A synopsis.

Two, middle aged friends find their life-paths crossing - after having had no contact since their student days - when a terrible shared secret comes screaming through the years to haunt them, threatening their sanity, freedom and comfortable lives.

Evidence surfaces, when Joshua (the ten year old son of the family who had just moved in to the former student flats) finds a ring in the back garden. This leads to further discoveries of human bone and a police inquiry quickly links the house to the era and the two main characters.

As the story unfolds, we hear personal accounts of the sequence of events told by Dave (a respectable dentist) and Tom (an IT consultant) and see how their viewpoints differ. However, in the process we see how the secrets they each keep (from themselves and each other) have shaped who they have become. These statements are set against (and woven amongst) present tense revelations as the inquiry unfolds, revealing that the girl was a flatmate of Dave and Tom, who was not lost on a backpacking holiday as the reports had suggested in 1976

We learn from Tom and Dave that their extreme student lifestyle - constantly in search of the ultimate thrill - led (through a combination of drink and mushrooms, on Halloween weekend) to the drowning of Clare (an archeology student), in the bathroom at the house.

We hear from Tom that the secret he kept from Dave was that he had sex with her almost-dead body, causing her to drown. However, we learn from Dave that it was his idea to dispose of the body (to hide their grisly excesses) instead of reporting the incident.

Having tried a variety of methods (including food processors and a bonfire in the garden) they are satisfied that the incident is behind them, but rivalry between Dave and Tom reaches a climax when Tom tells Keith about the party. Dave had stolen Keith’s girlfriend and the tension between them was already there.

Now, in the present day only Dave and Tom know the full truth but the police (as yet) can’t directly link them. That is, until Keith arrives back on the scene. Dave convinces Tom that the only way to retain their anonymity is to make sure that Keith doesn’t reveal all that he knows.

However, following the ill conceived murder of Keith, fresh evidence emerges which irrevocably incriminates both Dave and Tom but for different reasons. From beyond the grave, Clare appears to have had a hand in posthumous retribution.

“Good afternoon. Do you have anything on valve radios?” says a mellow voice that rings through the willows and elms, almost making the pond ripple in reverberant sympathy. 

“Reggie!” I call as I turn and there he is, dressed in his familiar Gabardine raincoat and tweeds and he lifts his hat as he greets me with that huge, silly grin of his. 

“How the devil are you, you old goat?”

I pull the lever and turn my scooter a little so that there is room for the two of them on the bench next to me. “What time do you call this?” I ask him, as he and a young man sidestep to be next to me. 

“I’d call this a perfect time to arrive. Bradley - I’d like to introduce you to a very dear and very old friend of mine.”

“Hey less of the old already,” I say.

“Ziggy Bernstein. Ziggy this is Bradley Gardner,” and we shake hands awkwardly as he bends over.

“He’s not on the square, like us, is he?” I wink at Reggie. 

“VERY PLEASED TO MEET YOU ZIGGY,” says Bradley.

“I’m not deaf!” I say. I’m just sitting down. “And what about you? What do you do?”

“He’s a journalist, don’t you know?” says Reggie.

“Oh? Are you famous?” I ask. Bradley looks at me and then at Reggie.

“Not as such, yet”

“He’s going to write about me,” smiles Reggie. 

“Is he now?” I say. “Good luck.” - Bradley obviously hadn’t got to know Reggie very well yet (or perhaps he had), and he frowns at me as he sits, at the far end of the bench.

“Ziggy played guitar,” says Reggie, and his knee nudges mine. I know what he’s doing. 

“Really?” says Bradley, stunned, dying to laugh but still not sure if he heard properly. After looking at me for a moment he decides to go for it: “Screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo?” he says, cautiously. Reggie and me guffaw then fall silent. Reggie has a short coughing fit as he reaches for his pipe from his pocket. 

“What do you mean?” I say, straight-faced and Bradley nervously mumbles and looks to Reggie for backup. 

“He’s winding you up, Bradley,” says Reggie as he tamps down the tobacco and flicks his lighter open. “You’re learning fast though, I’ll give you that.”

Bradley might be ‘learning fast’ but he’s clearly out of his depth and Reggie was loving it. He leans over and points at the carrier bag of stale bread at the side of my scooter and asks: “Can I?”

“Sure, sure,” I say and kick the bag towards him. He delves into it and begins skimming slices of Mother’s Pride across the dark water as a flotilla of waterfowl emerge from the undergrowth in all directions and he seems pleased. 

“So,” says Reggie, as billows of creamy smoke encircle his head and he takes off his hat, smoothing down the white hair, “what do you know?”

“Ach, the same old. You know?” I say. “Got here quite early today. Had a chat with Marty.”

“Oh how is he?” he says. 

“You know, usual self.”

“Lydia?”

“Don’t ask,” I say and he cranes his neck up and looks along the High Street towards Royal Oak Lane. 

“Did you come in the Moggy?” I ask. 

“Yes. Just making sure she’s safe.”

“Still going strong then?”

“Aren’t we all?” he says with a glance. His brown eyes sparkle in the sharp sunlight and I can still see the fire within. 

Bradley is coming to the end of the bread and as he flings the end crust, it wallops a drake on the head, bounces onto the bank and the tabby cat leaps and wrestles with an unsuspecting flurry of feathers. He anxiously looks at us and points but I know there is nothing we can do. 

“I think it might be time for a lunchtime beverage. What do you think Reginald,” I ask. 

