Short Stories to Entertain

  Monday evening at six and Rich Lister was in the kitchen, feeling like crap, with three days of plates in the sink and a wilting some sort of green plant in a red plastic pot and an empty cat bowl. Puss had gone missing. He was sitting at the kitchen table reading a book, an epic novel full of excessive words and way too many pages, drinking hot, black coffee having pushed the screwed-up copy of Racing Ahead to the other side. That is the copy with the black ink circles around five losing horses. He cut a piece of Victoria sponge cake that his grandpa had made to cheer him up, who was a master baker, that was so light and tasty he thought it could have been eaten in heaven by angels. His hand had been resting on the open book as he had cut the slice and as he raised his hand with the cake the book blew back several pages. Or they seemed to blow back but there was no draft. The page number was 46 wh ic h dId not have any significance for him so he Ignored It ...

  One of the hottest days for years and the air was oppressive. Inside the old workshop building, with its corrugated iron roof, the temperature was approaching forty degrees. Even though it was a cavernous space and the doors were open the static air was overpowering, alive with humidity and energy sapping. Dillon Walton slid out from beneath the twenty-five-year-old blue Ford rust bucket on an old battered red creeper with casters squealing and announced to the owner who stood sweating in a suit and tie. “Sorry mate, it's a total. Needs thousands of work and the old crate is only worth a monkey at best,” he said, wiping his face with a damp towel and unbuttoning his greasy overalls.

  It was the summer of 1924 and Captain Joshua Bartlett was in New York in the lobster restaurant, the one near Madison Square Garden, with the waiter saying, “ I s that one - pound or two-pound lobster sir?” Having a British appetite he replied . “ O ne pound please and hold the salad dressing.” Necessity had taught him the phrase - he had drowned in vinaigrette too many times that week. Staring out the window watching the pavement go by his gaze caught on a couple under the lamp post talking briskly and passionately as Italian New Yorkers do, gesticulating, dressed for the evening but going nowhere, probably disagreeing about nothing in particular before strolling off with his arm around her waist and his jacket hung over his shoulder.

  Bobby Beezer-Brown opened the front door in response to the deafening thumping of fist on woodwork and was confronted first by Little Micky, Big Micky’s personal spokes person , then Big Joe, who Little Micky dragged around, metaphorically that is, to extract monetary and other collections on Big Micky’s behalf. Big Joe stood an excellent six feet eight inches in stockinged feet and came complete with an abundance of muscles. Twenty stones of bulk crammed through the doorway. Bobby Beezer-Brown, having never seen them before, said ,” W hat the f...,” but was shoved aside before he could complete the expletive.  

  The mist was thick within the trees, swirling, almost vibrating with a kind of expectancy. The breeze shifting its white-grey mass with subtle movements breaking the density here and there. The sounds, the seductive tunes, beguiling, beckoning. The wind increasing with a rushing that lifted leaves into spirals of dancing colour . The fog rising to combine with the twisting whirlwinds. Approaching her, then hovering, but suddenly, with a moaning sigh, rushing back the way it had come. The boundary forming, th e line that was indelibly woven into the fabric of time, the exact point of transition, the change from night to day . A fleeting moment when the dead have to retreat and the living begin the slow process of transformation into wakefulness.  

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.