Sheppey and Sittingbourne
Writers

This section features short stories and is connected to a unique feature of Sheppey and Sittingbourne Writers' Website - the First Chapters section - a space for new writers to show their wares.  From here too follow the link to Member's Publications for details of books for sale. 

First Chapters

Publications 

This is the spot for most of the short stories we have to offer and as a tribute to our departed friend Brian Sinclair I have included one of his.  Brian's stories always have a biographical touch to them and in The Ditch the events actually happened.  

• Contents:  
• Lugs Plays His Hand  - James Apps (Almost Sci-fi)
• The Night the Music Died  - Gordon Henderson
• The Eye Patch - Bill Anthony (A slightly different story)
• To Drink or not to Drink - Ray Collins (A curious tale)
• The Director - James Apps (A macabre story)
• Latin Origins - Ray Collins (Rock on) 
• The Ditch - Brian Sinclair (A true story)
• Industrial Action - James Apps (A Whitebait tale)
• A Modern Fairy Tale - Ruth Partis (A wry look at life)

Lugs Plays his hand.  A tale of Easter Eggs

1

            You have to imagine that of what happened could possibly be true. Lugs and his skinny mate, the Ferret, flipped into the cargo hold of the Gypsy space craft without warning. What annoyed them most was they had not had any lunch. They had decided to go into the Drunken Clown Pub for a pint and some lunch.

            ‘Back bar all right?’

            ‘Yeah, all right Boss, good idea,’ Lugs replied and looked at his mate adoringly.

            The Ferret was used to Lugs adoration and led the way to the back bar where they served pies and pickled eggs. Lugs liked pickled eggs. The Ferret pushed the door open and Lugs followed him along the short dimly lit corridor.

            As usual on the fourth stride along the Ferret called out to Lugs.

            ‘Mind the step...’ and tripped on a loose piece of carpet and overbalanced.

            As usual Lugs forgot and missed it.

            ‘Oops boss I ...’

            And crashed into the Ferret.

            With a woosh of air the Ferret crashed against a slimy wall and dribbled down to the floor. Lugs’ with a much bigger whoosh crashed down almost on top of him and flooped down the wall.

            It definitely wasn’t the back bar of the Drunken Clown.

            Bright light in the centre of ceiling.

            Check.

            Plastic walls dripping with garbage.

            Check.

            Plastic floor covered mostly with garbage.

            Check.

            One door. Shut.

            Check.

            Lugs groaned and opened his eyes, blinked, blinked again and looked slowly around and then at the Ferret.

            ‘Cor, where are we boss?’

            ‘A garbage bin by the looks of things,’ said the Ferret.

            ‘I thought we was going to have summink to eat in the Pub?’

            ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ said the Ferret slowly carefully pushing his body upright.  ‘We should try the door,’ and slopped across to try it but found it tight shut.

            ‘Bash it in?’ suggested Lugs.

            Sometimes Lugs could be very perceptive.

            Lugs gave it his best, beating at it, shoving with his body, shoulder charging but it remained fast shut. ‘It ain’t having any.’

            The Ferret examined the door again and with a sheepish look he put his fingers into a simple latch and lifted it. The door swung inward and flapped against the wall.

            ‘Cor boss, how did you do that?’

            ‘Oh I just thought it out, you know, in me head.’

            Again he bathed in Lugs’ admiring gaze.

The door revealed a corridor with a dirty floor and as far as the dim light allowed endless walls curving out into the distance. Every few metres there were piles of garbage and old boxes mouldy and rotten, and the place smelled like a garbage tip. It was definitely not The Drunken Clown.

            ‘Cor, it’s a bit on the nose boss.’

            ‘Yeah and look at that,’ said the Ferret waving a hand in the direction of the walls which were streaked with black and grey mould that accentuated what looked like green flock wallpaper but on closer examination turned out to be great dollops of festering fungus.  Keeping away from the walls and weaving in and out of the noxious piles they followed the corridor to a crossroads where they halted unable to decide which direction to take.

            ‘Which way boss?’ said Lugs hopeful of the promised lunch. 

            ‘Dunno I guess it really doesn’t matter. I have no idea ...yeek!’

            The Ferret’s yeek announced the sudden arrival of a horde of blue creatures shaped like Easter eggs with four arms and legs each who spun around like dervishes and surrounded them in seconds. Instinctively the pair closed back to back with and prepared to defend themselves. It was a short, sharp fight which they lost. The Easter Eggs grabbed both men and ran with them face down along one of the corridors.  The Ferret gave a scream of terror when his captors charged directly at a blank wall.  He heard Lugs bellowing but when the Easter Eggs didn’t stop he closed his eyes and forgot about his mate waiting for the impact.  There was nothing except a short rustling whisper as something gave way either side of him and even worse he was in free fall and heading for a deck way below.

            This time his yell of terror was echoed by Lugs equally terrified yell.

He had the illusion that his eyes bounced when his body stopped just short of the floor and the peculiar experience of legs pumping cartoon style in mid air just before they hit deck and a sudden rush forward and then he was unceremoniously dumped at the foot of a flight of wooden steps that appeared to be part of a sailing ship’s wooden deck.  With a thump Lugs was dumped beside him.

            ‘Oy, you two wallys come on up ‘ere.’

            Hands lifted them roughly from the prone position and the Ferret looked up, still breathless from the rough treatment and saw a quarter deck, rigging and a bulky mast with railings and cannon.  The voice came not from an Englishman with a poor command of his own language but an Easter Egg dressed in a white flowing shirt with four broad cuffs, a tricorn hat with a feather dangling and a pair of dark pants with a sword belt. The sword was definitely a cutlass.  Its round eyes were, unblinking and below them were a circular mouth rimmed in white.  In fact, as far as he could make out, it was more like short tube with a small blue tongue that moved when it spoke. Lugs lumbered to his feet and this was the cue for their Easter Egg escort to herd them up the steps.

            Lugs growled and began to turn ready to punch any target that presented itself but the Ferret spoke quietly.  ‘Not now Lugs. Let’s wait and find out what this geezer has to say first, okay?’

            Lugs relaxed.

            Good.

            ‘All right then wot you two fink you’re up to then ay?’ said the Easter Egg.

            The Ferret, mustering his best classroom English said:  ‘I thought an explanation of your own behaviour toward my companion and myself would be somewhat more appropriate,’ and catching Lugs amazed and puzzled look gently shook his index finger to signal Lugs to keep quiet.

            ‘Cor blimey mate, swallowed a bleeding’ dictionary ‘Ave yer?’

            ‘Something like that,’ said the Ferret, nonchalantly.

            ‘Well then I tell yer wot. You lot ‘ave landed on the Star Ship “Wanderer” and I am your esteemed captain. Me name is Yrrx and I am head of the clan Yarric,’ he said and with what the Ferret thought might be a swagger he added. ‘The finest Gypsy ship in the galaxy, or even the bleedin’ Universe.’

            The Ferret’s silence followed by a sharp intake of breath was his normal reaction to something he didn’t like. Lugs silence was because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

            ‘Gypsies?’ the Ferret said. ‘You are Gypsies?’

            He looked around wildly. The Easter Eggs stared at him; at least he assumed they were staring. That explained the mess and the smell.

