The Blue Lagoon

After Jimbo died, after his funeral,  we felt it right to miss a couple of meetings of our Whittlestreet Crime Writers’ Circle but life must go on, well, mostly.  Though if you write about crime these days it usually involves an excessive number of deaths.

Anyway:     We had a simple ceremony.  The five of us.  We did leave his chair, the sixth, in the circle, it seemed appropriate so soon after Jimbo had left us.

I suppose I should be formal and call him Jim, or rather James if you want to be really formal.  But no, he was Jimbo to us all.  At least those that actually used his name.   Amy never used it as far as I remember.  Mostly because she doesn’t use anybody’s name directly, just looks at them and speaks into their faces.  Somewhat disconcerting if you are not aware of her system.  She just sits and taps away at the tablet on her lap, eyes glued to it.  Goodness knows what she does on it.  I  assume she takes notes but it could be anything.   Oddly I just don’t have the nerve to ask.  She sits opposite me, leaning over, fiddling with it.  She glares if she deigns to raise her head and talk at you.  I can’t get Medusa out of my mind whenever she does that.

Amy sat next to the empty chair, Tom the other side of that.  Next to him was Harry then me.  Marie closed the circle, as it were, therefore sitting between Amy and me.

The ceremony:

It was quite brief. We had agreed at his funeral for each of us to give a short eulogy at the next meeting of the Burnthorpe, Whittlestreet Crime Writers Circle.   So there it was.

Tom and Harry dipped into a couple of drunken episodes with Jimbo.  I read the last two pages of his  published crime novel, “the end” being the final words.

Marie said a few words about being a journalist then quoted the first sentence from ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.  Finally, Amy read a poem by Emily Dickinson about death.  “Fair enough,” I thought.

Of course we opened a bottle of his favourite whiskey and raised our glasses at the end in a chorus of “Jimbo!”  and sipped or glugged to his memory.  Some of us accepted seconds and then we sat in silence as we had planned no further.

A Crime Writer’s life can be fraught with difficulties and this vacuum was no stranger to us.  We are always eager to learn and offer advice, even criticism, as long as we don’t have to reveal any potential plot lines or vital clues. This is why we like to have an agenda, so we can plan our secrets, as it were.   To cover our group embarrassment we began to talk about the pub we were holding the meeting in.  The publican was a friend of ours so he lent us the room for meetings.  A good excuse for a drink too, we also use the library and bookshop but no drinking allowed there.   Writer’s block can sometimes be oiled by drink, or hide it for a while.

There we were, breaking into a sweat of gossip when the door opened  enough for a head and shoulder to appear.     “Is this the book club?”

“No!” Several voices, not quite in time, responded.  “Crime Writing!”  A lone voice continued.

“Oh, good.” The door opened fully and the young woman came in, carefully shut it, saw the empty chair and dived into it.  “Hello everyone, I am Nyree, sorry I am late.  Have you started”

We vaguely looked round at each other then the young woman.  She was literally like a breath of fresh air, maybe a gust, possibly a gale.  Energy seemed to flail out of her as she fumbled through her large flowery shoulder-bag.  Amy sat erect. (Was this the first time,ever?) Half turning to look at the newcomer.  Amy’s white Goth facade a contrast to the ebony of the stranger.

Tom sat immobile as the bag landed on his lap as well as the owner’s and wriggled as her hands riffled through it.  We others just watched.

“I’ve got the book.” She said and dragged it out.  Dropped the bag with a clatter to the floor and waved the book in the air.  She settled, held the book on her lap, looked round at the little group holding a smile as she looked at each of us.

“You were expecting me, weren’t you?”

A cross between silence and murmurs of “no,” filtered out as she continued.

“Uncle Jim sent me a list of dates and venues.  He wanted me to come but I never did.”  She looked around again. “But I have now.”  She looked down, collected herself.   “I brought the book.”

With that she lifted it, face forward so we could see the cover.

Still surprised, we looked at what she held.  The cover-photo was of a small lake surrounded by overhanging trees.  The water, steely grey and in the foreground, viewed as a high-shot, a small building on the edge that may have been a wooden boathouse with a short jetty part-collapsed in the water.

“Can you see the title?” she said proudly, “The Haunting of Blue Lagoon.”

“It’s not very blue.” Said Amy.

I have to admit to being stuck on the “uncle Jim” words but I did look at the book and had to agree with Amy.

“Well, I think it’s atmospheric!”  Was her non-apologetic, enthusiastic, response.

I could feel the gently sinking of all spirits round me.  An odd thing to say as no one had been particularly ‘up’ in the first place.  It was the first meeting we had managed since “Our Jimbo” had been duly buried and mourned.  Two months that had been. Two meetings missed.   We had all arrived, settled and looked at the empty chair respectfully.

Nyree broke all that.  An interloper!  A mystery from her uncle Jim, our Jimbo!  And goodness me she was so young and exuberant the air was suddenly sucked out of all of us.  The pause to study the book’s cover extended until Marie broke the silence.

“I can’t actually see it. Can you turn it my way?”

Immdiately apologetic, Nyree turned the book to Marie and placed it face-up on her lap.

“We didn’t know Jim had a niece.  You’re his niece?”  Tom popped the question we all worried about.

“Sure.  I’ve two brothers; nephews, as well.  We’re all from Kingston.”

Oh-oh, someone stepped in something when they asked, “Jamaica?”

“on-Thames.”  She kindly managed a little laugh as she spoke.  Feet safely extricated all round!

“We never knew.”

“No worries, you lot never existed until he died.  Then I got this book sent to me, with his letter and instructions.”  She waited for any responses.  I have to admit she was a good listener.  She had to wait a fair old time while we digested.

Tom took up the reins again,  “Well, your very welcome, Nyree.  Hello from all of us.”   He assumed we all nodded in agreement,  “Why the book? I haven’t seen it before. Has anyone else?”   More assumption.  “What does you mean, instructions?”

“Well!”  The pause and intake of breath signified one of two things;  nervousness or a lot to say.   It turned out to be the latter.    It also turned out to bear only part relation to the title of the book and its cover.  In fact the book was a collection of mysteries that had been dolled-up to read like ghost stories, or what goes nowadays.  Apparently the title and the cover, so obviously mis-matched was at the insistence of the author.  And, low and behold, the author was not the mystery.

“The author is my dad!  He was from Jamaica, not Kingston though!  One of the first students at Surrey University.  Got his degree and all that, married mum and they had us kids while they both worked at the uni..  He worked around and about, post grad, doctorate and then we all up-staked and moved to Kingston.”  She just had to pause and rub it in with,  “-on-Thames!”

This is the short version I give here, won’t bother with Nyree’s extended version, interesting as it was, at times.  Jim had never mentioned a daughter let alone any other family.  We knew a wife had been and gone.   ‘Excess work and drink’ he had said, meaning his, not hers.

“Soon after our move he got this published.  We all pointed out the odd jacket and he just said  ‘it had to be’. And that was that.  Then he went to work one day to research at the library.”  She stopped, tone flattened. We waited, expectantly.

“When he came back in the afternoon.” Pause again

Okay that was something of an anticlimax, you could feel the little circle settle back into relax-mode.