“That sounds like a perfect idea. Come on Bradley.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, still watching the forces of nature taking their course and from the look on his face - feeling responsible, or perhaps irresponsible. 

I stand up and fold the tartan blanket into the shopping basket which takes Bradley’s attention away from the cat but his mouth is still gaping as he watches me.

“I thought you …I mean. I didn’t know that…”

“What? That I couldn’t walk or something? Ach, I get lazy sometimes. Besides, my padded seat is more comfortable than that bench,” I say as they both rise and brush the cold from their trousers. “Come on, it’s just across the road.”

~

We sit in the window, overlooking the road so I can keep an eye on my scooter outside. The smell of freshly cooked chips and bacon fills the air as the soft murmur of a Sunday lunchtime warms us from the brisk day outside. A thin film of condensation blurs the glass and I wipe a small porthole with my cuff. 

“A very agreeable pint indeed,” says Reggie as he slurps at the froth of his Black Swan. “Brewed in Yorkshire,” he enthuses to Bradley, then adds: “…wherever that is,” 

Bradley’s glass is half-poised to his lips as he thinks fast and looks at him. “It’s…”

“I know - up North, but not as far as Scotland,” says Reggie and I laugh. Bradley laughs too but he is not in on our countless in-jokes. We’ve had sixty years to hone our repartee, how could he? We’re a double act, me and him. 

The Fox is a homely, ‘proper’ English pub. Red brick, slatted windows with tangled ivy and a sense of log-fire welcome that is so often lost in many of the new, ‘corporate’ pubs. Villages revolve around places like this and for me, it has become my second home and I settle back, putting the newspaper on the seat at my side as I take off my scarfe. 

“So fellas. What have you been up to this weekend?” I ask and Reggie gulps a quick mouthful before heavily landing his glass on the table. 

“Oh, it’s been quite an adventure really,” he says and Bradley smiles and nods in agreement. “Friday night, Mrs Jiggery put on a bit of a spread for Burns Night - I know it’s not the right day, but I thought it might be fun. THEN,” he continues: “on the Saturday, we caught the bus into Bedford and after visiting the Museum and lunch at the Embankment…” Bradley is looking at him now. His smile has become that goldfish-gape again as Reggie turns.

“You remember, Bradley?  I had the ‘dry-aged Aberdeenshire steak with all the trimmings and a pint of Bombardier and you had the Salmon Fishcake with a watercress salad and bottled water.? Bradley says nothing. He just looks at him and then at me. 

“Anyway, after that we walked along the Ouse, over Town Bridge and onto the high street,” - I nod in acknowledgement and saw Bradley mouthing the word ‘No’ as he pulls a bemused frown for my benefit. “Then I took us to see the place where David Robinson had his old shop. Remember Bradley? I told you I worked there as a young man.”

“They named a college after him at Cambridge you know,” I added, looking at Bradley. “Sir David he was in the end.”

“Then we took another bus into Clapham to see the Glenn Miller Museum. Have you been there Ziggy? Housed in the old control tower of the airfield where he was last seen alive in ’44,” said Reggie widening his eyes. “Splendid it was, then back home in time for tea. Mrs Jiggery had made Stargazy Pie for us and we pulled Christmas crackers - just for a bit of fun.”

“Crackers …yes,” says Bradley, downing about half of his pint in a single go. 

“Then I put on a slide show: Egypt, Paris, New York, that sort of thing. I opened a bottle of Armagnac and we had cigars,” he concluded. 

We all fall silent as the soft, muffled noises of the pub envelop us and the sound of collective swallowing and the clinking of glasses on the table is the only exchange between us. Reggie looks at the crackling logs in the fire but Bradley is troubled. He looks out of the window and back at Reggie a few times before speaking.

“Reggie?” he says, “That’s not …I mean. I don’t …hm. How can I put this?”

Reggie puts his glass down and looks at him, slowly folding his arms, “hmm?”

“That’s not what happened. You’re joking. Right?”

“Well Bradley. Perhaps you’d like to tell the nice Mr Bernstein here, exactly what you have been up to for the last 48 hours, then. Hm?” he says, raising an eyebrow. Repeatedly. I’m not sure what he means but I expect he’s been up to mischief again. As usual. Whatever it is that Reggie is trying to conceal finally dawns on Bradley with a weighty realisation and he grins. 

“Ah. Right,” he concedes and stares at the floor with a schoolboy blush just as the chips arrive. 

“Ooh! Tucker,” beams Reggie and we all dive into our bowls of hand-cut, deep fried slabs of potato, each of us thankful for the distraction for different reasons. 

“You know Reggie, I’ve been clearing out my garage recently. I’ve been getting rid of all the left over stuff from the shop as you know, and I found something that I think is yours,” I say, with a full mouth. Huffing the heat between the words. He turns to look at me.

“Oh?’ he says and I reach into my inside pocket. I offer out my hand and he wipes his on a napkin before taking the tin box from me. He is frozen in time as he gazes at the box.

“Well bless my soul,” he says, shaking his head. “After all these years.” His eyes twinkle as his fingers clasp around the tin. “Thank you Ziggy, you have no idea how precious this is.”

“What is it Reggie?” asks Bradley as he chomps and squirts more sauce on his lunch.

“This,” answers Reggie, “is ‘number seven’ …the one that was missing.” 

