was new to the firm. He liked what he saw so much that it turned his face green. He raised himself onto his toes for effect, but she never even noticed him. The shy little man darted out on the twelfth before the doors were fully open. After one more ping, the silver doors parted once more, and Yvette strode like the Queen of Sheba towards the padlocks. Through her childlike mind rolled the words: ‘One day half of this will be all mine. Poor foolish Oswald…’

Though Teddy Polaris was a wretchedly bad husband ─ he was an instinctively great lover. But want-it-all Teddy had grown tired of his mistress, it was time for a replacement, and he had Nancy’s cell phone number ─ if he dared go there. However, he fully intended to get his money’s worth first, before eliminating both problems this lunch hour.

Teddy tapped on the frosted window, as per usual, after externally re-locking the solid brass fixtures. Secret still safe. She opened it, as per usual. He leapt over the sill, as per usual. Her open arms caught him, as per usual. Together they slammed the window shut. His tie was off. Her dress hit the floor. His shirt fell open. Her underwear was discarded. His trousers soon formed an unnecessary obstacle to climb over. Her back crashed to the queen-sized ensemble. They crashed together like two railway carriages. Jiggery-pokery in full-swing to the background music. Heaven at last…

Forty minutes later, Teddy sent a text message via her phone while she finished taking her shower. It was a message deliberately left for Oswald on his mobile phone as if by accident, saying: Meet you at twelve in the usual place my darling bear! Our usual lucky number thirteen… I love Mondays and Fridays. Today I’m going to drain your energy dry! He pressed send. Intelligent Oswald was, he knew exactly what it meant. He knew the fire of deceit was burning brightly, he just didn’t know where the flames were.

Well… now he’d found out!

He’d always been angered by the sneakiness but tried to ignore it. To Oswald, she wasn’t worth fighting for anymore. But this hit him in the heart like a javelin. It pounded with enraged vigour. Hatred flushed through his veins. His blood felt like adrenalin fuelled lava. The forty-five-year-old potbellied numbers wizard became engulfed by revenge. It flashed through his mind that she’d done it deliberately, but quickly passed the thought aside knowing what a true coward he had married. His wife had obviously made a mistake. A really bad one. Just as Teddy knew he would be doing, Oswald rushed to the safe to seize the key and the revolver. His racing mind whisked his fingers through the combination. He flung the safe’s door aside as if she was behind it. His shaking fingers snatched up the key, spun the chamber to check that the .38 was loaded and slammed-shut the safe door. He tucked the gun-barrel into the back of his waistband and flew for the lift doors…

When they opened, Oswald was confronted by the familiar face of Jane Polaris. She hit him with a huge smile. “Good morning Mr Brickfielder!” It wasn’t returned. She noticed his sweating brow and angry eyes. “You seem to be rather anxious this morning. Is everything alright?”

At first he fell silent, but once the doors separated them from the hallway he spoke. “Are you off to visit Teddy, Mrs Polaris?”

“Yes,” she sparkled back. “He doesn’t know I’m coming. I plan to surprise him!”

“How thoughtful,” he rebounded, swallowing half of his rage and thinking: ‘How convenient, she can now do the dirty work instead of this weapon.’

“It’s our anniversary. Fifteen years, no less,” she beamed.

He calmed, offering, “Ted’s not in his office right now. Can I call you Jane?”

“But of course, Mr Brickfielder…” her smile lit up the elevator car.

“As a matter of concern for your surprise’s maximum effect, Jane, I happen to know exactly where he is this minute.” His hand patted her arm.

There was a pause as the scrawny little man returned with his manila folder to the lift on the seventh floor. Oswald rode with Jane, muted, all the way to the seventeenth, where the company CEO’s lavish office overlooked the Chicago skyline. The nervous spiderling scurried off.

Oswald furtively said, “Ted is in a special meeting on floor thirteen. He only goes there twice a week. I don’t really know why, he said never to bother him, but I’m sure for you it would be different. The door is locked but I have a key.” He held it up. Then pressed the button for thirteen…

While Yvette was washing the evidence of her sins from her sculpted body, Teddy had pulled out his other .38mm, the one kept on floor thirteen. This pistol contained the real bullets, not the blanks which were in Oswald’s. He had placed it inside a colourful Ming Dynasty vase on the bookshelf, but within easy reach. Teddy planned to switch them after killing his antagonist, to make it appear as if a disastrous murder/suicide had taken place. Yvette came out of the bathroom stark naked. Teddy was wearing just his underpants. He wanted his ex-best friend to really get an eyeful of vengeance before he pulled the trigger. Snake-in-the-grass Teddy took Yvette in his arms to contemplate whether to shoot her in the back or in the head. He kissed her for the last time. They were near the front door. Over her shoulder, he could easily read the classic wall clock. It was nearly twelve. She knew nothing of the next five minutes which would see her black heart stop beating. He listened for the jingling sound of the padlock. Seconds later, on perfect cue, he could hear the sound he had planned on. “Guess what, darling,” he uttered, with sex oozing in his voice to blanket the sound.

“What?” She replied wearing the face of a Jezebel. “Have you got more in you?”

Suddenly the door burst open…

Jane shouted at the top of her lungs. “Surprise!”

The coup de grace crescendo fell right on time ─ but with an additional uninvited participant! On seeing her nakedness, by a sheer reflex of anger, Oswald produced the Smith & Wesson. He repeatedly pulled the trigger. The gun discharged three loud bangs. Three bullets came out but missed. They shattered the Ming vase. The other gun spun to the floor. Jane’s face filled with distress. Something had gone horribly wrong with Teddy’s plan.

Wrong gun? Wrong bullets? Wrong blanks?

Everything went black and a silence fell. A peculiar repetitive clicking-sound filled the air…

Then the massive room filled with light. The film had broken just before its finale. A girl in the front row of the movie theatre screamed. She bounced out of her seat as if hit by one of Oswald’s stray bullets, covered in a shower of popcorn and looking like a lamington. A voice came over the loudspeaker. “We apologise for the disruption. Things will return to normal shortly.”

The crowded theatre erupted into laughter at her white-speckled apparel…

28th July 2018 – Life is amazing!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Wow! It has been a while since I have posted anything on my site. So here goes…

I have been busily working on a couple of new projects during the last few weeks. Nothing like writing three books at once!

I have been getting some pages out to a few friends and family to get some feedback on the main project at hand. Yes… I am still not settled on the title. This is the real hard part of the journey that tests your patience to the max. It all seems to go at a snail’s pace. In fact, it goes so slow the snails are passing me by.

The old google has also been working overtime to get my ideas together to write the “pitch” for submitting my book to some publishers. You only get one chance with each submission. If you don’t get them hooked to want to read on, well you’re done for!

Just finishing up doing the final read and doing the last “shine” so to speak and then the moment of truth.

On another note, I am thrilled to be invited to speak in front of a writing group about my children’s books. I still have to finalize the details, however this will hopefully be in the next few weeks. I’ll fill you in more once this happens.

 

Keep Smiling!