“He packed a ruck-sack with whatever, and said he had to visit uncle Jim about the lagoon story” This time she really had lost her exuberance. “And got run over near a Zebra Crossing on the way to the railway station!  Uncle Jim never saw him.  He went to meet him off the train and waited for the next but, of course, he never turned up.”

The atmosphere changedyet again but Nyree continued before anyone could find any words.

“Anyway,” she pulled some smile back into her voice. That was years ago!  Five years now.  The police agreed it was a stupid accident.”   She emphasised the last sentence, you could see her energy coming back.  “Uncle Jim was at his funeral and we did all the reminiscing, and crying, and read some of this damned book.”     She  passed it to Marie as if it were hot.

You could see her clench her jaw to regain control and she held Jims letter to her   “Uncle Jim’s instructions were to come here and find out why the jacket and title were so important to my dad.  And to sit in your circle and ask for your help.”  She stopped, all out of steam.

You can imagine the hush that came after that.  We had all those internal questions I won’t bother with writing here.

Here is where Amy proved herself. She simply moved over to the young woman and gave her a hug.  That gave Marie the example to react, “Of course we’ll help.” She looked over to the one consoling the other then at us men opposite to encourage our responses.

Trouble was, what could one retired detective and two as good as gone policemen do with that story?   Worse, none of us could recall any crime or detail of a local mystery or lagoon, blue or grey!   And why did Jim not nag us when it happened?  We looked across at each other.  Three policemen without a clue!

Only one thing we could say, “Of course!  Whatever we can!  Absolutely!”

We adjourned to the bar to sit round a table of drinks and introduce ourselves properly. Hear more about Nyree and her family and exchange bits of memory and stories about her uncle Jim.  Plus a little digging into her parent’s, especially father’s lives. All for the sake of investigation, be sure.

So that’s how our memorial meeting to Jim went.  Threw us all into a mixture of excitement and concern that we had somehow agreed to do a ‘proper job’!


So why would a man want to rush like that for no real reason?  Well, one that we could fathom?  He had got published and was rushing off to research something……….    That was where we came back to;  his library visit the day before he left and his mis-matched jacket and book.   “Maybe he just managed to grab a couple of days holiday and decided to go!” was suggested.    And why visit Jim in Burnthorpe?     We even prodded carefully about his death and had to accept it was a cruel accident and not suicide.     You have to admit it might have been!

Nyree was staying at Jim’s old place.  In fact he left it to her as the eldest child, it seems, so we had no worries about where she lived while we all went to our separate homes that evening.


It was late.  Too late to just go to bed so I sat in my chair with a gin and tonic and looked at the book  borrowed from Nyree.  She had read it and found nothing in there to suggest a mystery.  Jim’s letter was headed ‘instructions’  how to find his friends at the Whittlestreet Crime Writer’s Circle’,  i.e. at the pub or the Library!     So back to the book again.

The cover photograph was nowhere I , or the others recognised.  The photo was copyrighted by an Eric Johnson.   The contents list had fourteen titles and thirteenth was ‘The Haunting of Blue Lagoon’.     “Unlucky thirteen,” I found myself muttering.  Then, “What would Jim have done?”

“Read the bloody story!” I heard him say….. in my head, of course.    So I did.

A typical story of the late 80s.  Bright lights appearing and disappearing over the water, voices in a strange language chanting and shadows flitting through the trees.  And then, of course, everything just stopped and no sign of anything having happened.  Written in the third person by someone, it seemed, who tried to make something out of nothing, and failed.  It could have been any number of activities or pure imagination.

Unsatisfied by it I finished the drink, abandoned the book and went to bed.  There, in the dark with only the odd car swishing along I had another thought. “If the story wasnt interesting, what was?  What was researched?  The place or the photographer?  Both?”  Sleep took those thoughts from me.


I telephoned Jim’s number.  It was odd when she answered with her name.  Jim’s response was usually a disappointed “What!”      We arranged to meet at the library.

It was small, like the town, but had local newspaper archives and directories.  Marie was there, as usual, as librarian.  We each had a subject; the photograph or report in a newspaper, the address of the photographer.   Largescale Ordnance Survey maps to find a ‘blue lagoon’.  Something must be on file or Nyree’s dad wouldn’t have been fired up.  We started looking in the mid-seventies and worked backwards. Based on the fact that none of us Burnthorpe residents had recalled anything we were looking for over the previous eighteen years!  I suspect Marie and I just hoped our memories were still sound.  Jim would have been proud of us!

We had books and opened maps flooding over the tables while Marie strode in and out with heavy binders containing the huge A3 and A2 newspapers of the area.  Despite their size they were useful in that they covered quite a few square miles of assorted villages, hamlets and solitary farms.  If there was anything to find it ought to be covered. After that it would have to be the microfiche and none of us fancied shuffling and peering on that wretched machine.

I suppose we should just have looked in the telephone directory first.     Nyree copied out half a dozen  E Johnson names plus their address and numbers. Thank goodness for directories.  A couple were ‘Eric’ but those with just the ‘E’ might have been too and the system also had a couple of Mrs. E Johnson’s so they had to be included as it was still common for the wife to be called  ‘Mrs Eric Whatever’ in an unnecessary, historical way.  Officially an addendum to the man rather than an individual in those days!

Poor Marie, she had opted for the hardest job and only ended up with smudged fingers from old inky papers from one of the binders.   I scanned the maps systematically for all the ponds and lakes for names.  It wasn’t until Nyree moved across to me with the list of names and addresses that we made real progress.  We matched addresses to the map in the vague hope that it would prove something.  It did.   One Mrs E. Johnson lived a stones throw from a series of gravel pits, right on the edge of a map. In the real world it was about seven miles away, Royton Farm House.  Others lived in the town or generally around but only that one lived near lots of water.    This 1946 map only called them pits but we were hoping they had glammed them up since then.

Nyree rang the number for Royton farm.  In my old job we rarely got it right first time.  But you have to win the lottery some time and this, it would seem, was it.  Her conversation was a bit ragged, emotional for her part and the other party who turned out to be the widow of the photographer.  Yes, she would be happy to see a visitor.  Nice to have a little chat.  We arranged a time to visit.   I agreed to contact the others and decide who went with Nyree.  We couldn’t all go, it would be too much like a trip to visit a curio.    In the end I drove and Amy would keep Nyree company. The others had to stay gainfully employed.  Especially Tom and Harry as they were on standby for a shift of picket line duty at some factory lock-outs near Sheffield.


We drove in the old Mondeo.  It wasn’t that old, I kept saying, just needed attention.  Something it never really got from me!  Bronze was a trendy colour but my bronze was blurred by the dust and mud that accumulated between services,  the garage gave it a birthday-treat wash.  I think they were  disappointed at my laziness and sorry for the car so cleaned it.  Still cost me a few extra quid each time.

You might have expected a solid old farmhouse but we arrived at a 50s bungalow.  It was next to a couple of small barns that were built of the solid chunks of age-blackened stone more akin to the area.  They had corrugated iron roofs painted in red-oxide for rust-proofing.  Sitting beside them was a little black Renault, which I parked beside.