Bradley stops and looks at his hand as he offers it to him. “I’d like you to look after it. You might need it later,” he urges and Bradley slowly takes the box and starts to open it but Reggie’s huge hand covers it. “Not now,” he says and Bradley puts the box in his pocket, looking at Reggie to make sure that he was doing the right thing. “Good lad,” says Reggie and concludes lunch, wiping his lips with the napkin and rising to his feet. 

“You must excuse me a moment. I have to ‘see a man about a dog’,” he winks as he places his hand on Bradley’s shoulder to get past and I see him disappear across the bar and into the Gents. A few locals glance and some nod as he goes by. 

“So, you’ve been having fun with ‘Uncle Reggie’ then, have you?” I smile at Bradley as I finish my chips. 

“Yes, it’s been …interesting,” he says. 

“What do you think of him?” I ask. 

“He’s …” he thinks for a while, “fascinating,” he says. 

“Don’t believe a word,” I warn him but he is not convinced.

~

My scooter trundles along the high street, bumpily, as Reggie and Bradley walk alongside as we go back to his Morris Minor, parked a little way along from the pond. I can recognise it immediately, not only for it being an old 1950’s split-screen, vintage green banger but also for the famous ‘AND 50’ number plate. 

“Hello there Mavis,” says Reggie to the car, “I hope you’ve been keeping out of trouble.” He leans over and brushes a couple of leaves off the bonnet. 

“What have you got planned for the rest of today?” I ask. Bradley shuffles about nervously. 

“Oh, that’s it isn’t it? Bradley has to catch a train soon?” I look at him.

“Back home?” I ask.

“Yep, back to London to start my feature.”

“Where will you begin?” I ask him and he scratches his head.

“At the beginning I suppose,” and Reggie laughs.

“I doubt it,” he says. 

I hand him the newspaper I’ve been carrying and say: “Here, take this. Something to read on the train,” and he takes it with a smile and a nod.

“How about you?” says Reggie. 

“I think I fancy some duck soup tonight,” I say, looking back at the pond.

Bradley looks terrified for a moment, but I punch him on the shoulder.

“Silly boy. Sainsbury’s best. As if I’d…” I say, shaking my head and glancing at Reggie with a wink. “Next thursday, as usual?” I ask and he waves through the window and then they were gone

And that, in a nutshell, was my Sunday - same as usual: ‘nothing much happened’, but it was nice to see the old fool again. I just wonder what Bradley will make of it all. 

(First draft)

~

Every Sunday I do this. I take the scooter down to the pond and feed the ducks. I like to have a little routine in my life, you know? A little routine goes a long way: it helps pass the time and it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Monday is Post Office day - I like to check my balance and then on the days when it’s due: collect my pension (ach, it’s not much but then I don’t want for anything these days. Myriam - god rest her - left me everything. I get by.) Tuesdays I like to go to Senior’s Yoga at the community centre and although I find it hard to join in, there’s a lot you can do sitting down. They do a good cup of tea as well, so that makes it a nice trip out. Wednesday is shopping (after I’ve put the washing out). I get the bus into Hitchin and make a day of it. Thursdays I usually meet Reggie in the library and then we go for cakes and more tea. 

Friday is the Fish and Chip Club. Three or four of us meet up and go have fish. I like a piece of fish on a Friday - It takes me back to childhood memories of Shabbat but, as there’s nobody to share it with anymore, I don’t make much of a fuss in an evening. Early bedtime, maybe read a book. Saturday is usually a bus ride into Bedford to walk ‘round the shops and then Sunday, it’s down to feed the ducks (if it’s not raining) and a pint of Black Sheep at The Fox with a few hours to read the newspapers. So that’s me for you: a man of leisure you might say but after a life like mine, I think I’ve earned it. I should complain.

“Zelig! Are you talking to the ducks again?”

I look around as best I can and see him standing there. Dark brown Homburg pulled down making his ears protrude like pink handles. “Marty? Is that you?” I ask.

“Yes, you old fool, who did you think it was? The Sandman?”

“It was your ears I recognised. Let me put my glasses on.” He sits on the bench next to my scooter and looks out across the pond. 

“How’s Lydia?” I ask, but the curl of his mouth and the tipping of his outstretched hand tells me that things are not great, so I change the subject. “The grandchildren then? Have you seen them recently?”

“Ach, you should see them,” he suddenly beams, “all grown up now. But what looks they have …and bright too. They have brains,” he says, softly tapping his forehead. “They make me very proud.” 

He turns slightly to look at me and the warmth of his smile, just for a moment, takes the chill off the afternoon. It’s the kind of day that has a bleak clarity to it, that only winter could bring. The light is different, it has a sharpening effect on the senses and there, way up in the highest stratosphere, the slightest of clouds smear themself over the thin blue canopy. 

Marty, too, seems different today. January is visible in his features. Like Janus, he wore two faces - one, looking back over the old year, already blank as snow and the other: bracing the elements and pointing to the fresh green growth of renewal. He is a gardener at heart or rather: it is he. 

He’s talking to me but his voice has softened into a blur in my mind as I listen to my own thoughts. I should really pay attention as I know at some point he will ask me something but I am content to just let the time pass and feel the crisp air on my cheeks as he talks. I watch as the ducks fight with each other under the willow trees. Dropped crusts of bread are bobbing about in the ripples around them and now, here comes a coot: little white beak thrusting forward to take advantage of the squabble and steal the crust. 

