Thirty Pieces of Silver

 

It was the little things that mattered.  Things like the way his neighbours insisted on putting their rubbish bins in neat lines.  It was their insistence on the gates being shut on your way in and on your way out.  It was the mail boxes numbered in the proper sequence and the weeding around the front patio and taking it in turns to use the laundry room.  It was the dividing up of the laundry room in to portions each during the winter and the silly, polite way they said the time of day.  He hated them; hated them all; hated their petty ways and their smug little get-togethers in the shared garden which was so neatly kept trim as if the place was on public display. 

            He paid his rent and kept his place clean and tidy aware that the landlord; the almighty mister Jones was on the lookout for any breach of his silly rules.  If he had known what the bloke was like he would have taken a flat somewhere else but when he applied there was not much going and he was desperate.  He was fooled by the man who looked a lot like his childhood idea of how Jesus should look and was fooled by the pleasant manner and friendly smile.  Yes he would be quiet: yes he was working; yes he could supply references; yes he was aware that it was a single flat and there were no parties allowed except community parties.

            “You see we have a small community here and some of the units are privately owned, mine included and the two flats, yours and the one below I own and rent out.  The woman in the downstairs flat has been with us for seven years and she is happy here,” Jones said and after explaining the rules and conditions signed him up taking his deposit and his first month’s rent. 

            Mistake.

            The rest of the residents in the block were idiots.

            They didn’t like good rocking music. They parked their cars neatly in the tidy lot; put their bikes in the lobby and complained when he left mud on the floor.  It wasn’t his fault that his job was dirty.  Digging holes in the road was a hard job and messy in the winter; it helped pay his rent and keep mister, high and mighty Jones in red wine and expensive dinners. 

            What made him sick was that Mister Jones was a church man; a Christian and so high and mighty that parts of his anatomy were glowing with a divine light.  He went to church; sang and prayed and exuded Christian charity but that didn’t stop him serving an eviction notice timed, ironically, for Easter Saturday. 

            Some charity.

            And now he had to go and settle up with him before he left.  He needed the deposit back.  He didn’t need a reference which was a help; just the money, and to add to the irony, it was the evening of Good Friday that Mister holy roller Jones had set for the transfer.

            “I always like to pay back the night before the tenant leaves. It balances the books nicely and my inspection gives them the benefit of doubt.  I’m not a vindictive man and although we could not see eye to eye and it is unfortunate we have to part I think it is a good idea to let you leave the place without me hovering over you.  Call round at about seven and I will have everything ready for you.”

            That was fair enough but Jones had had no idea how hard it had been for him to get another flat.  He had had to go to a local agent and the place he was going to was rough.  It was cheap and nasty but at least it was his to live in without all these sanctimonious ratbags who lived in the block.  It was a pity to leave because the place was comfortable and pleasant; which was why the residents liked it.  The problem was they didn’t like his music.

            His stereo had one of the best sound systems you could buy on a wage.  The base was solid and when it was turned up high you still hear it clear as a bell – no distortion – no fuzziness and above all it hit you right where it counted and got your feet tapping like on the floor. Hey, it was the best. You had to turn it up to get the best out of it and with a few sherbets inside you it was ace. Ace! Top shelf! Ace!

            The landlord disagreed and instead handed him an eviction notice.

            What really niggled him was that he was also told that unless he kept quiet during the period before the notice took effect he would lose his deposit.  He would lose nearly a thousand quid.  And he knew the God-fearing swine would take every penny of it if he messed up.

            And as he brooded on his treatment it was the little things about the flats that got to him.  He was so embarrassingly out of place at their little get-togethers that after the first one he pointedly ignored them.  It was this and the music that got to them and so they complained and the landlord gave him the push.

           

            It was seven thirty when he knocked on the landlord’s door.  He was polite when Jones let him in.  He sat dutifully in the proffered chair and accepted the cup of tea and made all the right noises when Jones spoke to him. He signed the agreement and trying not to show his eagerness he took the money and relaxed.

            It was after that he sort of flipped.

