Short Stories to Entertain

Disturbed by the draft coming through the open fanlight the floral curtains swirled as Rita entered the cold sitting room. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece said four-thirty-eight. It was already getting dark. Lighting the gas fire for some instant heat she jumped when it banged. She always jumped. She then sat in her favourite armchair, the one with the big yellow comfy cushions. Picked up her book and blue rimmed glasses. A romantic fiction by an American author that made her wish she had made better choices in he r life. Then all hell broke out. The thick dividing wall separating the attached houses did not enough to dampen the row. Shouting and screaming and crashing as things were thrown.  

The late evening news that day had said about a man being shot six times. All in the chest. All by machine gun fire. A tall man about sixty maybe, with dark hair and a moustache and rich. He was extremely rich, that was obvious. The house was one of those right up there swanky places. His cleaner had found him slumped over on the sofa in his sitting room. White shirt a mess as you can imagine. Reading glasses broken. Tall wine glass spilled. Did she scream? No one really knew but you would think so, wouldn’t you? With the blood and all and two dead eyes staring right up at her as she walked into the room. The vacant wide sort. Kind of stuck open.             No signs of entry so the police said. Everything was locked. Front door security chain on. No windows broken. They were stumped; the police were. Was he on his own? That was a question they asked themselves and the cleaner of course. She didn’t know. How would she? She was not there until...

  The man sitting astride the tall, well-groomed black stallion, its croup and quarters gleaming, said with a long Texas drawl, “ W hy’d you cut your grass so much? Yo’always seem to be cutting your grass. Is it necessary?”  

  Tuesday morning at nine-thirty Ricky is returning from the post office, looked both ways, saw the gap and crossed the road. The Jaguar coming too fast honked but he was already stepping up the opposite kerb. Sitting nicely teed up on the grass verge he kicked the empty coke can twenty feet down the pavement, jumped up a bit and yelled, “Goal.” He caught up with the can, picked it up and lobbed it the six feet into the black metal bin with “rubbish” stamped on the front. Mouthed, “Goal” and turned left to cros s the car park in front of the superstore. Ricky Delaney tall, fit and full of life. His dark hair quite long but styled to suit his masculine good looks. Thirty, single and as all will tell you, worth is weight in gold.

Sidney Brown struck the brass plate with the lion head knocker three times then stepped back about two feet. Only silence emanated from inside. Then he heard the muffled sound of a door open and shut. As the front door slowly opened, he was suddenly immersed in a brief sensation of intense cold, an unseen blast that chilled his soul. Nervously holding up his warrant card he said, “Inspector Sidney Brown. Are you Michael Finn?”   “Sure, I’m Mike Finn. How can I help you?”   “I am making enquiries about an incident that has come to our attention and your name is involved. I was hoping you might be able to help. Can I come in?”   “Sure.” Sidney hesitantly stepped into the eerily dark hallway of the large Victorian building, its shuttered windows and steep, dark, tile hung gables adding an almost sinister feel. The door clicked shut behind him. A stained oak door with damage around the lock that had been hastily and inexpertly repaired, “Follow me please.”

Staring wistfully out of the bedroom window Winston listened to the hail and rain machine-gunning the window panes . There was a lot for him to worry about these days. If the glass might smash was one of them. Watching the trees unnaturally bending was another and that made him shiver. Not to mention all the other things that persistently got him down. His face carried that lack of sleep look making him appear haggard. Were those worry lines? Or just the effects of age. With a quiet subdued voice aimed at the window, he said, “Sunday…. they are coming today. I hope this storm will not stop them. We have always looked forward to them coming.” Looking towards the bed, he continued, “I’ll go and make breakfast.” And slumped off down the stairs gloomily staring at the treads.

The man with the short blon d hair and grey jacket hanging over faded blue jeans was really regretting bumping into the man with blon d e hair and black jacket hanging over tan chinos. Andy Cronin was slumped in a corner over a black waste basket. His grey jacket was speckled. His face contorted in pain. His nose and mouth and face had taken the four quick blows that had flown out of nowhere. The crowds avoided him and ignored the man in the black jacket and the man in the blue jacket who were paying his pockets a particular amount of attention.   Walking across the concourse, through the usual throng, Andy had watched the two men. The man in the black jacket and tan chinos standing to the far side of the kiosk quite close to the clock. A CCTV blind spot. The other man with the thick grey hair wearing a pinstripe suit and classy looking black Oxfords briskly walking away pushing through the crowds swiftly heading for the main entrance. He was clearly annoyed and harsh words had pr...