“…don’t you think so?” I hear, as my attention focusses back on his voice - realising that it’s my turn to speak. 

“Oh, of course,” I gamble, is the best answer, seeing as he was clearly looking for my approval. My punt pays off, as he seems satisfied that I was right there with him in the moment and, to put a cherry on it, I continue: “If God had meant it to be, he would have made it so,” I add with a knowing nod (which was a masterstroke) and in agreement, he sits back on the bench and crosses his legs, accidentally whacking my scooter. His huge black shoes don’t register the impact and he shuffles about in his seat. As long as he’s comfortable, I think as I look back across the pond.

“Sold any good books lately?” he asks me now, his tongue investigating the remains of his lunch lodged in his dentures. 

“Marty, it’s been twenty years since I sold the bookshop.”

“But you were doing wholesale by mail order for a while, weren’t you?” he says, as he tips back his head to watch a flock of Canada geese rise in startled unison from the trees beyond. They scramble and re-form above us before disappearing beyond the rooftops with a collective claxon of noise like the London to Brighton run. 

“Meh, it was too much like hard work. All those boxes: lifting, wrapping, posting. Anyway, it was all just left-over stock. Eventually, I’d got rid of most of it. The rest I gave to the charity shop and then some to the community centre.”

“You should have told me you were getting rid of it all.”

“It was all old stuff. You wouldn’t have been interested. People don’t crack spines anymore,” I say, mainly for my own satisfaction at the visual analogy. 

“Spines? Cracking? What are you talking about already?” he says, leaning away slightly but turning to me. 

A tabby cat skulks out from the trees on the opposite bank and as I watch it, I sigh and continue: “Book spines, Marty. Kids today. They prefer to read their phones or the internet. Paperbacks? They’re finished. Like us - crumbling remains of an older time.”

“Crumbling? Speak for yourself,” he laughs and nudges my knee. Then, slowly tipping himself forward he raises his elbows behind him and I hear the click and snap of his shoulders as he grunts and flexes his back. 

“Well, can’t sit here all day. My geraniums won’t water themself you know,” he says as he rocks a couple of times before launching himself unsteadily into an upright position. “You take care of yourself now. Don’t go speeding in that thing,” he gestures with his cane and taps the wheel a couple of times. “I’m not bailing you out of prison if you get into a fight with any rockers,” he winks and I laugh.

“Rebel without a clue, that’s me Marty,” I say and as he disappears, chuckling onto the High Street and away, I call after him: “Remember me to Lydia,” and he acknowledges the thought with an un-glancing wave. 

I’ve seen this village change over the years and not for the better either. He takes some time crossing the road because of the constant stream of cars - how they’ve made the outdoors seem so alien, almost dangerous. When I was a young man, there were very few cars. It’s hard to imagine now but apart from the occasional delivery van, people used to ride bicycles or walk. When they did that, it was like the outside was an extension of inside. As though all these strangers were actually in your own world and we’d speak to each other. In actual fact we all knew each other because of it and we had some connection in each other’s lives. But now, with everyone trapped in their little tin boxes, no one talks anymore and there’s never any peace and quiet. There’s always the continual drone of an engine somewhere and when you’re not so quick on your feet (or mind) every road is a worry. 

Before all this, when life was different it was very different. I never had time to just sit and think about things like I do now. I was too busy building my empire. ‘How come you can’t be a dentist or a lawyer like your cousin Julius?’ said my mother back then but even though I loved books I didn’t particularly want to do any of the things in them - I was happy just to dream (I couldn’t read enough as child) so it was a concession on her part in a way and so it was sealed: a shop was the only option for me from an early age. 

~

I remember it well. It had been a slow day. A few tourists had passed through: flicked over some copies of local history and some picture books about the British coastline. Mr Potter came in earlier and took away a handful of crime novels. He liked a good murder mystery and I tried to keep him a few aside. He was there most weeks and I liked to keep my regulars happy. Doris Stevenson, one of the local primary school teachers, wanted something on the Vikings and I sold her a huge old thing with engravings and colour plates that she was very happy with. 

Yes, one thing that “The Shepherd’s Crook” had become known for was, catering to all tastes. “Rare, antiquarian, second hand and latest releases - all under one roof” it said in the advert I placed in the paper every week. It had been my empire for a few years and I was proud of it. Cousin Julius might be a big shot solicitor but I owned a bookshop, I thought. He had a bit of specialist knowledge but I, - I was the gatekeeper of knowledge itself, I sneered in spiteful peevishness at my absent mother. 

It was just after lunch when I first met him. I’d been opening some boxes of books I had bought at auction and carefully collating them into piles on the table by the cash register when I heard the bell go. The shop was a small, three story Tudor style affair, with leaded windows set into a curved bay. There were three steps up from the main road and I could always hear customers even before they come in, by the way their footsteps echoed in the cellar below, but this chap was different. The first I knew, was when his huge frame appeared in the doorway, dressed in a Gabardine raincoat, and he lifted his hat as he greeted me. 

“Good afternoon. Do you have anything on valve radios?” he said with a mellow voice that rung through the twists and turns of the shop, almost making the light fitting sing in reverberant sympathy. 

“I think, if I do, they’ll be on the first floor,” I said and he bustled past me with vigorous enthusiasm. “But first …excuse me,” I called, “could you leave your holdall at the desk please.”

I heard him halt and turn on the creaking boards as he reversed down the steps. 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t wish to appear rude but it’s for your own convenience. Sometimes,” I continued into the silence of his stare, “…sometimes people steal things.”