            “Of course I hope this will be a lesson to you and you will try to be more sociable at your new place,” Jones said and smiled at him.

            It was easy.

            Jones had no idea what was happening until afterwards that was.  Grabbing him was easy; just a movement across the low coffee table, lock onto the throat and lift the man out of his chair and with a free hand belt him unconscious.  Then it was  a matter of finding the hammer and some nails and a step ladder to help support the unconscious figure long enough to do what he had to do.

            He was tidy and put the hammer away along with the step ladder and using a clean tea towel he gagged Jones who was beginning to regain his senses.  The eyes showed their terror; wide open and weeping as the pain kicked in.  Jones tried to move; tried to shift his body but managed only to move further into the pain zone.  His eyes widened and he tried to move when he saw his attacker approach with a kitchen knife.

            “Mmm,mmm, agh,mmm” was all he could manage.

            He gasped when the knife stabbed into his side and gasped again when something sharp was forced down onto his head.  And a voice close to his ear spoke mockingly.

            “My middle name is Jude.”  

            And he added another cut to the landlord’s back – thirty-nine; must get it right. It was the little things that mattered.

 

            When the police finally smashed the door down and entered the flat the Sergeant in charge threw up on the carpet. 

            “Christ,” he said.

            The late Mister Jones hung by his wrists that were nailed to the bedroom door jamb; his feet, tied with kitchen twine were nailed through to the floor.  His head hung down onto his chest and on top as if crowning him was a ring of barbed wire.  A wound in his side was blackened with dried blood and his naked body was covered in swelling wheals.  The air stank of blood and faeces and the rotten smell of death and it was all the officers could do to stop from repeating their sergeant’s action.  Instead they left it to the forensic team and the detectives.  It was obvious that Mister Jones was dead.

            Detective Inspector Royston Smollet found the note and read it out loud. “INRI is all it says,” he said and looked at his sergeant. “Church goer was he?”

            “It was the church that called us.”

            “Ah, good, then we can assume that he missed the resurrection,” said Smollet and grinned broadly.

            “You are sick sir.”

            “Not as sick as the killer.”

 

            It was Thursday when Smollet and the team were called to a flat on the waterfront.  The agent let them in and explained complainingly that he had been called in to stop a tenant making noise.

            “Knocked on the door and rang the bell but nobody answered so I used my key and went in.  I found him in the bathroom and called you; after I turned off the stereo. If I had known he was a nutter I wouldn’t have let him have the place.  How am I going to let it now?”

            Smollet didn’t answer not caring about his problems.  The body hung by the neck from the shower rail strangled by the rope the feet barely touching the floor, and arranged neatly in a circle on the base of the shower stall were thirty silver coins.  Wryly Smollet noticed they were five pence pieces.

            “I think we have found our killer,” he said and gathered up the coins.

           

           

 

 

The Devil Take the Easter Eggs

 

Sometimes when I’m out taxing gear things go wrong; mostly I gets away with it and take home a bit of dosh when I’ve shifted the goods.  Now and then I get the chance to take some for myself; you know, stuff, things I can use, food and stuff but I ain’t gonna get caught for taxing food if I can help it.  The thing is that I could do with the money.  I don’t do drugs or nothing; drugs is for suckers and dealing is likely to get a lad like me too far in the kack with the heavies.  I ain’t interested in the big stuff.  See, I’m a thief not a dealer and I specialise in liberating stuff from shops to order.  It’s what I call making a living.

            I like chocolate and I like playing with matches.  I twitch when I see flammables but I’m over that now.  I steal instead.  Safer.

            Modus operandii?  Cruise the high street and get into the target store with lots of other people and do what lots of other people do; mooch around looking.  I buy something small, smile when I need to, or do what most people do – look mildly bored and walk out with my genuine goods in my hand and the real purchases hidden up from sight.  See, it costs the suckers too much dosh to put proper security on most stuff and not only that a bloke like me who dresses the same as everybody else and looks nearly tidy can appear respectable to most counter staff.  I can spot a nark a mile off and I know how to get rid of stuff quick although lately with cameras things can sometimes go wrong but normally I can smell trouble before it starts and end up clean.