            ‘Sorry about the trash mate but we got a problem which we is findin’ a bit hard to sort out. See, we get moved on a lot, from one planet to another and thrown out of each system we try to stay in. Each species complains we create a nuisance, lower property values and all that. We’ve been thrown out of galaxies and galaxy clusters. We even tried to set up once on the edge of a nebula but the locals moved us on and tried to drive us into a black hole.’ He paused and then added gloomily. ‘Nobody seems to like us.’

            The Ferret was surprised when Yrrx sighed. He didn’t think the Egg was capable of doing that. All the Ferret could do was shrug his shoulders and spread his hands a little. He didn’t like Gypsies either.

            ‘A species towed us out here about fifteen light years ago when something went wrong with our main drives and left us to fend for ourselves. We been running out of food and what with species getting so sophisticated we ain’t got nothing they wants so we ain’t got no bargaining power. Yrrx spoke sadly and wiggled his body. ‘Have a seat lads.’

            He added the last a bit more cheerfully and two Eggs rushed forward with stools. Seated, the Ferret felt a bit more comfortable and decided to ask a question.

            ‘Er, where are we then?’

            ‘Haven’t a bleedin’ clue. We are somewhere in your galaxy. We sort of drifted into it, you know, the way you do.’

            The Ferret felt a cold shiver run up his spine and shuddered. Beside him Lugs stirred and took a deep breath.

            ‘I’m hungry,’ said Lugs plaintively. ‘We was on our way to lunch, boss.’

            ‘Ah, lunch, I reckon we kin give yer a bit of that but hows about you tells me who you are.’

            The Ferret thought that captain Yrrx might have grinned.

            ‘I’m known as the Ferret and this is me mate Lugs, he sort of looks after me and I tell him what to do. He’s called Lugs because of his cauliflower ears; he’s not too bright but he’s handy with his fists.’

            Lugs glowed with pride. He liked it when the Ferret praised him.

            ‘How did you pick us up?’ the Ferret asked.

            ‘Oh, we was doing a sweep looking for intelligent life forms,’ Yrrx replied.

            ‘And you found Lugs,’ said the Ferret with a smirk.

            ‘And you,’ Yrrx said and the Ferret was sure his smirk was returned. It was hard to tell with a face that consisted of two eyes and a round mouth that was set in a permanent O.

            ‘We do a lot of sweeps. Once we caught a Carnibeast. It killed four of our people including me favourite aunt before we chucked it back again,’ said Yrrx and added wistfully. ‘She was nice but I do miss her.’

            ‘Talking of chucking things back, but as much as I am impressed with your quarter deck, my mate and I would like to go home,’ said the Ferret.

            ‘And have some lunch,’ said Lugs, hopefully.

            The captain clapped a pair of hands and gestured with the other pair and two Eggs rushed across the deck carrying a small table. They were followed by two more Eggs carrying a tray with three bowls which they set down on the table. The Eggs bustled around while Lugs and Ferret shifted their stools closer to the viands and at the invitation of the captain began to eat. The spoons were clumsy but the food was easy to pick up. The captain ate using his mouth as a tube and sucked noisily.

            Lugs ate ravenously and wiped his mouth with his sleeve when he had finished and burped putting his hand over his mouth as the Ferret had taught him.

            ‘Pardon me but that was good,’ he said and grinned.

            The Ferret ate more slowly and when he had finished he eased back on his stool and looked at the captain.

            ‘What was it? Soup or stew?’

            ‘Re-cycled garbage,’ explained captain Yrrx.

            ‘Yuk,’ said the Ferret. ‘How gross.’

            ‘Not the best but that’s all we got.’

            ‘It was all right boss, tasty,’ said Lugs hoping for more.

            ‘You got no taste,’ said the Ferret. ‘But without being rude captain Yrrx I would like to go home.’

            ‘So soon after lunch? Surely you would not rush away an’ leave us after we have shared a meal together? Now that would be rather rude would it not?’ replied Yrrx. ‘Ah, that’s as maybe but we didn’t exactly pay a visit you know. You sent for us.’

            The captain looked directly at the Ferret, as far as he could tell, and his mouth drifted into a figure eight and gently goldfished.

            ‘My crew insist on inviting one of you to play cards with them this er, afternoon,  relatively speaking that is.’

            ‘Cards?’

            ‘Yes, a game I believe you call ‘snap’; a slightly different version you are used to but ‘snap’ nevertheless.’

            ‘Snap?’ said Lugs, brightly. ‘Oh goody, I love a game of snap only nobody wants to play wiv me. Dunno why.’

            It’s because you bash people when you lose, thought the Ferret and said. ‘Lugs can play, it’s his game but I warn you he has to have the rules explained to him, he forgets easy, anything more complicated than thumping people confuses him.’

            Lugs glowed happily. He liked it when the Ferret talked about him.

            ‘That’s all right, just follow me and enjoy, enjoy,’ Yrrx said and chuckled.

            He clapped all four hands and stood up moving quickly down the gangway steps to the lower deck. The Ferret was fascinated by the way his feet on their short legs seemed to roll rather than step.

            2

The games room was a large oval. In the centre was a table surrounded by low stools. Each stool was occupied by an Easter Egg except for one closest to the exit on which Lugs perched with the Ferret standing close behind ready to support him. Captain Yrrx had cheerfully explained the rules and left them to it.  At first the Ferret complained but Yrrx explained blandly that he was giving them a sporting chance. The Ferret could accept the group of eight against Lugs, after all it was a simple game and once Lugs got the hang of it he tended to do all right. Play was made in turn and whoever was first to call out the name of the card won the packs and stacked them at his or its elbow.

            No problem.

            Except that if you lost a hand the winner or winners thumped you.

            So far Lugs had won a lot of hands but he had taken a few heavy hammerings when he lost. The idea was that if you fell off your stool you were out of the game. And if you dropped out of the game you got ate.

            Lugs laid a card and called out ‘Snap! Two-three-six!’

            The three losing Eggs cringed away from Lugs and with all his strength Lugs bashed them in turn knocking two off their stools leaving only four in the game. The next round Lugs lost to one Egg who hit him with two fists knocking him sideways.

            ‘Cripes boss they don’t arf lay it on yer know. I reckon I can’t last much longer. Me eyes are going funny.’

            ‘Hang in there mate. There’s only four more. You got half of them.’

            Lugs grunted and played his cards. This time two Eggs lost and Lugs passed. They watched the winner hit the losers and it was then the Ferret noticed what was happening.

            ‘Listen mate, them Eggs is cheating, I watched them and they are pulling their punches on their mates.’

            Lugs looked at the Ferret for a few seconds and then at the Eggs. His face puckered up as he thought about it so the Ferret placed their counter and asked for a break. When Captain Yrrx said they were entitled to four breaks during the game the Ferret had also argued that because Lugs had only two pairs of limbs instead of four that he, the Ferret, was entitled to brace Lugs when the Eggs thumped him. Captain Yrrx had agreed on condition that Lugs did all the playing, and the bashing.

            After the break Lugs started the play and lost the next call and braced for the punches. With a faint sigh he moved slightly and rode the punches but it was obvious the mighty punches were getting to him. The next round one Egg lost and before the winner could hit him Lugs glared at the pair.

            Hit it proper,’ he said and got up from his seat. Intimidated by Lugs massive bulk the Egg did hit proper and there was another one down. Three left. Lugs won the next round but didn’t knock an Egg of its seat. He lost the next one and nearly fell off.