He looked at me for a while and I was not sure what to say next. 

“Of course!,” he boomed, “forgive me. I’m not a thief but I do understand. Please, take this - but do look after it won’t you,” he said moving closer and lowering his tone. “It contains something very valuable indeed.”

I heard the floor groaning as he paced energetically back and forth upstairs and flecks of dust began to fall, softly through the shafts of sunlight filtering in between the racks in the window. It seemed as though he were consuming the contents of each book as I heard the sound of volumes being dragged from their shelves as others tumbled, causing him to trip more than once. After a while, I thought I should investigate and see if I could help.

As I climbed the stairs, calling “Is everything alright up there? Have you found anything you like the look of?” I was stopped in my tracks by his yelps of delight.

“Eureka!” he cried. “This is even better than I could have hoped for.”

“Ah,” I said. “A rare volume: ‘Calculation of Astronomical Formulae’. Good choice,” I smiled.

“I was rather hoping to discover ‘Advanced Principals of Valve Technology’ and for a while was quite tempted by ‘Newton’s Optical Writings’ but this is a bobby dazzler. Just the ticket,” he enthused as he bent back the pages and sat himself down on a dining chair by the window. Behind him, the street carried on its daily business but for him, the world came to a standstill as his eyes widened. Hurriedly flicking the pages. 

“Listen to this,” he said, (presuming that I understood his enthusiasm but as they say: the customer is always right.) “Ephemeris Time is a uniform time based on the planetary motions, whereas Universal Time only exists on Earth and is necessarily based on its rotation.

Because the Earth’s rotation is slowing down and, more importantly: with unpredictable irregularities, UT is not a uniform time and cannot be trusted. Since the calculation of the position of planets requires a uniform time, one must use ET for the calculation of accurate ephemerides. Therefore, the exact value of the differences ΔT = ET - UT can be deduced only from observations and extremely accurate recorded measurements. I KNEW IT!” he roared with a sunrise grin. “This,” he said, slamming the book closed with one hand, so close to my face that I felt the backdraft and smelt the years of neglect as the dust billowed from its pages, “…is the missing link I have been looking for.”

He was still babbling as we went downstairs and I started wrapping the book for him in brown paper. “What line are you in?” I asked as I melted the ceiling wax onto the string of the package. His choice of book was unusual and I wanted to be sure that I could earn a bit of repeat business. 

“I’m on the radio don’t you know?” he said. (I thought I had recognised the voice.) “Suspenders? Have you heard of that? ‘Best new radio drama of 1951’ said the Radio Times last year. It’s very popular,” he smiled. 

“Your name please? So I can fill out a bill of sale,” I asked, pen poised at the ready.

“My name? Yes, it’s: R.K. Merryweather.”

“Reggie Merryweather?” I suddenly realised, “Yes I have heard you. You used to present ‘Missed your chance’ didn’t you? That was a funny show. I liked that. What’s this new one then? More comedy?” He looked at me seriously for a second before answering. 

“Oh no,” he said. “It’s mystery, suspense, drama, horror and…” he slowly waved his hands as if invoking evil spirits and whispered: “the unknown,” and there was a long silence as he let the impact of his revelation fill the room.

“Well, I do hope you’ll come back if you need more inspiration or …reference material. I usually have things on most subjects and if I don’t have it I can always order it,” I smiled as I passed him my calling card. 

“Zelig Bernstein. Literary broker. I see. Well thank you Ziggy, I certainly shall be back,” he said as he reached down for his holdall but it slipped as he was trying to put the book away and the contents came tumbling across the desk - A paper bag containing seven cherry scones. 

I was surprised that he shortened my name that way - the way that they do in the States, but for some reason I instantly forgave him the familiarity. There was just something magnetic about his presence. 

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said as he grappled with the tumbling cakes. “I’m afraid I can’t resist visiting Mary Marshall’s cake shop whenever I come in to Hitchin.”

“I’m quite partial to a bit of cake myself,” I said, “and she does make exceedingly good ones,” I nodded.

“Tell you what then,” said Reggie as he closed the bag and brushed the crumbs off his coat, “If you’re ever free at lunch next time I come into town, why don’t we go for tea and cakes? Then, you can tell me all about your rare and interesting books, and I can tell you all about my work. Hmm? How does that sound?”

“That sounds like a grand plan. I’ll look forward to it,” I said and I wasn’t kidding. His eyes, the voice, his style was fascinating and I was sure that he would be a good customer. ‘Repeat business, you see? That’s how you build’ - my mother’s voice told me in my head. 

“Much obliged to you Ziggy,” he said as he raised his hat and headed towards the door. 

It had started to rain and he hoiked up his collar and looked up at the sky with a frown before stepping out, chattering to himself as he went to the sound of the brass bell ringing closure to my first meeting with the ‘great’ Reggie Merryweather. But it wasn’t to be the last. 

As I was clearing away the brown paper and putting the duplicate of the bill on the spike, I found a tiny tin box with red lettering on black, nestling between the register and a jam jar of pencils. 

‘The Mighty Atom. Wireless crystal cat’s whisker,’ it read and as I slowly opened it, I was amazed to see a faint mauve glow coming from inside, but I closed it quickly. I knew it wasn’t mine and had to be Reggie’s. I wasn’t worried too much, I knew he’d be back. 