She was so old!  Born in the early Twenieth Century!  Her husband, the photographer had died ten years before.  They had lived in the bungalow since it was first built in 1954. (Good guess eh?).    Apparently the photograph was one of a reel he took when they first arrived.  There had been trees all over the area where the gravel pits had been excavated and as the site expanded trees were felled.   The back of their garden once had a paddock behind it.  From the edge of that had been the woods leading on to the excavations, with that gap, which was originally a fire-break, not an avenue to the water side.

She told us what she and her husband had witnessed in the sixties; the story that he had written for the local newspaper and the photograph.  “Yes, that’s the one.” She responded to the image.

“It was black and white, they have made it much greyer, perhaps the negative was damaged.”

The story had appeared in the local newspaper (We hadn’t gone back far enough) and had been written up as a mystery.  The nice old lady said they had written what they had seen and the editor had turned into a little piece about aliens.

“Aliens indeed!” She brushed the idea away.  “I think it was anarchists, or IRA, or them Russians. We’re having a Cold War, you know?”

We could only agree.

“We told the police but they decided it was aliens.  Agreed we were potty more like.  After they wrote it that way in the papers.”

Always nosey I looked out of the window while she made us all another pot of tea with Nyree’s help.   I could see the trees and the gap but not much else, just more trees further back, the other side of the lake.

Mrs Johnson came back, Nyree carrying the refreshed teapot on a tray.  Amy was going through the old photos.   The old lady poured more tea and came for my empty cup.

“It’s changed a lot.  Much tidier now they have….. what do you call it….. conserved it?   For the birds and animals.  The shed thing has gone and lots of trees and bushes planted.  Grown quite big now some of ‘em.”     She took my cup to refill.

“Landscape!  That’s it. They had to landscape it.  All the old gravel pits when they finished digging out.”  I collected the filled cup. I went back to just standing, looking out.  Feeling it had all been a waste of time. However, it was sunny and not too cold for the end of October.

“It’s still there though. Not the boat-house.  And the jetty seems to have rotted away.”

I assumed she meant the lake. “Yeah, I can see” I suppose I didn’t seem bothered.

“Not from here!  You have to go round to the side a bit.  Not much like the photo now. But then you cant see it in the photo either.   Another biscuit?”

That got my attention.  “What?”  Not the biscuit!

“The pile of stones.”  She went and sat. I followed.

“Go on.”  We all listened.

“Eric called me to see the lights flashing over the water.  We saw it from here.  Reckoned it was kids with storm lanterns having a drink.  It was late.  We were a lot younger then, kids ourselves, really.  Eric, bless ‘im, was worried they would swim and drown or some such.  It was a rough old hole in them days  and wasn’t pretty.  All the other pits still working were further on. Look alright now.”

She stopped, casually went off the subject. “ He was lovely you know, always taking pictures in his spare time. We often went for a bus ride just to take his photos.  He took one of that pit before he died.  Lake, lagoon or whatever you call it.  It’s in the box somewhere, it’ll be written on the back.  Prints off slides as well. He took a lot of slides.” She shook her head gently while  remembering.  “I remember him saying that it looked more like a blue lagoon now than it did then.”

That was the first time she called it Blue Lagoon.  “Go on,” prodded Nyree.

“Well, we wandered across the field, it was ploughed in those days.  Following the flickering lights.  Off and on, they were.  We crept quite close but stopped when we heard low grumbly voices.  Not children at all.  They were speaking a foreign language but we only heard snatches.

“We sort of hid. It was almost exciting.  Then we saw this light float up from the middle of the lake and float to the side. It was like a fuzzy moon with its reflection in the water. Or a bright ballon, I suppose, close to the surface.   It sort of fizzled out on the bank opposite.  We watched and it was only when it got dark again we realized all the noises and lights had stopped.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. It was all silent except for the rustling trees.  No voices.  Not a single person came out of that place. They had to pass us, or at least come out the way we went in.  We would have seen anyone moving, had sharp eyes in those days.  No other way to get to the lake.  Not like now.  Dog walkers, cyclists and all sorts use the paths they’ve built round the lakes.  Five of ‘em now, you know.”   She said proudly.

“The photo. The one on the cover on the book?”

“Oh yes. He took that the next morning.  I was with him. It was a rainy, miserable day that’s why the picture is poor. And, of course, it’s all been cleared up and made pretty now.”

Nyree spoke again,”I can understand  you called it a lagoon but why blue?”

“Ah, yes.” She smiled sweetly. “ I think there was a film or a book.  A book, all the rage, called Blue Lagoon or whatever.  Eric called his picture that, thought it would catch the editor’s eye. Topical and ironic, he said.  Anyway the water was blue, petrolly when we saw it, so it was sort of true. Just invisible in the black and white photo. So he added ‘Haunting’ to make it like a ghost story.  Just for fun.”

“So it wasn’t a mystery or haunting really?”  Amy spoke disappointedly.

“I must say I like your make-up dear.  I used to have it like that when I was a girl.  All that white powder puffing everywhere. Like chalk-dust!”  She recomposed her hands in her lap.  “Well, the odd thing was that pile of big stones we found.  Someone must have put them there.  Piled like one of those little monuments.  By a tree a yard or so from the edge of the water.  We truly thought it was Russians up to no good.  The police just ignored it.  Well, it’s all different now, very pretty.  A few ducks but no swans, as far as I know.”

“Are the stones still there?”  I just had to ask.

“As far as I know, dear. Go and have a look. It’s a lovely day.  Walk that way to the lake,” she pointed out of the window, “ when you get to the edge move to your right.  You will see them.  By a pretty white tree. Birch, silver birch, it is.”

lake in autumn

c.  wordparc

And so we went.  All three of us at the behest of Mrs Johnson.   A little lake, curving round like a banana, or should I say “an oxbow” as the designers called it.  We didn’t expect to find anything.  Nyree’s dad never got there, he never said what to look for and we had just heard it wasn’t really a mystery except for someone dumping some old stones.  Fly-tipping obviously not as new as all that.

We reached the edge, moved back a bit as it was soggy then walked to our right as instructed.  Saw the stones, or rather small boulders in a little mound covered in leaf mould, lichen and almost hidden by ferns.  I trampled it down a bit to study the stones and nearly lost my foot down a hole.  It hit another rock or something  and I grabbed a sapling to stop falling over.  Twisted my foot to escape and it brought out some strips of decaying material.

I didn’t know what dug that hole. Some biggish or enthusiastic rat, rabbit, badger?  But I had to peer into it.  Assumed it was empty and got out my trusty torch to let a little light in.  It’s odd how surprised you can be looking into a gun barrel in the darkness, even if it is a buried one!

It was such a shame to ruin that almost idyllic scene, even though nature would have its way eventually.  After we had all squinted down the barrel of the gun, rifle?  We returned to the house.  Called the police.  Two cars and two layers up and they called the army and they called their bomb squad, who eventually arrived at dusk.   They drove their truck over the paddock and up to the waterside. Headlights on and tentative investigations made.   At that stage we were confined to the bungalow.

A couple of hours later and the lights of the truck bounced and the rear lights bobbed and gently waved their way backwards along the track at the side of the field to the edge of the road, where it stopped.   By this time we were all waiting at the front door for the soldier who was wandering our way.

He was a sargent and was immediately offered tea but refused saying he had to take everything back to camp.

“Everything?   What was found? Russian guns, bombs?” The Cold War seemed closer than ever.