            ‘Cor boss I’m nearly done for,’ he said.

            Lugs had the glazed look of a boxer in the fifteenth round.  ‘Listen mate, them Easter Eggs is going to eat us if we don’t win. They are going to have us for dinner and I don’t fancy being served up a la something for a bunch of smelly blue Easter Eggs.’

            Lugs stared at the Ferret and turned back to the table. He lost twice more but managed to stay in his seat. Spectators, mainly those who came in to collect the bodies and drag them out through the wall stood around watching with great interest. One or two even rubbed their hands together and made interesting shapes with their mouths.

            The Ferret felt like a portion of fish and chips.

            ‘They’re gonna what?’said Lugs.

            ‘They are going to have us for dinner if we lose.’

            ‘Oh.’

            Lugs’ face creased with concentration and with a scowl he placed a card. He won the next two rounds and with a renewed bursts of violent energy he bashed the losers so hard he knocked them off their stools and sent them crashing against the wall. It was magnificent the way he concentrated but the Ferret could see his mate was nearly finished.

            One more.

            The Egg and lugs faced each other and laid cards and then with a shout the Egg called out and won. Lugs took the blow riding it as before and sat glaring at his opponent but the Ferret could feel Lugs trembling. Slowly and calmly he laid a card down and so a round began.  This time Lugs won and as he prepared to hit the Easter egg his body wound up taut and dropped a little before he swung a mighty double handed King hit straight on top of the Easter egg’s equivalent of a head. The Easter egg rolled off its stool and fell with a thud to the floor.

            At that point Captain Yrrx slipped through the wall surrounded by a ring of tough looking Eggs. He spread his multiple legs wide and folded his arms.

            ‘We won,’ said the Ferret. ‘So now we can go home, okay?’

            ‘Sorry me boyos,’ said Yrrx. ‘I changed me mind. I really do fancy fresh meat for me dinner.’

            The Ferret moved first pushing Lugs down and yelling.

            ‘Through the wall!’

            The wall gave way and they were out in the corridor weaving in and out of the garbage piles desperate to put as much distance between them and the Easter Eggs as possible. Gasping and spluttering they ran but the Easter Eggs were gaining on them and as the Ferret dashed around a corner he tripped against one of the soggy piles of boxes and fell face forward onto the slippery floor.  Lugs crashed down on him.  Of course it was at that moment they flipped again and landed on the musty carpet that covered the floor of the Drunken Clown. For a few moments they lay gasping expecting to be grabbed and dragged away but there was no multiple legs, no sharp fingers grasping. No trash piles and no Easter Eggs only the dim walls and the sound of drinkers.

            Standing Lugs used his hanky to wipe the mess from his jacket swaying a little and touched his face tenderly.

            ‘Cor boss me face feels like its been mashed.’

            That’s because...,’ began the Ferret but tailed off because he couldn’t remember why Lugs’ face should be so bruised. Must have been the fall? ‘I dunno why mate, we just fell over. You tripped on the step, see?’

            ‘Oh yeah, I forgot about the step. You all right boss?’ Lugs shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

            ‘Yes thank you, come on let’s go and have a pint.’

            They walked slowly into the bar and stood waiting while the barman pulled their beer. Lugs looked thoughtful.

            ‘Boss, can I ask you a question?’

            ‘Sure, go ahead.’

            ‘Do Gypsies play ‘Snap’?’

            ‘Now what sort of question is that?’ said the Ferret, puzzled.

            ‘Well boss, I just thought it was something I did.’

            Lugs looked puzzled and fingered his battered face waiting for an answer. The Ferret didn’t have one. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had faint picture of something blue and dangerous but in that instant it faded and he shook his head.

            ‘I can’t imagine it’s possible,’ he said more to himself than to Lugs. ‘Nah, can’t be true.’

            ‘I suppose not,’ said Lugs.

            ‘Fancy a pie and a couple of pickled eggs?’ asked the Ferret as he handed over the money for their beer.

            Lugs looked uncomfortable and dropped his gaze.

            ‘Er, just the pie boss, I er, sort of gorn orf eggs.’

The Surf Ballroom was hot and clammy and heavy with the body odour of a thousand youngsters for whom the American Dream was still alive.  The atmosphere was electric with an excitement that lingered long after the end of the show. 

The singer was sweating as he stepped from the stage.  His head throbbed from an overdose of adrenaline and the effects of two hours of loud music, but he ignored the headache, as always the tumultuous applause and adulation that had accompanied his performance more than compensated for any temporary discomfort.

He dashed to his dressing room; there was a plane waiting for him on the runway of the local airport and if they were going to take off tonight the plane would have to leave within the hour. 

The man packed away his guitar and removed his spectacles. With a hurried farewell to the boys from the band, he headed for the backdoor and clambered into the back seat of the Chevvy that stood in the Surf Ballroom’s small rear yard, its engine already ticking over.  Soon they were heading for the airport.

It was an atrocious night; the rain lashed down, hammering against the roof of the car like so many handfuls of shingle thrown by a naughty boy. There were few other vehicles on the road and they made good time to the airport.

The small, twin-engine plane stood on the apron, amid the worsening storm, its propeller blades slicing through the torrent, smashing the cascading water into billowing clouds of fine spray. The singer wrapped himself more tightly into his trench-coat and made a dash for the plane in which his two companions already waited.

‘The weather is closing in fast,’ the pilot said as his last passenger eased into the seat beside him. ‘Are you sure you want to carry on?’

The younger man looked out of the cockpit towards the rain lashed buildings, but it was almost pitch black outside and all he could see was his own pale face reflected in the perspex window. In the seats behind him he could see his two flying companions, they were already asleep. He thought of Maria and the child she carried. ‘Can we make it?’

The pilot shrugged. ‘I can fly this baby anywhere. Whatever the goddam weather conditions; I saw shit much worse than this in Korea.’ The pilot paused and looked at the young singer. ‘Listen, bud, I aint worried, but you are the boss. If you say we go, we go. If you say we stay, we stay.’

The singer was twenty-two years old, he was desperate to get home to his wife and his youth blinded him to any danger that they might face. Like many of his age, he believed that he would live forever. Perhaps he was right.

‘We go,’ he said without hesitation. He offered the pilot one of the wide, toothy grins for which he was famous and then closed his eyes. He felt the plane vibrate as the pilot powered up to maximum thrust for take-off, then they were airborne and he was on his way to her at last. He settled more comfortably into his seat and soon he was in a deep sleep.

The singer awoke with a start to find the plane pitching and rolling like a row-boat in a maelstrom. He looked out of the cockpit window and saw they were caught up in an electric storm of awesome intensity; jagged bolts of lightning knifed into the night and a gale force wind buffeted the plane as if it were made of balsa wood.

The little plane put up a tremendous fight; it bucked against the dreadful winds, refusing to be buffeted into submission, but slowly the battle was lost.  The elements were simply too powerful. 

The young man watched helplessly as the plane was sucked into a black, swirling whirlpool of cloud and his mouth moved in a silent prayer.  Faster and faster they fell until, finally, as the little plane spun out of control, he passed out.

When consciousness returned to the singer the plane had miraculously pulled out of its spin. A bright ray of light sliced a gap in the black clouds beneath them. Immediately the plane dropped through the gap and glided gently down towards the rolling expanse of soya-bean field below.