(3,020 words)

It’s such a relief to be finally boarding a train. At last, I can escape from the terror that my life had become and as I settle myself into the empty carriage I can look forward to a new beginning; released from all that haunted me.

I don’t know how it all started, I suppose it was gradual at first. Like most people, I don’t pay much attention to spam emails. Every day I’d scan the subject headings and look for things I recognise, then marry them up with the sender’s name. I could usually spot people I knew and the daily ritual was almost an automatic act of “click and delete.”

There was one name however, that kept appearing and after a while I became curious, so I opened it. “Why don’t you answer my emails?” it said and I quickly searched in the trash for the others to see what they had said.

To: Tom Southern
Subject: What you did
From: Joseph Devlin
Tom. How can you live with yourself?

That was the first of many. The rest were just as brief and as I frantically clicked them all open I began to read about a whole tirade of hatred. Each one more intense than the last and I was terrified as the situation revealed itself to me in black and white. Someone I had never heard of was accusing me of something I hadn’t done and was threatening me, in the most ferocious of ways, that he was determined to wreak revenge. What could I do?

I closed down the email account as I couldn’t bear to see the name anymore and that’s when the text messages started. “Number unknown” they always said, but the comments were just the same: “I know you did it and when I tell them, so will they. There is no escape. You will have to face your fate.”

I had to keep my phone switched off most of the time but then I started to get calls on the landline. The first time this happened, I answered as I was expecting a call from my boss.

‘Hello? is that Tom?’ said the voice.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Tom, it’s Joe. Joe Devlin. Don’t pretend you don’t know me. We’re old friends, remember?’
‘Look. I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but this has gone too far. I’m going to contact the police.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to do that Tom. Then you’ll have to explain why you killed me.’
I was stunned. To actually hear him say those words with such conviction was chilling. He’d emailed me the same damning statement but to hear his voice telling me made no sense. At first I thought it was a prank but now it was clear that he must be insane and if that was case, he knew far too much about me - where I lived, what I was doing and even what I was thinking.

In the days and weeks that followed, the calls became more frequent and I would often lie in bed in the darkness listening to the distant sound of the phone - reminding me of a murder which became more real with every ring. I couldn’t sleep and it was starting to destroy my life.

I left my job and moved out of the apartment into a cheap hotel for a few days just to let my head clear and give myself time to think what to do next. I pulled in some favours from an old friend who offered me work at the other side of the country for a while, just till I got settled. I didn’t explain why, I just said that I needed a change and he was happy to help out. And so, here I am. On a train with a new life ahead of me.

I stretched my legs and gazed out of the window as we pulled out of the station and the bleak stonework of the city gave way to the sprawling countryside in the darkness of my night passage. Then, someone else came into my deserted compartment. I picked up the book I had been reading and tried to make it look obvious that I didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘That’s a good story,’ he said after a while as he leaned over from the opposite table. ‘Not as good as the first one though. Did you read his first?’
I looked up and shook my head. It was clear that he wanted to talk, and we were both already bored by the prospect of a long journey on a deserted train.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll let you get back to it.’
‘No, it’s ok. I can’t concentrate,’ I said, ‘I’m Tom.’
‘Hi Tom. My names Joe. Joe Devlin,’ he smiled.

His softly spoken words crushed me and I froze in the grip of overwhelming panic as questions roared though my mind.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Why are you doing this to me?’ I shouted at him, slamming down the book but his look of surprise was not what I had expected.
‘What do you mean Tom? I’m just talking to you.’
‘All these months, you’ve been on my case. Hounding me. Why won’t you leave me alone?’
He laughed and said: ‘But Tom, I’ve never seen you before. I don’t know you, we just met. Remember?’
‘You’re lying! All this time you’ve been lying. I didn’t do anything.’
‘Tom, now look here. You need to calm down a bit. As I said, I don’t know who you are. I just came in here for a bit of company on a long trip. I’ve been working away and I’m going home to see my wife that’s all.’

He was too clever. That confident tone and his self assured grin was starting to ignite fires of such resentment in me. I despised him and all he had done to me and I got up from my seat.
‘Hey Tom, now seriously. This has gone too far. I was just…’
But I didn’t let him finish. Why the hell should I let him? He’d ruined my life, night after night with his infernal emails and his text messages. Accusing me, ME of being something I wasn’t and promising me revenge, well I wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction. I rushed forward and gripped his throat. His startled eyes, red and glaring held a silent stare of defiance but I just laughed as he choked and struggled in the grasp of my strong hands and then he was dead.

I dragged his body to the end of the compartment, opened the door and heaved it out into the night and fell back into my seat, aching and exhausted. Perhaps I could find tranquility at last, now that I was rid of the burden that my life had become and the train rolled on, into the darkness of a new day.

(1164 words)

How would you like to die? It’s not a choice anymore, you have to face facts. You had a choice, once, but now it’s simply a matter of detail. You drift from dull thoughts into a world of pain and sounds you don’t recognise. Everything is strange and jagged in your memory but you are desperate - driven to know where you went wrong.

The sounds hit you first: soft chatter and the bleeping of machines and then you try to open your eyes. They are stuck together but you force the muscles to prise them open and all you can see is a blur. You try to move but you ache all over. Your back feels shattered and your legs are heavy. You try to raise your arm to your face to wipe away the confusion but all you can feel is the weight of nothing, grating against the rough linen as you lie in an unfamiliar bed. Your face is burning as much as your need to understand why you are here. Now you can see tubes and wires stretching from the pain in your body, out into the room.