“Nothing like. More boring but odder.  I shouldn’t be telling you this but as you found them!”  He tapped his nose, signifying we should keep a secret, at least for his sake.   “They were guns. You probably saw that. A couple of rifles, a light machine gun and rounds of ammunition.  And half a dozen stick grenades.  All carefully wrapped in a tarpaulin.  Oiled most like to keep the weapons safe. mind you, the tarp had well-rotted.”

The soldier had said they weren’t Russian, it led to a more local, ominous thought.

He continued  “It’s odd, very odd.   They were German.  Old weapons.  Must have been from the war.  There was a label on the tarpaulin, just readable.”

We had to wait while he took out a notebook he had written in, “Fallschirmgruppe Drei”,

He tucked it away, “ That’s Parachute Group Three.  Someone must have buried them during the early part of the war, maybe ‘39 or ‘40.  At least before we were able to round every one up.  I can guarantee they have been there seventy-odd years.”   With that he offered thanks and goodbyes and strolled back to the truck where a couple of his men waited.  He climbed in and they reversed onto the tarmac and skidded away quickly.

That then was the end of our search, story and acquaintance with Mrs Eric Johnson.  We had the shortish drive back to Burnthorpe and it was when we had stopped to drop Amy at her family’s house, in the silence before you work out how to goodbye.  Amy spoke into the dark of the Mondeo.

“If those things were buried in 1939, what did the Johnsons see in that very same spot in 1965?”

She got out before we had a thought.  Nyree and I just looked at each other then Amy hurrying up the path and knocking on the front door.  The warm light appeared and disappeared, as did Amy.

Nyree and I both shivered as the chill of late October infiltrated the car.

I turned the key, the engine turned and we headed off into November still oblivious as to what Nyree’s father had got so excited about!








Acolyte, Eblow and Anvil go to Avalon.

The temple was massively built in a style that would eventually be called ‘Romanesque’ but was designed by the gods.  One of the rare periods where they played together and laughed and built their homes and created favourite places to have fun.

The question that bothered them towards the end of its construction was its dedication.  All the gods in the town (factually it was the entire town that was inhabited entirely by gods) had agreed at the planning stage that the building would just be a centre-place for them all to enjoy.  It had taken some time for the design to be agreed in order for all to have their own secure space within ere the confines of the building in addition to the wide open aspect for community gatherings such as singing, magical music, feasting and fornication.

Admittedly the furnishings were basic slabs of granite and sandstone scooped into armchairs and bar stools arranged around the enormous rectangular marble tables that were placed at irregular angles on three sides of the enormous hall. Splendid pillars sat on all edges of the building, each topped with a giant as if waiting for release.   Similarly the multicoloured marbled slabs of table-top were supported by humans. Some standing, arms akimbo and supporting the table like an army surrendering, while others had humans kneeling, crouching or lying in various positions upon another to support  the sheets of marble on their backs.   Luckily they were spelled to remain still and dumb or they would have created a degree of chaos with their moaning and wailing that would have severely taxed the gods.  Dragons laboured in the kitchens, aprons twitching under wings and waiters waited; ever waiting, waiting, waiting.

So, the giants looked down and the humans looked up to all the different gods that partied or argued over who possessed whom throughout the inauguration of the most exotic and profligate building ever. Finally, after the wildest partying and hilarious tricks played on lesser gods by the higher they had to decide on the naming of the Hall.   Many of the serving nymphs, imps, nyaed, and even cherubs had been spelled into unnatural phenomenon like trees, brooks, flowers, maybe statues or even animals and worst of all, humans.

For generations the gods tussled and argued, tricked and joked with each other.  They failed time after time. Eventually they decided that as they were themselves the fiction of man’s imagination and need that they required the naïveté of a human to choose a name for the building.  But there they came unstuck. Humans were entailed to so many different gods that jealousy became rampant both in their table-hugging ranks and within the gods that needed humans’ belief in them.

Eventually, tired from the continual wrangling, body-transforming interludes and the boredom of tricking each other they each wrote a suggestion of name on a stone and cast them into a finger-bowl they called the Adriatic.  The first name called out would be the one.

They called upon Anvil, the youngest in their midst to stir and mix the stones at random.  She put one finger in the water, circled it once and the waters streamed and stirred and sank as a spinning vortex.  The stones span and clashed together. Rubbing side against flat, slate against marble, gneiss against schist until the waters slowly rose again, receding from the lip of the bowl to settle like the ebb tide.

They asked Eblow, next in age, to plunge his hand into the bowl and retrieve a stone, which he did, testing the texture with his rasping fingers. Then passed, as instructed, to Acolyte, next in line to read the random chosen name

Acolyte took the stone, guarded against the light by Eblow’s hands so none of the gods could catch a glimpse or read the chosen word.  Acolyte held the rounded stone, worn smooth now by Anvil’s whirlpool spin and searched the letters to read the word aloud.  He tried.  He held the stone at angles, up to the light and in the shade.  The writing, hieroglyphs or Arabic or some other godly form he couldn’t tell.

The silence around him was palpable. A word he never used but this once.  All eyes upon him, he felt the frustration of decision weighing heavily on his neck.  Unable to read the word clearly, correctly sensing a thunderbolt about to fall he collapsed and decided to ask for help.  He passed the stone to the nearest god and asked:


“Avagander!”  Came the response. The whisper slid from ear to mouth and like the ripple of lava from a volcano the word repeated and repeated. Volume and excitement spread around the mountain hall of the gods until the eruption of a myriad vocal chords exclaimed “Avagander! Avagander! Avagander!”

And so was set the name of the most famous site in the mysterious world of the gods.

No-one took the stone, no-one claimed the laurel of that written name to last as long as humans cared, so Acolyte kept it in his pocket.  Sometimes in the night when he thought about it, of the time he asked for help in the reading of the stone, he wondered if he should tell.  For later, when alone, he looked again at that writing on the stone and made the letters out to read, ‘Avalon’.


a myth-mix      also  the Frinks

The Man Who Wrote the Story

The man who wrote the story.

I suppose I regret it now.  Maybe that is the wrong thing to say.  So many people have read it.  You might almost assume ‘everyone has read it’.

I pottered about for years, writing articles, developing ideas. Formats kept changing and I even considered stopping altogether.  I did.  It kept niggling at me so I started again.  I think it was three years, no three and a half. Just after I retired, and this writing game kept eating back into my time.

All those new novels sitting in the wings.  All planned and blocked into chapters, bibliographic details noted, asterisked and carefully tucked away at the end of the computer file.  Even the poetry I liked to dabble in when so-called inspiration for imagist or metaphysical scribbling took hold.   I decided I had to focus on one genre.  As much as I liked the escape into all the realms of big fiction, with or without detailed historical fact I had to let it go too.

I was still young, hale and hearty, as they say, when I was lucky enough to retire. Having money is a godsend!  Thus, ambition and drive were sitting on each shoulder, watching what I did.

Focus.  I sat at that computer day and night.  Typing, re-phrasing.  The words failing to convince me.  I knew my final destination, the direction of the lines, as it were.   Just getting there, as a wordsmith, was not the true goal.  How!  That was it, how!

Well it happened.  I refused to move from that room, that desk, almost.  Only to drink coffee or collapse on the bed in the next room, or have a piss.  I didn’t eat.  No need, I was following the lead of other writers, of course.   Except I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t dope or coke.