As they drew nearer to the earth, he saw that a circular section of the field had been flattened. He frowned, wondering who, or what, had carved such a symmetrical design from the tightly planted soya-bean crop, then he saw a number of people standing on the edge of the field and the riddle was solved. There were four of them; tall, brooding figures dressed in black hooded capes and carrying long-handled scythes.

Momentarily, the young man was frightened; then a stray finger of wind tugged loose the cape of one figure. The hood dropped to reveal the most beautiful face on which he had ever set eyes. Immediately his fear disappeared, to be replaced by a desperate longing. He quickly unfastened his seat belt, swung open the cockpit door and stepped out into tranquillity.

The storm still raged on; howling winds battered the dark Iowan landscape and lightening forked down regularly to alert the citizens of Clear Lake that a roll of thunder was on its way.  But the storm bypassed the soya-bean field and as he jumped to the ground he was enveloped by a blanket of serenity that isolated him from the destructive elements that lashed the surrounding countryside.

The woman smiled and held out her arms. The cape fell fully from her shoulders to reveal a white ankle length dress that shimmered with an almost celestial glow.  The singer ran to her, but stopped just short of those welcoming arms. For the first time he realised how tall she was. He had to crane his neck in order to gaze into her angelic face. She smiled again and the light of love shone from her eyes.

‘Come…’

So he went to her and as he moved into her arms tears of happiness ran down his cheeks. She lifted his chin gently and he felt her sweet breath on his face as she bent towards him. He closed his eyes as she kissed him and he felt the breath being sucked from his body, whilst at the same time he was gripped by an ecstasy of such intensity that all remaining sense of reality left him. That’s when he passed out again.

The singer awoke but he could not open his eyes.  He was blind, but he did not care. He was in a state of semi-consciousness, suspended in a comfortingly warm void. He was safe and content and he just knew that somewhere out there the woman was watching over him. He slept.

When he awoke again he was hungry. He found himself trapped in a strange dream world in which, although he could not see, he felt safe and totally at peace with himself. He turned slowly and reached out with his hands to investigate his surroundings. He moved awkwardly in the weightless atmosphere, pushing forward in a gentle roll until he was able to kick against the soft yielding wall. Slowly it dawned on the singer that he was trapped in a huge, liquid filled sac.

As he investigated further he made two other puzzling discoveries; the first was that he was connected to the sac by a thick pipe and the second was that he was no longer hungry. He considered this for a few moments and came to the conclusion that he was on some kind of life support machine and he was being fed intravenously. This realisation scared the hell out of him at first. Jesus Christ! What else was being pumped into his body?  But his fear quickly subsided as the gentle rhythmic throb of the sac dulled his senses and tranquillised him. He slept.

Once again the singer’s sleep was disturbed, but this time his awakening was infinitely more frightening than before. The once cosy and secure sac in which he slept started to vibrate and its walls slowly began to close in on him. The sac squeezed against his body and as the singer tried to call out in alarm his mouth was blocked and the cry was killed before it had time to form. His body was wracked with convulsions and he felt a clamp tighten round his head. He screamed silently and thrust his head upwards in an attempt to escape the pain of the murderous clamp. Suddenly, he pushed his head loose and the clamp slid slowly down the length of his body. The pain was first transferred to his shoulders, then to his chest, his stomach and, finally, his buttocks. But at last he was able to struggle free and he lay for a few seconds recovering.

Then somebody switched off his life support machine and with it the flow of food and air that had sustained him for so long. He found himself slowly suffocating and he knew that before long he would be dead. He felt a sharp blow across his buttocks and he let out an instinctive yell of protest. Suddenly his throat was clear and warm, clean air flowed into his lungs. He cried out again, but this time in triumph. He was alive!

The woman once again towered over him and soon he was safe in her arms. He felt her lips on his forehead and the longing returned. He groped for her breast until at last he managed to pull that deliciously hard nipple into his mouth. He tasted her warmth and was satiated. He slept.

When the singer awoke he was confused. He could see, but he did not understand the messages being relayed to his brain by his eyes. What the hell was happening?  What had happened?

He was lying on a bathroom floor.  He was naked.  One wall of the bathroom had been decorated in mirror tiles and as he caught sight of himself he screamed in disbelief.  He was staring into the face of a baby.  He felt himself being lifted.

‘There, there my little darling,’ the woman’s gentle voice crooned. ‘You are such a lovely little girl.’

Little girl?  The singer started to whimper. ‘But I’m not a girl,’ he tried to explain. ‘I’m a man. My name is Buddy Holly...’ But the only sound that escaped his mouth was the angry cry of a baby.

‘Are you hungry? Do you want this?’ The woman pulled his head towards her breast and instinctively he sucked. With the woman’s milk came peace.  He slept.

And so the baby who had been Buddy Holly slept and drank and slept again. Slowly memories of his past life became more and more blurred until, finally, they were forgotten completely.

The little girl stood on the stage.  She was four years old and she played the violin like an angel.  The clear, perfect notes that filled the music academy brought tears to the woman’s eyes and she had trouble completing the application form that lay on her lap. Finally she blinked away her tears and entered her daughter’s date of birth: February 3rd 1959.

‘We are doing the right thing, aren’t we, Ben?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You don’t think she’s too young to be enrolled in the Academy?’

Her husband shook his head. ‘It’s the best thing we can do for her. You heard what Professor O’Brien said; Holly is a musical genius.’ He smiled. ‘D’know what, honey? There are two things I have never been able to work out...’

‘What are they?’

‘You never told me why you chose the name Holly.’

‘It just came to me. When I was pregnant I felt the baby kick and at the same time the name Holly popped into my mind.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘The name stuck in my mind.’

‘It’s a good name.’ The man took his wife’s hand.

‘What was the other thing?’

The man’s smile broadened into a grin. ‘If Holly is a musical genius, honey. I don’t know where she got her talent. Certainly not from us; we are both tone deaf....’

The End

A story by Bill Anthony.  He read this at the Faversham Library event organised by the Stubborn Mule Orchestra and explained that his accent was Bombay Welsh but as he read and the story unfolded we listened and enjoyed and indeed wanted to hear the sequal.   

The Eye patch

He entered the county as an illegal immigrant about twenty five yews ago and took to washing dishes in the cafes and restaurants, cleaning in houses, garden jobs and in between labouring on the building sites up North during the hot summer months. His ambition was to be his own boss some day! Three years later he was taken on as a Learner Mechanic with London Transport at their bus depot in Acton. Today he is a millionaire running his own transport business conveying freight overland to places as far away as Turkey and Saudi Arabia

But his first five months in London was a nightmare -- sleeping rough in covered passageways, tunnels and bridges and even under long distance trucks. At first light he would enter the men's toilets, wash, shave and hurry to his place of work. With the onset of winter he decided on busking in one of the Underground tunnels leading to the Science Museum in South Kensington.

For the occasion he wore an eye patch, sat on a gunny sack folded in half with his back to the wall, with a cloth cap in front placed on the ground and played old favourites on a Hohner harmonica. . Passers-by and commuters, if they felt like it, dropped their loose change in the cap. The more generous folk left a pound, smiled and continued on their way. When it got late and people were few and far between, he would stand up turn around and remove the eye patch. He would then roll the sack into the duffle bag, put the coins in his top pocket, cap on head and hasten to the lanes behind the cafes and wolf down the discarded sandwiches, half-eaten food and leftovers picked from the bins. He always finished with a takeaway hot drink from a nearby workmen's diner. Afterwards he would find his way to his favourite sleeping space under Charing Cross Bridge, a spot shared with many homeless and dropouts from society. Next morning all were up and just gone!