‘Can you hear me?’ says a voice, echoing in the onslaught of panic descending quickly.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ he says but you have questions of your own. Questions that sear deep inside and you search frantically for answers and then you remember the hundred thousand pounds. The fortune that was just within your reach, the cash that was going to open new doors and set you free - and still you believe that there is a chance.

It came to you in a moment: that day when they opened the doors and sent you back out into the world. Free after eleven years and a hundred and forty nine days (give or take a few hours). A hundred thousand hours of your life, cruelly taken from you, in payment for a crime you never committed - and how you raged with revenge at the thought of it. Someone was going to pay for your sacrifice and as you walked the driveway from the jail into the bright spring morning, all you felt was determination to seek pay-back. “Give a dog a bad name…” you figured. You’d been to hell, how bad could things get?
‘Need a lift?’ said the stranger, leaning over and looking at you through his open window. It was a nice car, the road was long and you’d been hitchhiking for a few hours now. You had no money; only the clothes you stood up in and nowhere to go, so you thought: “Why not?” And now, you are about to re-live the whole splintered thing, as if it were happening, again.

~
‘Thanks, buddy,’ you say, as you throw open the door.
‘Where are you heading?’ he asks.
‘Wherever you’re going,’ you answer and he grins.
‘Ah, the great adventure, eh?’ he says as the car gets back up to speed.
For a long while he says nothing but eventually he becomes curious. ‘What’s your name?’
You think fast. Something is stirring in you and you begin to feel that this might be a situation you could use.
‘John,’ you lie.
‘Pleased to meet you John. My name’s Timothy - Timothy Nolan.’
You look at him and he turns briefly to see your face.
‘I’m going to Whitehaven, is that any good to you?’ he asks.
You have no idea how to answer and you shrug. Then, the gears kick in.
‘What’s in Whitehaven?’ you ask him.
‘I’m going to see my old uncle. Haven’t met him since I was little. But this weekend is very special.’
‘Oh?’
Yes, I’m going to collect my inheritance,’ he says and now you’re interested.
‘Poor old Montgomery. Blind as a bat. Lived alone in that big house for many years and never trusted banks. Keeps his fortune in a safe in the cellar.’
Your thoughts are racing now. Scheming and planning your next move. There was a silence for a long time and then he spoke.
‘I reckon you’re thinking how you can bump me off, trick the blind old fool and make off with the hundred thousand, aren’t you?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ you say with hesitation in your voice, but he just laughs.
‘Ha, I can read you like a book. I’d think the same but it’s not so easy,’ he says but now, you’re looking for clues.
‘There’s something I’ve not told them,’ he says. ‘I’m dying. Just six months left, I’ve been told. But that’s just enough time to make sure the money falls into the right hands first.’
Your mind is racing now and you ask:
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Weak heart, you see,’ and then you act. You grab the steering wheel, aiming it for a tree, just beyond the river at the side of the road. He panics and starts to gasp as the car rocks to a halt.
‘You’ve got to get me to a doctor,’ he says but you have other plans. If he dies of a heart attack now, it’s not your fault. You know all you need to know so you go along with your instincts.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ you say with a coldness which makes him stare at you with pleading eyes.
‘So, you think you can get away with it? Well perhaps, I knew this would happen. Maybe it was fate, maybe I just didn’t want the cash to go to the wrong one. Call it a gift from a stranger,’ he says as he slumps forward, writhing in pain.

You have to act quickly, so you wrench his trembling body from the car and drag it back to the bridge you just crossed. You look around. You’re deep in the country, not a soul for miles. This is too easy, you think. You take his jacket and try it on, fastly searching the pockets - a wallet, a lighter, some small change: it’s all you need for now, if all else fails. Sure, you could pass for him. The old man is blind. hasn’t seen you for years. What could go wrong?

Lifting him, you let his body fall heavily into the fast moving water below and watch it sink as the current flows away and then you stand back and breathe out.
Driving a few more miles down the road you enter Whitehaven and see a big house on the hillside. This must be the place and you decide to take a chance. Arriving up the gravel driveway your heart is pounding. So close now, this should only take a few minutes.

You let yourself in. Why wouldn’t you? You’re family now and you creep slowly through the main hallway looking for a way into the cellars. Once inside, you fumble with the combination. You know how to break a safe, the guys had talked about that, back when you were inside, but it’s not easy.

‘Timothy? Is that you?’ says a voice at the top of the stairs and you hear the tapping of a cane approaching in the darkness.
‘Why didn’t you say hello when you arrived?’
‘I was…’ you think on your feet, ‘just checking.’ It doesn’t make sense but you don’t care any more. He laughs.
‘You’ll get the money. All in good time - after the wedding.’
Suddenly, you’re confused.
‘The wedding?’ you ask. ‘Ah yes, the wedding.’
‘Timothy, your voice is different. Let me feel your face. See how you’ve changed,’ but his approach is more than you can cope with. You have to buy some time. Try not to alert him too much, too soon.
Look,’ you say, remembering the lighter. ‘I need to get some cigarettes. I’ll be back in a while,’ and you rush past him, back up the stairs. He turns.
‘Always was the impetuous one. Always dashing about,’ he says and follows you. ‘Make sure you get back before Stephanie arrives,’ he calls in the distance.
You drive back to the village and buy some things but returning to the car you are approached by a man who calls to you.
‘Have you a light?’
You stop and search in your pocket while he looks at you.
‘New to these parts?’ he asks and you race for an answer.
‘Just visiting the old man,’ you say.
‘Montgomery?’ he asks. ‘How do you know him?’
‘I’m Timothy Nolan, his nephew,’ you lie and it’s then that you are stopped in your tracks. You see the man reach inside his jacket and show you the barrel of a gun.
‘Get in the car and drive,’ he says.