Yes. As I said, and shouldn’t, I regret it now.  It was written.  It was emailed. 12 point, Helvetica, double spaced.  (Why do they still want it like that?  They can play with it to their hearts content from any old font or size!)

And picked up, published. Carried along, promoted, shouted about.  Hailed!  Loud-hailed!  Again and again.

It was like a crazy forest fire that ripped over the country, jumped the Channel, the Atlantic. Unstoppable.  Continent to continent, language into language.  My format was bought, the rights to everything snapped up in a frenzy of bidding rites.  Even bloggers worldwide emailed with desperate pleadings to be allowed to include it on their sites.  Worldwide press coverage on its success!  Even the Korean lady thumped her desk in excitement, and smiled!

Interview after interview, invitations, quiz programs, Arts; trailers, voiceovers and adverts threw themselves at my feet.  Fanzines, one set up in my name my image.  Endless.

I suppose I regret it now. Should never have written it.   I chose the short story genre, a haiku-novel if that is a term I can invent; to write a story where nothing really happens.




Noah Smith: Buggy Ride to Somewhere

Noah Smith, Buggy ride to somewhere.      (continuation of:  ‘Abbot’s Road’ stories)

It was a long journey.  Both Martha and Sarah took turns with the reins of the buggy while he soon found it less painful to sit rather than try to lie on the seat behind them.  They talked, he sulked and pursed his lips a lot to hold back the painful grunts as they bumped through ruts in the road.  They camped and used the few provisions Martha had grabbed from the canteen before they left Silver City.

They travelled slowly to be sure the man’s wounds didn’t split or infect and he and the horses could rest.  They called at farms, scattered staging posts and the occasional huddle of buildings hopefully called ‘city’ and the more romantic ‘ville’.

By day three the women had run out of their own conversation and almost abandoned trying to get more than words of acknowledgement from the man.   Sarah was clicking the horse along, he sat beside her, Martha sat behind, a hand on each side of the seat to retain her balance.

“Anyway.”  Said Sarah, breaking through the noise of the wheels, buggy and horse-farts.

“What’s your name? Apart from grunts and groans you’ve said nothing.”  She continued into the silence, “ And if you don’t say, I’ll call you something you really don’t want to be known as!”

Martha was amused at Sarah’s emphatic threat, knew some of the names she could use.  Plus the fact that she, Martha, already knew his name via the papers in his bag, or rather, wallet.

“I’ll count to ten, slowly.”  Sarah looked across at the man, his beard now shaggy and his clothes covered in the dirt and dust of the road.  As were her’s, despite the few changes of clothes she and Martha had brought with them.    She counted, slowly, keeping an eye him each time and wondering what name she could get away with,  “ Come on, it’s no big deal.  I’m looking forward to choosing your new name!”

She only got to “three!”

“Noah.” He grumbled at her.

“That wasn’t so hard.  I even bet you’ve got a last name too!”


Martha waited for more but neither spoke. He adjusted his position and Sarah clapped the reins to push the horse a little.   She, Martha had looked after this man, argued with him over his wounds and his horse, and his travelling with them but had never asked his name.  He hadn’t offered.  Nor him hers for that matter.  But they had settled into an odd routine of patient and nurse and comfortable companions, accepting each other without much fuss.  ‘or even conversation,’ she thought.

“How far is it to Portland?”  Sarah asked into the air.

“Weeks” he said despondently.   She had no idea how true this was so kept quiet.

Martha agreed, in theory, but hoped the railway had connected in the east-to-west route they had been so loudly trumpeting.  She also hoped the buggy would survive the journey to a town with a railway.  That would save some time on the road but would cost them more than just their precious money.


The weather mostly held for those days before they hit a working railhead; with a partly built station building.  Half the joists were still glowing in the sun when they saw it at the edge of Sandpoint.  A single track that straight-lined out of the new station yard then curved into the distance; rust-topped rails that had not had enough wheel-friction to raise their shine.  The only sign of activity when the dust covered buggy and passengers drew close was the water dripping out of the canvas piping of the water tower by the one siding with its huge pile of logs.

They approached.  The women looked at each other.  The man, Noah, took the scene in, shook his head, closed his eyes and just waited.  He had resigned himself to being organised and ordered around by the two women.   Initially he refused to admit to himself that the rush and rattle of the buggy in that first dash out of Silver City had been anything but annoying.  He was almost out of strength to sit up after a couple of hours and finally had asked to stop and rest.  As he climbed down he had fallen, fainted and woke with his chest re-bandaged.  He was lying in the shade of the buggy.  From then he realised he was in the care of two women who were much more capable than he was.  So, he did as he was told over the days they travelled and nights they stopped.

Thankfully, by the time they stopped at the rail-head he felt physically much better. His wound no longer seeped but was an itching scab that he daren’t scratch.  He always felt hungry, a sure sign of improvement.  Lastly, he was well aware that his horse was depressed at having to hitch along with the buggy for endless days and only having cursory attention.

“Now,” he thought as the buggy stopped and the horse in front snuffled.  Grey came to a doleful stop at the rear.  “I can grab a room, wash, eat and get away! “.  And then “Portland!” Shaking his head again.

Nobody appeared from inside the station.  All was as silent as the dust that settled around them.

“There must be people in the town. Let’s go look.”  Martha gee’d the horse into action and they followed the track to the buildings a hundred yards away.

The short street was almost deserted, the chill in the air keeping the boardwalks empty except for those running errands.  The few buildings were mostly new with bright shingles proclaiming  ‘hardware (rooms)’ or ‘dentist/undertaker’ tucked between the obligatory saloon that also added ‘rooms’ to its boast. In between were two other streets where earlier buildings sidled into the new town. These were the original buildings, now working as sheds, stores and living quarters for those people drafted or drifted in to service the new town buildings springing up; and the railhead.

This had been the end of the line so the tents and followers had been decamped to the next promise of work and money.  Unfortunately leaving the station unfinished due to lack of materials and a sudden lack of Company money but a promise to return ‘in-short time’.

They neared the end of the street and heard the gasping tones of a pump-organ working the intro. to a hymn followed by rousing singing.  The last building might have been the Livery Stable but the road curved tightly round it and revealed a pristine-white church from where the singing erupted again, hiding the organ notes this time.

“Well, must be more than one in there,” commented Sarah as Martha turned the buggy  to face back into the town.   The three sat looking at the buildings ahead.

“Saloon or stables?”  Martha wasn’t enthusiastic for either, she had banked on getting some sort of ticket from someone at the station.  All three had spent the recent days, weeks almost, camping or in friendly homesteaders barns and none felt easy at having to re-enter the real world, as it were. Her fantasy had been to get an immediate ride on the train, to anywhere out of the emptiness of the country.

“The church.” Sarah stated. “The minister, or wife if he has one.  We can wait til they finish.”

As they sat a  stillness surrounded them, each in their own thoughts and they failed to hear the  thumping organ overtaken by the final last words sung in a cross match of choral and hoarse voices as a final ‘Amen’.  Nor could they have heard the words of the minister ending the service but they did react a few seconds later to the doors pushed open and the few children bursting out with their exasperated mothers following, each of them followed by the ‘tutting’ of some elders or the unseen smiles of the forgiving.