His name was Elias Mwanza and he came from Chipata in the Eastern Province of Zambia. Police Constable Griffiths found that out when Elias was locked up in the early hours of a Sunday morning many summers ago. PC Griffiths was patrolling the West End pavements when he noticed an unkempt, dark individual almost in tatters, fast asleep in the foetal position and lying on flattened cardboard without a pillow. There was a notice on the wall clearly stating No Trespassing! At this the police officer prodded the individual into wakefulness - Elias awoke, said "Good evening, Officer," and at the same time removed the eye patch and smiled. He appeared to be about 20 years of age and small in stature when he stood up.

Elias was aware about the notice and explained why he was sleeping there that night. Someone bigger than him had taken over his sleeping area under the bridge and he had nowhere else to go this time of the night - it was nearing 1-00 am by now. PC Griffiths explained that not only was Elias trespassing but he was also cheating by pretending to have a defective eye when in fact both eyes were quite normal. According to the law of the land Elias had to be taken into custody for committing both offences. Elias quietly followed the policeman as they proceeded to the police station a few blocks away.

At the police station Elias had to give his details to the duty officer at the front desk. He also had to hand over his meagre possessions, fifteen pounds in cash and the eye patch for safe keeping. He was later taken to an empty cell at the back, given a couple of blankets and locked up for the night. Next morning he was provided with a hearty breakfast and released but warned against loitering. He collected his belongings, said, "Thank you Officer," quickly walked down the steps and, when no one was looking, left the eye patch behind.

Many years later PC Griffiths was off duty of a Tuesday evening watching The Secret Millionaire on television. There was this small built African male in blue jeans, sneakers and sweatshirt, posing as a newcomer to the district, unemployed and on benefits, volunteering his services at a youth club, at a retirement home pushing invalids in wheelchairs and finally serving at the dinner counter providing hot meals for the homeless. There was the same wide grin on this person's face! Memories came flooding back and the policeman wondered about this volunteer. Could he possibly be the Elias of yore?

Next day, on impulse, he decided to investigate behind the scenes. His quests, lasting several weeks, finally confirmed that the secret millionaire was none other than the same Elias Mwanza who had spent that one Saturday night in the West End lockup so many years ago.

The police constable wasted no time! He placed the eye patch into a Jiffy envelope and forwarded it, via First Class mail, to the Secret Millionaire at his company's address. There was an informal get together between the two men, but that, folks is part of another story!

It was a grisly grey night in Soho, rain dribbling incessantly upon the Bard’s Pleasure, a garishly lit public house of ill repute.  Inside the pubs gaudy interior joyous souls revelled, for outside was not a world they intended to experience any time soon.

Hamlet swayed forward on his stool, his hand slipping on the beer slicked bar.  Around him mumbled conversations flowed thickly through humid air while the smell of booze and distant tobacco coated cloth and skin.  He groaned.  Either side his comrades eyed each other slowly before returning their attention to the unkempt youth.

“My fellows, this is too much, the room doth spin as if… spun…”  He burped.

“Is your mate ok?”  The barman growled as he polished a clean glass with a dirty rag, appearing to be busy.  “He’s fine bro, can’t handle his mead!”  Andy barked a short, sharp laugh, his reasoning placating enough for now.  Andy was what some would kindly call stout next to Hamlet, whose wiry frame was not accustomed to the annual lock-in.  Their other friend, Pete, could almost be a twin, and had wisely kept to weaker drinks all night.

Hamlet attempted to launch himself from his barstool and succeeded only in bouncing from the bar and into a fruit machine.  It flashed lights in disgust.

“This demon drink dances in my head, why does it torment me so?”  He wagged a finger blurrily at his friends, “The morning will haunt us for many hours!  I cannot do it, no more!”  Hamlet lurched towards the door with all the grace of a three-legged cat.  He paused with one hand resting on a sticky wall.  “In truth, I’m not that bad.”  He mumbled to no-one.  “The night is still dark, maybe if I switched to spirits…  No!  For that would be worse!”  He turned to face his friends, who stared with all the outward patience of a cliff to the sea.  “This night has been fanciful indeed, but to take it further… I just don’t know!  Why does this have to be so hard!”

Andy pulled a sweaty hand down his face, his brow furrowed like the fields in which he toiled daily.  “For heaven’s sake Hamlet, do we have to do this every time it’s your bloody round?”

          It doesn’t take much to kill a man.  A single knife thrust in the right place, a bullet in the head or heart, a sharp snap of the neck, a few drops of curare or the violent cutting of a sharp sword.  Not much at all really.  One sharp, unexpected blow and, snuff, like a candle, out.  Shakespeare had it right.  A brief candle, snuffed out in an instant; no need for torture, or some dread illness, a simple act, deliberate and calculated. 

          The mathematics of death is merely a matter of finding the right balance between force and effect. 

          The Romans used short swords that thrust forward, and spears that penetrated like needles.  The Japanese liked the sharp blade, swift and deadly.  The English used the long bow, the broad sword and eventually the rifle.  The good old Lee Enfield 303. 

          I use a Remington sniper rifle.  A specialist weapon from world war two, a light, adaptable, and easily broken down rifle used by the Green Beret’s.  Adaptable because it will take modern and quite lethal ancillaries, used in, say Vietnam, or Afghanistan, and still remain accurate and easy to use.  I have a box that looks like a large briefcase with my initials on it.  I wear a suit and tie, an Oxford tie, and I look like you, or your colleagues.

          A businessman.  Prissy, bright, worried, active and ordinary.

          But there is nothing ordinary about the way I conduct my business.  I have the lease on a flat for three months.  A well stocked larder.  A clear view of the square below, and a task to do.

          I have a good view from the apartment window and I have my gun set up ready to use.  The sight below is familiar and to view it I have a telescopic sight, a laser guidance system and I use soft nosed bullets.  I am efficient.  I am also paid very well.  I do a good job, understand?  When I kill somebody, a target, they stay dead.  Not like that stupid bastard who killed Kennedy – head shots – no good – too exacting – with a soft-nosed bullet Kennedy would have been wasted with one shot.  Blood, brains and bone splinters splattered across the Dallas streets so fine they could not be found by the best forensic team.

          I don’t mess around.

          Right now the target is unaware that he is a target.

          Giggle, giggle.

          If I do it right the target’s cerebral matter and a good part of his chest will splatter in wide cone directly opposite where my bullet enters his body.      He has no idea that I am sitting here high above the street in a comfortable chair.  I like a canvas chair with arms like a director of a movie.  You see, I direct what happens, don’t I?

          I’m not particularly interested in why the target has to be wasted, taken out, I am only concerned that I do it right, get away and collect my pay.  Half the fee for the engagement.  The other half on completion. 

          My contact knows that if I don’t get paid I will waste him.

          It’s called insurance.

          I like to refer to it as life insurance.

          A very useful part of my contract.  So far I have always been paid.  The wonderful thing is that the fee is always large.  You, the ordinary punter would love to earn what I earn.  Maybe you would do one job and retire.  But I like what I do.  The money is a bonus, a wage for a highly skilled operator. I am the tops.  That is why I get all the best jobs. 

