Short Stories to Entertain

Tommy Frink, that was his given name. His father, Edward Frink, an alcoholic, inveterate gambler and swindler, with the capacity to psychologically maim all around him, particularly those close to him. Tommy’s mother for instance. The sweetest creature ever to walk along Poplar High Street in the East End of London, that area historically perceived as notorious and synonymous with violent crime. With a graceful, elegant entrance she could captivate the entire audience of the local pub. Margaret Wilson , known as Maisie, loved by everyone and envied by many. He ruined her. Wooed her with flowery words and promises of endless riches. That was his way, a silver tongue and ability to deceive, his natural charm and good looks seducing many victims. Maisie fell under his spell at eighteen, was pregnant by nineteen and married out of duty. That was the word, although all who knew Maisie’s father, Billy, a tall, strong, well-respected fixer, thought differently.

The telephone on the reception desk was ringing. It had a stuttering ring, reluctant, as though it had better things to do than alert an attentive listener. Mr Benton was attentive, he had to be, it was his business after all. But just at that moment he chose to ignore it. Unlike him it was true but today he was feeling melancholy. Recently memories had been catching up with him. Instead, he was concentrating on morning coffee and his usual two Bourbon biscuits. The ringing stopped abruptly and he stopped ju st as abruptly. Caught by a sudden recall, his expression forlorn, he instantly regretted his laxity.  

It was dark. At exactly ten, a loud clunk and the lights went out. The eons of time had witnessed the exact same routine. Every night ghosts of past occupants infused the atmosphere in the same contemplation of their sins. A brisk wind and a cloud swept away, opening a sky hole allowing a shaft of moonlight to penetrate the gloom and like a searchlight illuminating its prey the steel sprung, top bunk is speckled in a fluorescent glow. High up the wall, nearly touching the tall ceiling, the small window is large enough to emit sufficient light to exaggerate the pitifully bleak and monotonous existence of the occupant. Laying on the covers in regulation white, greying boxers and string vest. Right hand behind his head. Sorrowful eyes tight shut. A slight tear in the corner. Left hand nervously rubbing a black stubbled chin and a shaved with a blunt blade nick. Trying to suppress the sounds.

The stag lifted its head, suddenly alert, tensed to run but unsure. There had been a sound. The slightest cracking. The smallest snapping sending the minutest disturbance through the forest upsetting the natural harmony. Then dipping its head, turning sharply, rear legs pushing and away as the crossbow bolt punctuated the vacated space to thump, vibrating, into the ancient oak tree. The mist rising surreally from the ground, damp grey, all encompassing, born out of the transition from night to dawn and swal lowing the bolting animal saving it from certain doom.

The short delay entering through the glass revolving door gave those interested an excellent opportunity to view and assess visitors to the five-star luxury Grand Hotel prominently located on the cliff top overlooking the sea. He is sitting, chuckling, in the expansive foyer on an uncomfortable but clearly expensive blue satin reproduction Fauteuil chair. The position is particularly suitable as it offers the best view of the main entrance. And there is that stocky inconspicuous man again, i n the dark blue suit and dark glasses going past outside. This is the second time, though until now he has not looked in. A good-looking man carrying a dark brown attache case neatly dressed in an expensive grey suit and blue tie pushes through the door, dodges the lady in the red dress in a state of confusion, and sits down next to him.

“ What’s it to be tonight then? Fish? Pie? Chicken?”   “Breaded plaice, please sweetie and large chips. And some scraps if you’ve got any.”   “Wait. I almost forgot. There’s a note for you. A man came in last night and said, “Do you know Freddie Doogan ?” I nodded and he gave me this. "Freddie Doogan is a guy mixed up with all sorts. He drifts happily between the legal and illegal depending on how much is involved and how much of that he can retain . Just about made it to forty so has seen his way round the block a few times and still manages to stay out of the constabulary’s clutches. Prides himself on being careful. “I’m still enjoying my freedom because I always check the already checked.” He will say. Grew up in the slums that back onto the railwa y line next to the old coal yard so is well versed in street law.  

He had been waiting on the corner for exactly twenty-four minutes. He knew that, the clock on the High Street tower said so. Ten o’clock precisely had been his arrival time. The bottom left-hand pocket of his dark blue Mackinaw was feeling bulky and catching against his hip. The pocket flap is loose. Standing there trying to look innocent but feeling conspicuous, just waiting and wondering if she would turn up. There was that car again. The same one, third time. The black Audi R4 with red wheels, the two men both not looking but still seeing. At least that was the impression or was it simply his imagination deciphering innocence as something sinister. Tapped quick dial. Straight to voicemail.

The gas fire was hardly ever on. It was set into the open fireplace with a constant freezing draft from the open flue coming through the cracks of the ill-fitting frame that froze feet - even those wearing thick socks. Only on the coldest winter days when condensation turned to ice on the inside of the windows was it lit. Flash Gordon would say whilst sporting a blue, dribbly nose, “I’m not cold, in fact it’s so warm I think I’ll open a window.” But of course, the windows did not open. The two bedroomed apar tment converted within the roof voids of the large, old, rambling building had suffered years of inferior decoration resulting in the sash windows of the lounge being painted shut. Sash windows had a habit of being a nuisance. In the main bedroom the window opened but the ropes supporting the lead counterweights had snapped so it was propped open with a hardback copy of War and Peace which Flash had decided was the best use for such a tedious read.  

Archibald Delaney was always a very snappily dressed person. Today he is wearing an expensive grey suit, white shirt and blue tie with one white diagonal stripe. Highly polished black Church’s shoes with heels clicking on the slabs as he manoeuvres his way along the congested pavement. An upright six foot two and a commanding figure. In his early forties but his face showed no signs of wear. A good-looking confident man . He spoke with a smile in a very appealing way. The smile extending to his dar k eyes added to an overall impression of trust and dependability that people immediately felt when meeting Archibald Delaney for the first time.  

The blue car screeched around the bend, flew past the cyclist and disappeared up the road at more than enough speed. Dust kicked up off the country road. Dried mud from all those tractors. It pooled in the air in a long stream and followed in a trail blanketing the distance in a kind of haze. The road was narrow. The car passing close made the cyclist wobble, stop , and get off his bike. He looked along the road following the passage of the car until i t disappeared over a slight rise in the long straight section j ust before the sharp bend that was out of sight, but he knew was there. He heard a loud screeching of brakes, a rolling bashing noise ending in a very loud crash. Silence except for a stuttering half-hearted horn that struggled t o continuously sound.