The three in the buggy turned heads as the children’s movement and shouting broke their brief reverie.   For what it was worth, both women smoothed their skirted laps in hope of removing some of the impossible amount of dust and grime they had accumulated over the days.  Noah looked at the open doored church and watched as the minister appeared and cheerfully ‘goodbyed’ his miscellaneous flock.  When the minister was left with the few who might have been his family or enthusiastic sheep, Noah suggested they go over and talk.

Martha gently walked the horse back towards the edge of the path leading to the little church.  Grey, Noah’s horse, was tweaked from his own reverie by the rein tied to the buggy and disdainfully followed on and to stop, having moved the few yards in a three quarter circle.  He snorted at the pointlessness of such small movements and prepared to wait yet again as the two women climbed down.  Noah waited too, he was too stiff to move easily and too proud to show it to the dispersing congregation.

Both man and horse watched as Martha and Sarah stopped before the minister and his wife.  Noah  could see the various movements of the group.  Their hands meeting in greeting, the slight shuffles and nods of heads and half-turns towards Noah in the buggy and what seemed a desolate wave by Sarah towards the freshly built station building.  They were too far away for any sound to carry his way but Noah could see the minister’s eyes contemplating him and imagined the thoughts if not the actual words of the man.  Noah had been sitting erect initially but his chest was still painful.  The wound was healing on the surface but beneath the roughly sewn lower level, was still knitting, and tearing if he moved too much.  And the itching was almost unbearable despite his stoicism.  The bandage was still there, mostly to protect from the dust of their travels but also to stop his scratching.  Infection would kill him, both women had warned, shouted, at times.    His shoulders sagged a little.  He wanted to rest but limited it to gripping the support of the front seat with arms straight and locking his elbows to support the weight of his torso.  It may have looked a little odd to any watchers but he felt it better than collapsing altogether.  “Come on! “ he urged quietly, urgently.

Returned, the women took turns in explaining. “ the store should have a room for you, the minister’s wife insisted the women stayed with them”.  He listened.

People moved past, looking at the strangers in the buggy.  Not that strangers were unusual, just  the transport with its once trim fringe now falling in great loops and the once bright panelling covered in chipped paint and the dust and dirt of the long distance.  And the two filthy carpet bags tied down on the back.   A buggy was for tripping to church and back, or picnic by the river, not the rough-track driving this had received over the last week or so.   Only the chestnut horse standing nonchalantly by the rear wheel looked in good condition, apart from the all-encompassing dust it was covered in.

“And a train is here in two days and leaves the following day.    We can sell the buggy and horses at the stables.    That will pay your room and all the tickets.    And leave some for us.  And a donation to the church.  And the minister.  Same thing.    It stops at Sandpoint and Spokane.  Didn’t they say Walla Walla?    And Pendleton?    I know it goes all the way to Portland now.  Eventually, that is.”

Noah could feel himself wilting under the strain of sitting as well as the two women’s excitement.

“The minister’s house is that one, next to the church, of course.”  Sarah hoisted herself up to the front seat and the springs creaked and see-sawed as she climbed and shifted across to allow Martha to do the same.    “We’d better get you that room first.  Then take up the minister’s offer.  We can see to this old thing and the horses tomorrow.”

She shook the reins. “Hey-up” and they jolted away to the store and room the minister had suggested.  Noah shuddered and gripped tighter, shoulders hunching a little more with the jolt through his scabs.

They left him collapsed on a bed above the hardware shop.  They had pulled his boots off, dropped his saddlebags by the door with a thud.   Next was to drive the few yards to the Livery where they left Grey with instructions for a clean-up, rub-down, food and stabling for two days.  With this agreed, Martha arranged to sell the horses and buggy when the train arrived.  That way she reckoned on having the money for their tickets to Portland.    After this planning episode both women climbed excitedly back onto the buggy and trotted back to the minister’s house and his wife who had promised them a real hot tub to bathe in as soon as they could heat up the water.

Next morning, late, with the sun finally burning the frost away in shimmering steam, Martha and Sarah finished helping with the extra chores they had created. They were in high spirits as they finished rinsing their previously neglected underclothes and squeezed most water out with the heavy wooden rollers of their hosts’ mangle.

“This is what I’m getting as soon as I am settled!”  Sarah enthused as she turned the cogged wheel and watched the water oozing out as the clothes moved through the tight rollers.  “ I needed one of these back at the saloon.  We had to take anything up to the camp laundry for washing if we wanted it mangled.  Never did; no stranger getting his hands on my camisoles.”     She hesitated, “Well, not unless they…..”.  She stopped, realising the minister’s wife might hear and be offended.

With clothes finally pegged and flapping in the sunshine they breezed back into the kitchen for promised coffee and flapjacks with the lady of the house.

They didn’t see Noah walking slowly to the Livery Stable, saddle bags over one shoulder.   Or have a slightly aggressive talk and then write a promisery note in the name of Pinkerton for the owner.  After which he struggled to saddle Grey, was helped by the stable boy.   He rested a few minutes and spoke with the boy.   Gave him his last coin as a tip and another token to give to Martha when she came to sell the buggy.

Finally heaving himself aboard Grey and settling more or less upright, “Okay, thanks” as he held out his left hand and was given the reins of Martha’s horse.   All three then left the dust of the building for the crisp sunshine.   Outside he briefly considered his options, “Damned if I’m going to Portland.”    Spokane was the nearest town with a telegraph.  He could wire Pinkertons to honour his  note.  The rail tracks were the shortest route according to the stable boy so he prodded his heels into Grey and they walked towards the railhead tracks.  And Spokane.




















Sandpoint, Spokane, Walla Walla and Pendleton with a final train ride to Portland.

School Reunions made compulsory from 2020

School Reunions made compulsory from 2020


OFSTACCED  (Office for statistics alongside continuing compulsory education).   have now restructured and issued guidelines for the educational measurement of the population every ten years from the anniversary of students leaving school.   It is understood that some students may have left their secondary school at differing dates, especially between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; because of this all leavers from 2020 will be given the specific date on which they must return to their last Tertiary Educational Establishment, Higher Ed..    To allow for the numbers of people  moving round the country on said specific days, these days will cover as short a period as possible in early August.

Those days  (over a week) will be just after the end of each Final Term, (year’s end) so the students currently still attending school will have left for their holidays.  Therefore this is likely to be the first week in August, unless and notwithstanding.

The structure of the measurements will be based on the following brown paper: Each group has a single day:

A brief introduction at 8 a.m..  Followed by free-time for ex-students to mingle and exhume old friendships and antipathies.  This will be followed by a closely observed period of physical activity  which will be In free-selection mode but must include some heavy-breathing exercise.

Time for relaxation and recuperation allowed (timing to be confirmed), with free bottles of water.

Brief examination outlines will then be given to groups that will be expected to have re-formed their old class numbers and unions. These outlines will concern the nature of the afternoon tests from which the National Data Bank will be able to analyse the physical and mental condition of the participants.