            So, this time I was in your local Tesco’s with my basket loaded lightly with essentials but with the goods stuffed inside as normal and one for myself.  Tax, see?  You buy some and you nick some.  This time all went to plan; I got the goods I wanted; loaded my basket with a litre of milk, a loaf, a pack of hot cross buns, a tin of corned beef and headed for the check out.  Easy-peasy.  I paid for my goods accepted a bag to put them in and tootled off.  I was well clear and on my way home; no call out; no hand on the collar and that was it. Another successful tax collection.  Home, as they say, and hosed.

            This time it was afterwards when things went wrong.

            I handed over the spoils feeling a little like one of Fagin’s boys and pocketed the cash; walked home to my flat and put the buns, the milk, bread and corned beef away first and then removed my top coat. 

            Easter eggs, four of them, Green and Blacks; the ones I like and I stood them on the shelf above my fridge.  I casually made a cup of tea thinking of the eggs and how I would eat them during Easter piece by delicious piece.  I enjoyed that cup of tea and the meal that evening. 

My bedroom was large enough to take a double bed and my lounge was equally as large but I used my bedroom mostly as I had my telly, my sound system and my stack of CD’s and DVD’s in there.  I like movies about volcanoes and forest fires and I like to surf the channels for reports on fires around the world.  I had another telly in the lounge and another one with a radio in the kitchen so I could see it when I was cooking.  Sometimes I switched them all on to watch progs about fires as I moved around the flat.  I watched the one in my bedroom when I was on the bog or in the bathroom because they were what they call on sweet or something.  I liked that because I could stagger out of my bed naked or in me undies; which is what I did on Good Friday morning.

Imagine my shock when a voice said: “Do you always sleep in the raw?”

To say I was startled was to underestimate my reaction.

Two things.  The voice came from nowhere.  It had a harsh mocking tone to it that penetrated my usual morning fug and stopped me in my tracks.

“What? Who?” I said and turned around full circle looking for the owner of the voice.  Nobody.  I must be dreaming.  I can’t be stoned because I don’t use the stuff.  I drink but hadn’t so what sort of strange thing was happening?

“I said, do you always sleep in the raw, or, and I stand corrected in your grotties?”

“Where are you and who are you?”

What disturbed me was the deep, cackling chuckle that followed; and the slow materialisation of a body.  Not a human body but a shape that resembled a human body accompanied by a chill that froze my bones to the marrow, to quote a cliché, followed by yet another chuckle and a noxious smell.

“Like it?” said the not quite human body.

I didn’t.

“Ah, now let us warm up a little shall we?”  And so saying the creature appeared to glow and I felt heat flow from it along with an increase in the noxious smell which added to the effect on me once my brain caught up with what my eyes could already see.

“I don’t believe in you,” I said feeling stupid faced as I was with the proof that he did indeed exist.

“Oh dear oh dear, you who have worked for me most of your miserably dull existence not believe in me? Tut, tut Morris James Johnson, not believe in your undisputed master?”

I was, as they say, gobsmacked.

“Come come, why the shocked silence? The cloven hooves? The forked tail? The blackened skin? The ragged garb or the horns?  Are they not what you expect?”

“I...I...well...” and I genuinely was too terrified to say anything more.

“You are a petty little thief Morris.  A sneak.  You steal and sell it for money.  You steal to indulge your greed and your fantasies.  Look at your choice of DVD’s, all stolen; all dirty, rude and crude.  You nasty little man.  We won’t say what they are because you already know.  And there is something else you do that is nasty isn’t there?”

“What do you mean?” I said knowing what he meant alright.  Oh yes, I knew and it had nothing to do with stealing Easter Eggs.

“We know what don’t we? You are despicable Morris, evil in your own small way and quite nasty.  I have a task for you,” he said and chuckled softly and although the sound was laughter it was so evilly mocking that I shrunk back against the bed and sat down on it with a thump.]