          Today, at approximately 11:05 your Prime Minister is going to die.  Pity.  I liked him.  But somebody, somewhere, doesn’t.

          So, I sit here, comfy in my director’s chair and wait.  My rifle is clean, dull with oil so that it doesn’t reflect any sunlight.  The lens is shrouded for the same reason and the chamber is loaded with a soft-nosed.  There are five more in the magazine.  I expect to use only one.

          I sit for a long time, but I am used to that, waiting is no problem.  You use a Zen mantra and empty your mind so you can hear everything.  Things like spoons on cups, farts, flushing toilets, the sounds in the street, and to be aware of when the small cavalcade is due to arrive. 

          Schedule. Eleven nought three into the square.  Eleven nought four, car stops outside building.  Eleven nought five, target walks across the sidewalk to the door.  Eleven nought five plus one I fire the shot that changes your world.

          Giggle, giggle.

          It is now eleven nought three.

          Car enters square.

          I adjust my aim.

          Eleven nought four.

          Car stops.

          I am ready.

          Eleven nought four and thirty seconds.

          I squeeze the trigger.

          Eleven nought five.

          Target strides toward door.

          I press until the trigger settles neatly into its small slot.  It and I have completed our evolution.  I look through the lens and watch as the target flops forward and down onto the paving.

          Eleven nought five and ten seconds.

          Target beyond repair.

          Dead.

          Eleven nought five and twenty seconds.

          I begin packing my equipment away.  Clean everything; spray all surfaces with acid, clear the cupboards but leave the chair facing the street from where I fired the shot.  My calling card.

          You know, it really doesn’t take much to kill a man.  

A pool of vapid grey dry ice swirled around Spider’s leather booted feet as he took a wide-legged stance behind the closed curtains.  Around him the other members of ‘Latin Origins’ assembled, bar one.  Tom and Jack looked nervous, Tom fiddling with the fret board on his bass guitar and Jack spinning drumsticks around his fingers, as he always did before a gig.  But this was no ordinary gig, this was the Astoria in London and headlining were current titans of the English scene, ‘Space Flesh’.  With shaking hands Spider lifted his guitar and strapped it slowly around his shoulders.  She would be here soon, she had to be.  No way she would miss this…

Behind him stacks of speakers were hissing in impatience, the various lights and strobes winking on and off like a demented demon’s eyes, all ready to project their shimmering rays onto an audience in their hundreds.  Hundreds.  All drunk and sweating and baying for their headliner heroes.  But first, he knew, they would have to be tamed by this bunch of motley amateurs, only here as a last minute replacement to the favoured support act, who were still held in customs due to ‘suspicious circumstances’.

‘Where the hell is she?’ The squeaky voice of Jack was unmistakable.  For a big guy behind those imposing multi-tiered drums it was almost comical, though no-one would have the guts to say so to his face.

‘She’ll be here man, chill.’  Spider sounded calmer than he felt, they all knew that without Poppy’s voice, amongst her other assets, they were just three spotty teenagers with brightly coloured hair.  Like every other band on the scene.  He resisted shuffling.

Muffled thumps were getting louder as the assembled throng stamped their feet, all expecting the curtain to rise at any time, all waiting to judge them…

‘If she doesn’t show I could sing, man, we were cool for a year before she joined!’  Tom was so pale Spider was surprised to hear confidence in his voice.

‘And in that year what venues did we play in?  Nah man, don’t look at me like that, with her we could be playing this joint week in week out, you know what she’s like, she’ll be here…’ Spider could feel the nerves cracking his voice.

‘Mate, if she’s rat-arsed again, if she spoils this for me, I quit, no way I’m putting up with this shit again…’

‘She’ll be here, there’s still time, even if we only get to play half hour.’  Spider arched a purple eyebrow at his lifelong friend; dreams could be made or lost in moments like these.

Tom swore under his breath and ran a hand through his grungy green Mohawk; looking all the world like a punk peacock preening.

Thump, thump, THUMP.

Spider put a hand over his heart, its frenzied beating lost in a vibrating maelstrom of noise.  Blinking sweat out of his eyes he glanced to the side of the stage.  Tom’s parents looked to be on the verge of tears.  They had supported Tom all the way, paid for his lessons and even bought the band an old second hand van to drive to gigs with.  Spider’s parents had told him to cut his hair and grow up.  They’d love seeing him fail, but somehow that didn’t bother him as much as the sight of Tom’s mum with a hand over her mouth…

‘Screw this.  Tom, get on the mike, it’s all or nothing.’  Spider signalled the nearest roadie.  ‘Let’s show ‘em all what Latin Origins are about.’

Spider took in a deep breath and strummed a power cord.  The curtains began to rise, the crowd began to scream, and rock took a hold.

This story from Brian Sinclair, a Sheppey resident of many years and a former teacher.  I sometimes went with him when he walked his ancient dog on Minster Leas and I was always amused when he was greeted by former pupils.  Brian has a Puckish sense of humor which comes through in this delightful tale of young love. 

The Ditch  by Brian Sinclair

We were the same age — almost sixteen. She was beautiful, with a figure to fantasise over, long dark shining hair, wide dark eyes, clear lightly tanned skin, and a smile to set the spirit soaring. I was a callow youth.

I had long adored her from afar, and the lads had laughed at me. When finally, away from them, I dared to ask her out, she had simply smiled and walked away - after suggesting where and when we might meet! I danced down the street home!

I never told the lads in case, when the day came...but there she was! So we walked.

It was Summer, sunny and still. She was stunning in a knee length tan dirndl skirt and a close fitting white broderie anglais blouse. Her arms and legs were bare, and her hair was tied back with a tan ribbon. I wore my best tie, best everything, polished shoes.

We talked. I was nervous, hesitant, desperately needing to impress her, but she was quick witted and charming, making my awkward silences shrink away. I found I could make her laugh.

I knew she 'did ballet', but her fitness surprised me. We walked for miles. We walked close, talking softly, and, for me at least, the rest of the world receded. Then on the sea wall we saw the lads approaching. I expected a few ribald remarks, but they just gaped in open mouthed envy as we passed, and I grinned, for she had slipped her hand into mine as if she already knew what that would do for my status. We walked on like that, hand in hand, or with her hands linked onto my bare forearm. Finally, we crossed the railway and started over the marsh towards the canal bank. From the first it had occurred to me that she had chosen an afternoon walk in order that we would never be quite alone. Nor, for our first date, had I dared suggest the intimate darkness of a cinema. Now there was no-one in sight. I was grateful for that.

Then the ditch barred our way. The water was low and the ditch wasn't very wide but it was a real obstacle. She stopped, but I leapt over it. She hesitated, estimating. I hopped back.

'Come on,' I said. 'it's easy.'

Such a physical obstacle was more in my line, I guess. I showed off, hopping to and fro to demonstrate that she could do it - and to prove my athleticism. Finally I stood on the far bank extending one hand across to her across the turgid water. Poor girl, no wonder she still hesitated. Then she leapt.

She would have made it easily, but as she jumped I sprang back across the water to reach her side. We met in the middle - each with the trailing foot still on the bank. I took her in my arms. Visualise it. It was as if time itself had been slowed. We met, held on to each other, and our leading feet slowly sank down into the ditch.