Passage of time will mean testing formulas will alter but anticipated to be based on the previous ten years’ quiz shows.  Under current circumstances, but not necessarily including or excluding any of these examples, or any potential examples not included here, or as yet implied or no longer current, such potential questions and activities may, or may not, be specific examples from such programmes as:

Countdown, QI, The Chase, Generation Game, Sports Quiz, Tipping Point and Mensa.    Old examinations such as GCSE and A levels will be excluded for fear of bias towards students that may have taken those exams.

Results will be pinned on notice boards within those educational establishments in a straight numerical mark order and also in candle-graphs and pie diagrams, for aesthetic reasons.  The original teachers of these students, if ever identified, will receive horizontal colour-coded bar-charts of their various years’ achievements. These will be collated as year-on-year results so eventually all will be on lovely, colourful stripey sheets of A1 paper.

This may seem a large remit for OFFSTACCED but they are persuaded by the Government that all information will be analysed, stored and voided in the best interest of the country as a whole in the vital work of raising the people’s educational level so they may be better qualified to attend and successfully reach the standards set by these new Re-union Tests.

The Dead Line


It started with a short sentence.

“Can I speak to Angelo, please.”

I rarely get calls on my mobile, mostly wrong numbers. “ No-one here of that name, sorry.”  Was my simple reply and I may have caught an “Oh” as the line clicked off.

It was a pleasant voice, female, probably young; i.e. young enough to be a daughter, maybe even a granddaughter of mine.  If I had any.

I returned to wire brushing the cracks in the block paving on the drive.  A cross between a most thankless and satisfying task for a mildly OCD person.  That’s me, I suppose.  Not a hang-up, just an observation.

I was almost relieved to stop when the mobile rang again.

“Was this a wrong number or is it just that Angelo isn’t there?”   The same female voice, this time a little less chirpy,  anxious.

This is where another flaw emerged and I had to respond that  “I didn’t know if it was a wrong number but I did know that Angelo wasn’t with me.  Or had been.  He certainly wasn’t helping me weed the block paving!”

“Oh.”  This time the line didn’t go dead and I just stood there waiting, listening.

“They gave me this number.”

“My number or the wrong one?”

“This one.”

“Okay, maybe I asked the wrong question. Philip Marlowe I ain’t.”   I shouldn’t have said that out loud!

“Who?  No, it’s Angelo I wanted.”  She sounded hesitant.

I should have killed the call but she would probably have rung back to ask why.  I was also curious and felt like Humphrey Bogart playing Philip Marlowe in one of his smoke-filled bars or hotel rooms talking with a mystery caller.    Well, I had just finished reading an old Chandler paperback and despite my age can still empathise like a good-un.

“Can I help?”  Foolish, foolish! I thought, as I spoke.

“If he is not there, it might be too late when he gets back. Just tell him I rang and said I’m here.” Her voice choked, broken now.

Young or old, alarm bells still ring, maybe more so as time passes.  I went for alarm!

“Too late?  I can come over now, if it is important. Where are you?  It’s never too late to talk.  Just tell me where and I will drive straight to you.”    By now my heart was bumping a bit and I had dropped the wire-brushy thing and started to go back indoors.    And I never once considered that she could be literally anywhere in the world.

“I’m at the station.”

“Which station?  Where?”

“Burnthorpe.  Railway.   There’s a train coming….”  She was almost screaming at the noise.

“No! Wait!” I shouted into the phone. I heard the roar of the train as it sped through.  I could imagine the blur and rush as the noise of the express shattered through the phone and the single tone followed disconnection.  I can hear it now, it’s a sort of tinnitus, an electronic whistle embedded in my brain that creeps out as a reminder in the dark.  I think I got myself into a panic.

And where was Burnthorpe?  I hadn’t heard of it.  It wasn’t local as far as I knew.  And I stood there with that damned whistling in my ear even when I looked and saw the red blob with ‘call ended’ on it.

Search engines on phones do have their uses.  My head cleared as I found Burnthorpe, a couple of hours drive away.  Or I could just ring the station.  And say what?  What would I want to hear?  Chances are they wouldn’t even talk to me, a strange man asking questions about a brief phone call, and that a wrong number and maybe a……?     I could pretend to be a journalist, or just nosey.

Burnthorpe rang a tiny bell.  All I knew about it was I had never been there, must have buried the name in some odd recess.

I live in a bit of a mess but sometimes I get that disconcerting enthusiasm to do something.  Finish tidying the office.  Write another chapter.  Well, rarely these days.  Finding something new to say about Enclosures means research, which I no longer have the patience for and ‘retired’ means I can’t cajole students into the subject.  It’s prime-time social upheaval but the glamour seems to have moved back to the ‘Dark Ages’.  Even that term is antiquated now!

But after that lost voice, those few seconds, I felt an almost alarming need to know.  It was quite odd to get that feeling from so long ago.  Maybe it was just the chance timing in the middle of a boring day for a bored old man.  I can say that but not you.  I say I am early-retired but truth be known I’m just a casualty of the cost-cutting, course cutting, redundancy-band of nearly sixty year-old university drones.     I might have gone a few years earlier but survived.  Having said that maybe I should have left five years earlier and got a big payout instead of a few quid extra on my pension.

Oddly, some of that actually drifted through my mind as I shoved the tablet and charger into my rucksack, checked wallet for cash and cards and headed for the door.  Bag on shoulder, glasses on nose and keys in hand I stood for a peremptory glance round the hallway before turning and shutting the door behind me.

I was sitting in the car, engine running in quick-time.  I sat there and realised I did know what I was doing and it was almost exhilarating.  I was off on a goose-chase, I told myself, but the woman’s voice echoed through the background tinnitus.     Maybe I was caught in my own web of fantasy, swapping village labourers for my other passions; pulp crime fiction, Philip Marlowe, Humphrey Bogart and gritty films.   Yes, I still have my childhood tucked away safely and it   escaped.  There I was, about to drive into the unknown, for no real reason.  So I did.


What did we do before navigation-apps?  Now I stick in the post-code and hope for the best.  I followed the little blue arrow on my phone and the attentive instructions about roundabouts and exits for an hour or so.  After that I was offered a route that was quicker round congested traffic and I entered a world of ‘lost’ single-track lanes that criss-crossed bigger roads for no apparent reason until I was instructed to turn left onto a busy dual carriageway.  Within a hundred metres I was filtered off again and  driving alongside a small Industrial park which switched to a smaller retail park and finally a railway station.  Having ‘reached your destination’ I parked in an all too convenient parking space beside a police car.


Well, I had arrived.  One option would be to drive home immediately.  The police car seemed an ominous sign.  I unhooked my phone and slipped it into the jacket’s inside pocket.  Unclipped the seatbelt, opened the door and swivelled round.  At least I could wander around, looking casual, I thought.  Got out, straightened up, stiffly.  Saw a coffee shop opposite and went in to order a cup and find a toilet.  Why do you so rarely find a toilet in books? On Tele  yes, quite important in some series.   Relieved, coffee before me, I sat looking out at the police car.

“Do they just park there all day?”  I spoke to the barista clearing the next table.  He followed my gaze to the police car.

“Nah, must be somethin’ up.  If they park there they come in for a coffee and a pee.  Not today. Not yet, anyhow.”  He finished stacking the tray,  “Been there an hour. Another one came and went again.   Another barista nipped out through the swing door and returned having collected from other tables.