“What...”

“You are going to help me Morris,” and swiftly he was standing in front of me his eyes staring at my face and with an evil smile he began to speak.  He must have either hypnotised me or the creature only existed in my imagination and I was going mad but I woke late that afternoon as if from a drunken stupor shivering from cold and fear and was aware of a lingering vile smell.  The flat was empty except for me. Nevertheless I still slept that night and woke in the morning neither having eaten the buns nor touched any of the Easter Eggs. 

Saturday morning and I was out on the street cruising without thinking about where I was going I arrived at a familiar yard and strolled inside.  As if I was following a plan already made for me I found what I needed and with a smile of great satisfaction I put all the ingredients together and took my Swan Vestas from my pocket.  How they had got there I have no idea but they were there and with that old satisfaction I remembered from way back I struck one against the board and watched it flare into a steady flame.  It is marvellous how one small flame; one tiny little heat spot; can do so much.

 

I lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling.  I could hear the noises of the ward and I was aware of the blue uniform sitting in the room with me.  I hurt in places and remembered what happened.  The fire took off like a forest fire, gathered strength and exploded like a volcano.  So, so fascinating as it blossomed like a bramble full of red and yellow roses smothering the bins with its warm embrace and roaring happily into the doorways where it caught stacked boxes and crates and burst into the innards of the building. 

            I ran toward it wanting to see it close up the way I used to, before I turned thief and that was where things went wrong again.  I ran too far.  I was suddenly surrounded by fire – cartons burning fiercely – trapped.  I had to run out of there and fast before the fire got me.  I turned back and ran through the flames catching a glimpse of a black figure and heard a chuckle that turned into loud mocking laughter that turned into the mocking wail of sirens as I rushed out of the flames. My clothes burning I staggered out of the compound yelling for help and fell on the concrete rolling over and over aware of uniformed men running and as I came to a smoking halt I felt water playing on me and looked up when it stopped to see a fireman silhouetted against the burning logo of Tesco’s store.

            “The Easter Eggs! The Easter Eggs are burning!” I cried and swooned into a faint.

 

Remembering what happened as I lay under the hospital sheets I groaned.  The uniform looked at me and lumbered across to stand over me.

            “Awake are we?”

            “Leave me alone.”

            But they didn’t and when they finally took me down to the cells one of the detectives, a man I hadn’t seen before, asked to speak to me.  He said very little.

            “What I am interested in,” he said after I had explained that I really didn’t know what had gone wrong, “is this.”

            He showed me a package.  It was made of clear plastic; the heavy stuff used to pack messy foods and inside, each in separate nodules was thirty small coins.  He held them in his hand and the light from the overhead lamp caught their silver sheen and reflected mockingly as he turned the package around for me to see.

            On one corner neatly stamped was a picture of a little red demon.

           

 

The Balladeer     by  Gordon Henderson                   

 

The Balladeer walked the wounded land

Singing songs of peace and love,

Some listened, followed and called Him “King”,

Others watched with jealous eyes,

As the Balladeer kept on singing

His gentle words of love,

They watched and they slowly killed Him,

With an endless stream of lies.

 

Words of poison made up the graffiti

On their flimsy wall of hate,

Twisting the words of the man some called “King”,

From sweetness to rebellious sin,

But the Balladeer kept on singing

His gentle words of love,

Forgiving and loving with a certainty

That He was going to win.

 

He roamed the dusty towns and villages

With His band of future saints

They ate at last in Gethsemane with their “King”,

Not knowing the die was cast,

Whilst the Balladeer kept on singing

His gentle words of love,

A kiss was to be the signal that this meal

Was to be His last.

 

So they took Him to their hill of scorn

They nailed Him to their cross,

They laughed at Him and called Him “King!”

Rubbed salt into His sores,

And still the Balladeer kept on singing

His gentle words of love,

He died alone on Calvary

To put an end to wars.

 

A Poem by Sue Laidlay of the Sheppey Women's Writer's Group.   