It was the very worst moment of my young life!

The water wasn't deep, about nine inches, but our feet settled down into a further foot of evil-smelling dense black mud that held us fast. We swayed, almost overbalancing, then stood there assessing our plight - legs wide apart, one leg in and one foot out! The in leg down, the foot out up, tilting us forward hard against one another!

There was only one way to gain the purchase to remove our feet from the suction of that mud; that was for me to step both feet in the ditch , and then, still supporting her, squelch past to her bank and pull her out. Even the rotting sewage stench of the black filth coating our legs was nothing to my burning embarrassment.

My suffering wasn't over. Only as she sat, the wet hems of her stained skirt lifted high onto her thighs, scraping thick blobs of stinking putrescence off her legs with handfuls of grass, did she realise that her shoe was missing. There was nothing else for it. I stripped to the

waist, stepped carefully into the ditch, and, sank to the bottom. Stooping low I squirmed one arm deep into the lukewarm mud to grope for her shoe. After I had washed it out in the clouded water, I clambered out of the ditch nearly retching at the black stench now wafting from high on my arm, and silently set the shoe beside her. She did not thank me.

We were both a mess, and I was the worst. She just sat staring at me.... then slowly that smile spread over her face. Then she shook with laughter... I tried too.... but I knew I had blown it.

I underestimated her again! We went out walking many times after that, seeking out the loneliest of places. I was close to her when we were students. We spent every hour of one deliriously happy three week holiday together. We remained friends until she met an early death.

The story below is one of a series about a man commonly known as Whitebait - in the tradition of the working man a joker is always given a name suited to his character or name.  I am sure that we are familiar with the bald man called Curley, Chalky White and the great Australian name for a redheaded man "Bluey".  In this case I have added a few notes below.

Industrial Action by James Apps

Or a tale of men’s legs.

Whitebait stumbled on the raised step. Most days he stayed upright; took the next step. Today he missed his footing and fell. He put one arm out to stop his fall and with the other he clutched his precious package. Surprisingly his descent was slow and he landed with a soft thump on his knees and his outstretched hand. Now I’m here, he thought, the best mode of perambulation was as he had landed, on his hands and knees. He liked the sound of the word perambulation and with great concentration he said it loud to hear exactly what it sounded like.

            ‘Parumboolashun,’ he said and screwed his face up to try the sound again. Being a good union man when he was in work he liked using long words. Perambulation was a good long word. One line of a Haiku. A useful word with a bit of movement in it.

            ‘Pumbulaton.’

            Pause and shuffle.

            ‘Pramberlashun.’

            Pause and shuffle some more.

            He let go the package and panicked as glass rattled against glass. There was no tell tale gurgle and he thanked the god of soft floor coverings for worn out but effective broadloom. Unable to pick up the package with one hand he pushed it instead. In this fashion he  perambulated along the passage to the door of his room. His head hit the wooden panels and for a few feeble steps his limbs attempted to propel him further. He knew why they failed.

            It was the damn builder’s fault.

            In the days when this house was built tradesmen, no doubt all good union men, made things well and made them to last. The lock on his door fitted perfectly, always had, and to open it he had to turn the handle.

            In his present position that was a major problem.

            ‘Bashstard.’

            However, illegitimate builders or not the problem that had to be solved.

            Whitebait was not a man without adequate mental resources and, despite the destabilizing effects of several shared jugs of beer and a few shots of Wilson’s 45 South, he was capable of putting his mind to the problem. He had to stand up. The trouble was how? The things he normally used as legs seemed to have taken on a life of their own.  They did not relate to the rest of him the way his mind was doing. His mind was, for the moment clear, although he did detect a hint of incoherence between what his eyes saw and what his mind thought it saw. For instance; the way the door jamb undulated in time with the floor was, he was sure, a figment of his imagination.

            Imagination aside, maybe he could use the undulations. He took a deep, dusty breath braced his body and arms. As the floor rose he pushed down and fell flat on his face. His hips and thighs decided to join the boycott the lower part of his legs had already declared against his perambulations. The trick was, he thought, no matter what part of the system decided on industrial action there was no need to lose the plot entirely.

‘Bugger’

            Now that sounded clear enough.

            The assumption was, he assumed, that his mind was therefore still clear.  Result; if the mind was clear then thinking was no problem. Minds solved problems. The body put the solution into action. It was a simple case of mind over matter. If Mohammed could move a mountain then surely a mere bedroom door was going to be a minor problem. His mind formed the words.

            Door, I command you to open!

            His voice said.

            ‘Dosh commen oven!’

            He wondered where he had learned German.

            Okay, that attempt failed but by Jeez, he was a red blooded, fully paid up, all male, Kiwi Joker and a lack of useful legs was not going to stop him getting his bloody door open. No way Jose! He didn’t go through a world war, Piggy Muldoon and underarm bowling, not to mention the Rainbow Warrior sinking to be baffled by a pair of drunken legs.

            It had to be Potbelly’s fault. Potbelly won just over three hundred bucks on the Lotto.

            ‘Never won a razoo on the Kiwi, except a few ten and twenty dollars. I reckon Lotto’s alright.’ Potbelly said and shouted the beers.

Closing time saw Potbelly, Whitebait, Sean, Greasy Charlie and The Mouth staggering out of the Gluepot  clutching brown bags. The bags contained Potbelly’s parting gift. Two bottles of spirits. Whitebait chose two bottles of Wilson’s 45 South Whisky and it was these he was struggling to convey safely to his room. Thinking about Potbelly’s largesse was not going to get him into his room. He had to deal with the results of Potbelly’s unexpected windfall. Uncooperative, inebriated legs. He thought of newts and bovines. His legs, he decided were as inebriated as a pair of amphibians. As full as a bull.

            ‘Ish me legsh sas drunhk.’

            And, he reasoned, if he lay too long worrying about how drunk his legs were the rest of him would succumb to the demon drink. The thought of being inarticulate, uncoordinated and possibly unable to control his bodily functions appalled him. Why couldn’t his legs behave themselves and not go around getting drunk?  It was his drunken legs that earned him the  contempt of Sergeant Pokere.    

‘You and your mates are drunks,’ said the good Sergeant. ‘You ever heard of AA?’

            ‘Yeah, sure I have but I don’t drive, Sergeant.’

            Sergeant Pokere, once he had worked out what Whitebait had said, to put it mildly, had done his bun. The bruises Whitebait carried with him into court the next morning were described as self inflicted injuries.

            ‘The offender threw himself around in his cell.’

            ‘Was he not restrained for his own protection?’ said the Magistrate with that annoying superior manner they get when you turn up in their nice clean court smelling of whisky, vomit and unwashed body.

            ‘Several times,’ said Pokere, poker faced.

            ‘One month and for pity’s sake bathe the revolting creature.’

            He lost count of the times he spent in Mt Eden prison as a result of Sergeant Pokere’s diligence. Dried out from the last time had a part time job and a room here in the Mulrooney Rehabilitation Unit for Gentlemen.  Flora Mulrooney  was a formidable woman who frightened him more than did Sergeant Pokere. At least with Pokere you knew where you stood. Pokere was brutally firm. His landlady made her inmates earn their privileges.  If she found him in the corridor controlled by his drunken legs as he currently was, he was for it. She would let him have it full chat and Flora Mulrooney angry was an awesome and unstoppable force.