As you pull away from the village, he has you in his sights.
‘Let me introduce myself. I am Justin Nolan. Timothy’s younger brother and I don’t know what you’ve got going here but it seems rather convenient.’
Pistol-whipped by this new turn, you say nothing and keep your eyes on the road.
‘See, Timothy owes me a lot of money. A lot of money and, well, I was planning to collect - but with you in the picture it changes everything. I suspect you killed him. Am I right?’

Suddenly, you find yourself with a get-out.
‘Weak heart. He just died on me.’
‘How convenient,’ he says. ‘Well, we can play this a couple of ways then. Either I can go back to the house, kill the old man and get the money, or you can do it. If you do it, I won’t have to kill anyone and all you’d be guilty of is a bit of petty burglary.’ he says.
‘What’s in it for me?’ you say quickly.
‘If you do as I ask, say: sixty forty,’ and then he pauses. ‘Or I could just take it all, if you know what I mean.’

His proposal doesn’t fit in with your plan and you’re not prepared to share with this idiot and his ideas of betrayal so you flick up your arm and the gun goes off, firing a bullet into the roof. You grab his wrist and let go of the wheel as the car careers off the road. You struggle, but he is strong and you have everything to lose so you elbow him in the chin and manage to get the gun which you turn on him. Squeezing his own fingers on the trigger it goes off again and he becomes limp. Now, you have a new problem but you remember a lay-by a mile or so back with some public toilets so you drag his body into a cubicle, lock the door, fire a couple more rounds just to be sure and climb over the paneling. No one will find him there for days, you think, but the sound of a horn alerts you. You’d left the car in the road in the rush and it was blocking the turning. A woman in a convertible is calling to you.

‘Can you move it please? I’d like to get past,’ she says but as you approach you see her looking, searching.
‘Did I hear shots?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ you say, scrambling your senses. ‘Some rabbits. I was just practicing, but I’m not a very good shot,’ you lie.
‘I’m Stephanie Miller,’ she announces and you freeze.
‘Hi. I’m just on holiday for a few days…’ but before you can introduce yourself - make the situation appear ‘normal’ - she interrupts.
‘Isn’t that Timothy Nolan’s car?’

She sees the fear in your eyes and knows something is wrong. She starts to reverse up but wait! if she does that: goes to the village to tell someone, your chances of getting to that money will be lost forever. Without thinking, you aim the gun at the back of her head and fire. You watch as a pretty pink spray covers the windscreen and the bullet ricochets off the metal. You’ll be damned if you don’t get that money. Eleven years and a hundred and forty nine days you’d waited. Nothing was going to stop you now.
Stuffing her body into the boot and wiping down the windscreen, you push the vehicle into position. There, it looks parked now. She might just have easily gone for a walk. No one will know. Not for a while at least, just enough time to collect and be away. Out of here, forever.

Back at the house, you urgently try the combination again. It seems so close, you can almost imagine your fingers counting the crisp, clean notes.
‘You’ll never break it,’ says the old man’s voice behind you.
‘Only Justin knows the combination. That was my security in case you ever tried something like this. It was my way of being sure that you married. It was a condition, Timothy.’

This is all too much now. You want to keep up the pretence but time is running out. The old man moves closer, tapping his way towards you.
‘That smell. Are you bleeding? What have you done?’ he asks but enraged, you whack him with the first thing you can reach and he falls, unconscious. You heave him into a corner and set about making an explosive. It’s not hard, you picked up a lot of new skills inside. Some weedkiller, toilet cleaner, other bits and pieces. All stuff that’s lying around you in the dim storeroom.

But then, as the fuse is burning, you hear him! He has your gun but you know he can’t see you. You reach for a rake and start to swing but he aims for the noise. Shots ring out. He gets you in the legs and shoulder but the rake catches him squarely in the head and you both fall. The fuse is burning and you must get out. Crawling across his bloodied body you reach the door. The money! All you can think of is the money!. The door is locked. You try it, furiously but it is bolted from the outside. Impossible! Fear and greed are tearing through your brain now, thundering past every station into the blackness and you close your eyes tightly shut. Just waiting.

~

‘So, will he live Doctor,’ you hear him say. The voices are too quiet to hear an answer but you hear the detective clear enough as he satisfies himself.
‘Good,’ and then he comes back into the room.
‘Are you ready to talk now? Why was the old man trying to kill you? What were you doing in the house?’
None of it makes any sense to you and although his questions seem obvious, you look at him with a hundred thousand thoughts rushing through your ears. You mustn’t reveal anything yet. There’s still a chance, you think but something’s burning away in your brain.
‘How did you find me?’
’ We got a call from a girl. Told us that you were planning something’
‘What girl?’
‘Stephanie Miller’ her name was. Do you know her?’
The name hits you like a car and then you remember. Your eyes are wide open now and you stare at the detective.
‘That’s not possible. I…’
—-

(An experiment in ‘second person’ writing. Unedited second draft. 2,578 words.)