Visitor.

 

Paradise today?  Why, that’s not possible

you say, hand dipping into bag

for your Bible.  Look here, you see,

in Matthew 23;    there, it says

you must follow God’s commands

till  thief like   Paradise will come

when  it’s least expected.

You must turn back to God and reject sin.

 

My  doubting  eyes just turn to see

fat  blossoms  sanctify the old plum tree,

while bees are gently fumbling

down confetti drifts.  Spring sunshine   

blesses all without decree.  The ring doves’

calling turns  me back, renewed.              . 

Can you not see this simple truth;

that  Paradise has come, today?

 

And one from James Apps 

Sometimes I have problems with rotten teeth when I eat Easter eggs.

 

If I were Napoleon I  would change my mind about Waterloo

and never go to Russia. I would talk nicely to Nelson,

pay more attention to Josephine and bury my head in her naked breast.

I would be content with Italy, islands, however peaceful, are not what

they’re cracked up to be.

 

If I were Omar Khyam I would write real poetry

that sings of algebraic equations, a filigree of decorations

in a fertile crescent, an echo of  Persian gardens but;

will I ever learn poetic speech and mathematics or,

have the time to play a slow and careful game of chess.

 

Maybe if I were Jesus I would stick to making furniture;

I would question my mother’s sanity and speak nicely

to Romans. I would never let Judas talk to Pharisees

or take Easter eggs for granted and I would be

wise enough to choose another way of going to Jerusalem. 

 

 A Story by Ruth Partis

 

                                           Chickens       by Ruth Partis

 

The man had worked late and the night was very warm. He’d seen some awful things at work and his mind was a whirl. He had finally got to bed and sleep long after his wife and young daughter.

      It was still dark when he was woken by the cockerel crowing. He got out of bed angrily and went to the door and threw out a shoe towards the bird. He could see a tiny line of purple on the horizon in the sky; it was nowhere near morning yet. He went back to bed and lay still for a while, enjoying the feeling that he did not have to work today and could go back to sleep if only that damned bird would let him.

       There was silence for about a quarter of an hour. He had just returned to his dreams when the cockerel crowed again. This time there were lines of light pink streaking across the sky. With a sigh he got out of bed again.’ It was light enough to see his wife this time, and she was still asleep. He wondered why the cockerel didn’t wake her, because if the baby cried she would be awake at once ready to feed her. He looked at the baby too. She had just started to sleep through the night and was peaceful asleep in her crib beside their bed. He picked up his one shoe and crept outside to retrieve the one he had thrown at the cockerel. He put the shoes on to protect his feet from the harsh ground.

       When the cockerel crowed for the third time it did so very loudly. The dawn really had arrived and the bird, which had only just got old enough to crow, tipped his head back and crowed as loud as he could. He never brought his head back down again. The man had him by the throat. In a second his neck was broken and a sharp knife took off his head. The man hung the bird outside the door, its blood dripping on the stone path. He knew his wife would be sad. This bird had been a really beautiful one, and she had turned it into a bit of a pet, that was why they hadn’t already eaten it when it proved to be a male. She would cook it though, with a bit of red wine and a few vegetables from the market. They would eat well tonight. Maybe they should invite someone over to share it with them. He went back in the house, kicking his shoes off. There was blood on his hands but he couldn’t be bothered to wash. He rubbed his hands together and spread the blood up his wrists till it felt dry.

He climbed back into bed. His wife stirred slightly but she was still sound asleep. He snuggled down towards her. He would not get up get up until the morning got too hot. The silence was enveloping him and he relaxed dropping straight off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that he would not have to rise again.

 And a Poem by Ruth

 

Life’s lessons by Ruth Partis

 

We have to learn some painful lessons

As through our life we go

We have to swallow disappointment

And never let it show.

A small boy learned one Easter

That not everything is clear

It was given a huge Easter egg

And he grinned from ear to ear.

It turned out to be his nightmare

When he thought it was his dream

The boxed up giant Cadbury cream egg

Was hollow - not filled with cream.