            It was the thought of this unstoppable force that prompted him to make another attempt to enter his room. The problem was one of verticality. He didn’t have any. There was plenty of it but he, personally, was unable to make much use of it. The other more pressing reason for wanting his door open was his bladder. He desperately needed to empty it.  He decided on a plan.  He would plead with his drunken legs on behalf of his clamoring bladder.

            ‘Lesges,’ he said, ‘our bradda orvers you to shtand.’

            No response.

            Okay, he thought, we’ll have to do it ourselves.

            Still on his belly he made a great effort with his arms and pushed. Amazingly his bladder, his expansive bottom and his rotund beer belly combined to force his drunken legs to obey and once more he was on his hands and knees.

            So far so good.

            Could he trust his torso to attain verticality and so help his hands to reach the doorknob?  Or was rhetoric out of place in the argument? Ignoring as best he could the antics of the undulating floor and the writhing door jamb, he willed his hands to explore the woodwork. The ploy worked and he felt his tingling fingers touch paneling and wavering uprights. He invited his knees to move forward and gave a satisfied grunt when first his left knee and then his right did as they were bidden.

            With a last determined effort that was buoyed up by thoughts of escaping the wrath of the Mulrooney and the demands of his now screaming bladder, he grasped the door knob. Both hands clasped it and he willed them to turn it. Nothing happened.

            The key.

            He needed to turn the key.

            With one hand firmly on the knob he fumbled with the other in his jacket pocket feeling for the key. He tried as many pockets as he could reach and with a sickening feeling of defeat he realized it was not in any of them. He knew where it was. It was dangling, along with his latch key, in the lock of the entrance door.

            There was only one thing for it.

            He had to have a drink.

            His legs responded with enthusiasm to the idea and instead of hindering him as they had when he was trying to negotiate the passage they almost completed the maneuver on their own. He turned slowly, spread his legs wide and leaned his back against the door. With great care and reverence he drew one of his precious bottles from the bag and found the end by touch. Clutching it close to his body with one hand he unscrewed the top. His legs approved. He put the neck to his lips and tipped the liquor into his mouth. As the hot liquid filled his mouth and gulped down his throat, warm, smooth and vital his bladder released its burden. It too was warm, smooth and vital.

            Whitebait took the bottle from his lips and sighed.

            And, as he put the bottle to his lips again and sucked deeply, a gust of wind blew the front door wide open.  As if condemning him for his miscreant ways the wind closed it again with a mighty slam. In the silence that followed he heard his keys fall from the latch and tinkle onto the steps.

            Bugger.  There goes his chance of ever opening the door. He took another swig. The neck of the bottle clicked satisfyingly against his teeth. His legs definitely approved.

            There was another click followed by a sudden bright shaft of light. A huge bat-like shadow loomed in the open doorway to his right. Whitebait reasoned, more or less, that the bat-like figure was not the archangel Gabriel come to welcome him to the joys of Paradise and a never ending flow of Nectar but His nemesis, the Dread Mulrooney.

            ‘Arrgh! Sh Devil!’ he said and thought of Beelzebub at the gates of hell. Given a choice between Beelzebub and the Mulrooney he would settle for Beelzebub. That Milton knew what he was talking about. Right now Paradise for him was lost.

            He groaned as something heavy hit his foot. It was the slippered foot of the Mulrooney kicking him. Testing for life perhaps. Above him limned by the light, adorned in curlers, dressed in the Mulrooney regulation Nightgown and bathrobe with her talons outstretched, Flora Mulrooney rolled up her sleeves.

            ‘Mister Whitehead, you are drunk!’

            ‘Ish me lengsh,’ he said,  ‘tha’s derrable inshrebiated.’

            ‘Shut up,’ she explained.

            His stomach suddenly joined his legs and his bladder in what could only be described as a wild cat strike and, with not even a fourteen second notice, discharged its contents.

            He threw up and fell forward and lay like a Sumo wrestler doing his stretching exercises. He had no idea his legs could be so flexible. Finally, a few moments before his head and the rest of his body joined forces with his legs he heard the Mulrooney call out to her husband.

            ‘Danny! Mister Whitehead will be leaving. Throw him out and clean up the floor. I will deal with him in the morning,’ she said and made way for her husband.

            Whitebait’s last thought before spiraling into the welcome vortex of drunken sleep was that he would have to have words with his legs. They were always letting a bloke down.

A Modern Fairy Tale

A poor but kindly man was walking through the town. He had spent all his money in Iceland and was walking home to await the shopping's arrival in the Iceland van.

It was early November and the rain was pouring down in lumps making the dirty town pavements muddy. A cold north wind was blowing, making him wrap his thin denim jacket tighter round his scrawny body.

Suddenly, as he held his head down to keep the rain from his eyes, he saw a pound coin on the pavement, its newly minted colour shining like gold. He looked round and there was no-one looking for the money so he stooped down and grabbed the coin. He dried it on his hands and dropped it into his pocket where it clanged quietly against his front door key. As he carried on walking he began to think. What could he do with this unexpected windfall? Chocolate for his golden-haired daughter, some football stickers for his golden-haired son, a bone for his golden-haired Labrador, a bottle of shampoo for his greasy-haired wife. He even thought about spending it on himself, but couldn't think of anything that a measly £1 coin would buy him.

In the middle of the town was a clock tower and as he walked towards it he saw three people eagerly waiting for him. A child with rain, or something, dripping from his nose was standing beside an old pram. Inside was a strangely stuffed filthy yellow babygrow, on top was a hideous hallowe'en mask covering a dented grubby football. A hand written sign with three spelling mistakes begged 'PENNIE FOUR THE GY'.

As the man approached, the child sniffed so strongly that all the rain, or whatever it was on his cheeks, was sucked in. The rain had made clean streaks down his filthy face and he added a verbal "Please" to the message.

Next to the child was a youth sitting on the pavement. His eyes were down and his body huddled in a navy anorak against the weather. Resting on his knees was another hand-written sign. This one, with correct spellings, said 'HOMELESS — DOG TO FEED' and sure enough at his side was the wettest, oldest, ugliest dog that the man had ever seen. The dog's whole body shook as it shivered on the cold pavement looking wistfully at its owner's baseball cap, soaking wet and containing just a few brown, worthless coins.

Next to the child and the youth and the dog stood an old lady. Tiny, but standing very upright, she wore a black double-breasted raincoat and a plastic hood. In front of her was a tray of remembrance poppies. The tray was beginning to fill with rainwater and the old lady looked at him through thick misted glasses with eyes that seemed to be brimming with tears.

"Oh hell" thought the man, wishing he hadn't picked up the £1 coin. He had no other money on him and without that he could have smiled apologetically at all three, but now he was stuffed. The coin in his pocket became suddenly heavy. He just knew, that they all knew that he had some money, and all felt they deserved it. He tried to look away from their eyes and looking across the street he saw the paper shop. His eyes became locked on the sign outside. They sold national lottery tickets. He would go in and buy an instant ticket. If it won he would share the winnings four ways, giving three-quarters away and keeping one for himself.

He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from him and he raced into the shop, full of confidence. There was quite choice of tickets, but he felt he was being guided towards one and he bought it. He used his key to scratch off the covering to see what he had won.

Don't be ridiculous. This is a fairy story, not a miracle.