I sat there, fingers clasping the huge mug of coffee.  Luckily it was cooler by now.  I hadn’t hurried to drink it.  I was still in adventure mode but had no idea what to do so sat, a figure of indecision.

Oddly satisfying it was too.   Two minutes later and a line of customers came in. They arrived as commuters and called in for assorted coffees and balms and sat at most of the tables around me.

Two policemen and a woman crossed over the road.  I watched them approach.   It was odd that I should recognise one of them.  I thought. I shuffled down into my jacket even though it hid nothing more than my tie-less collar.

In uniform, the older man joined the queue. The others looked round the busy room and made a bee line for my table.  I felt my face redden as they asked “can we sit?”


Sitting, they spoke casually about how long before shift ended and lack of plans for the evening.  Mind you they finished at 10 p.m., so little time for much as far as I was concerned.

It was then I realised what the time was.  And here I was, in a market town in the middle of nowhere, just about to be recognised by an old rival.  Old friend. Once, briefly.  And it was getting dark soon. Two hours from home via piddling little lanes that I really didn’t want to drive through again in the dark.

“Of all…”. He started as he reached the table.  Carefully placed the tray of coffees and continued staring, interrogating my face.

“……the bars, in all the world…..” Bogarts voice crawled through my head.

“ …. people, I would never have thought to see you here.”    He pulled his head back slightly as if getting a different perspective on the man who stole his girlfriend.   “It is Harry, isn’t it?”

He leaned forward again and shot a hand out stopping a few inches away from my nose.

“Long time eh?  Haven’t seen you for years. What twelve, fifteen?  Not since you walked off with my girlfriend.  Guys,” he moved his outstretched hand as introduction to his two companions.

“Meet Harry.  This is d.c. Maitland, referring to the woman and  sergeant Weatherly.”   His hand veered back to my nose. I took it and we shook.  He, firmly, and I surprisedly.  He continued speaking, “ Harry.  Harry Leem!  Fancy.” He sat and I still couldn’t figure his mood with me.  Time heals, I hoped. It looked like he had moved up if not on.   It was sixteen years, actually, and she used me as an excuse to walk away from him, Walter, like she used Richard to leave me a couple of months after that.

He had just become a sergeant and was stationed in Sheffield where we met.  He was on the course and I was the lecturer.  I would socialise with students in those days, a legacy of the eighties partying and got to know him as part of the group.

So here we were, me a redundant lecturer, failed author, sitting opposite a very braided police officer from whom I had stolen a woman he no doubt loved very much.  All because I worried about a phone call.  I wondered if he still read Chandler or rather today’s crowding list of authors; knowing mine wouldn’t be one of them.

“Don’t mind them,” he said, “are you here for a while or waiting for a train to somewhere?”

“I’m in the car.”   ‘Train to nowhere‘  zipped through my brain.  As Walter seemed quite relaxed at seeing me I dived in, “Actually, I might be here on a whim or an odd coincidence.  Listen.”   It was like old times.  Me, a lecturer with ideas,  wishing I was different, talking to someone who was good at listening and maybe interested too.   I told him my story.   It was brief but as I began the other two listened in silence.

“Are you sure she said Angelo?”  Walter spoke as seriously as he had listened.

“Yes” I couldn’t say more.

Can I have your phone, please?”

I automatically dug it out and passed it to him. He handed it to the policewoman.

“And can you confirm the time of the phone call?”

“About three this afternoon.” I hazarded.

“It will be on the log.” She said, “what’s the log-in?”

I told her. She checked it. “ 15.08 then 15.11. So the train you heard was the 15.11 express.”

“What happened?”  They had said nothing so far, “Is she?  Did she….? You know.”

The detective looked at the older policeman. He spoke, “ You are a potential witness. We will have to check your story, your alibi, if you like.  But I can say nothing seems to have happened.  Except she seems to have disappeared, maybe. Your story, the phone call, just happens to muddy the water.  Strictly speaking we have no reason to be concerned as she is an adult.  The problem is that her mobile is now disconnected and she was due to meet someone at this station. We know she arrived and waited and then was gone. The person she was to meet reported her missing.”  He looked at the detective.

“We need you to remain in Burnthorpe so we can interview and take a statement.”

“Why not now, I should be going home.  It’s late.”

“As it’s late it would be sensible to stay here in Burnthorpe.  They’re bound to have a room at the hotel round the corner. The Lazydaze Hotel.”

Did they expect a challenge?  It was too late to do otherwise.  I had no change of clothes but could buy clean from the store on the opposite corner; said Walter.  He ordered more coffees while I nipped to the store. The detective, Winnie, I was informed, would book me a room. The sargeant was posted back to the station and end of shift.

When I returned with my new boxers and shirt (forgot the socks!),  Walter was alone at the table with his and my cold coffees.  The police car had gone.  Chief Inspector Walter Copper invited himself to my car and the hotel.  Then booked and bought us an early meal where we picked our way through our last couple of meetings when he lost and I gained a girlfriend.     I muttered about being sorry and that she left me too, very quickly.  Once we found agreement that we had both lost and maybe he had made a better fist of life than me, we fell into a nostalgic conversation of catch-up of common interests.  Until I cracked:

“Off the record,” I finally asked, “Is there a problem for this woman? Who is she?”

“It might be in the paper tomorrow anyway, so maybe I can let slip a little.”

I instinctively leaned forward and Walter mirrored the movement.

“We don’t know any more than you have just told us.”  He leaned back, almost smiling, briefly.  “We just came in for a coffee break and a two-minute briefing after I got off the Leeds train”

I just felt stupid. “But you came straight over to me.”

“Because I recognised you and you were looking at me.”  He went serious again, “You might have been here about Ann.  I know she works on your patch.”

I didn’t.  I had just told him where I had driven up from but it sounded like he knew I hadn’t moved since those last meetings.  “Is she still in the force?”

“Yes. Married, kids, divorced; the whole lot but still in Sheffield and a D.I.”


“The same.  Married, kids, divorced and still living here.  Burnthorpe has you by the throat, no escape.  Your turn, Harry.”

“You recall I was divorced back then.  Sorry about Ann, we should never have gone off like that.”  I did feel he deserved an actual apology albeit years too late.  I paused, maybe too long.   “Still single, no kids, out of work.   Well, redundant and early-retired but it doesn’t make it any better.”   I stopped. I pulled us back to my reason for being in Burnthorpe.

“So why am I still here?  Apart from trying not to talk about old times?  You wouldn’t book me in here for no reason.”   I looked round the sparse tables and furnishings, “Unless it’s revenge.”

“We need to check your phone; her call.  If we find her mobile it might help.  ‘Angelo’ is a new name.  As I said, she just seems to have disappeared. On the platform as the train arrives, then gone.  Maybe Angelo is a lead.  Her friend got off the train and but no one to meet her.”

He hadn’t given me any names. It made it hard to imagine.  “Do they have names, the women? It might help.”   I started to think they were A and B but that old memory of Ann stepped in.

I continued; “The train.  It was an express. On the phone it was obviously not stopping.  Too fast and getting louder.  That was when the signal just cut into a disconnected whistle.”  I found myself thinking almost logically. The first time maybe for some months.  “That’s why it got to me!  I was worried it was a suicide.  Maybe me and a wrong number, being casually rude was too much. “

Walter was listening without interrupting the pauses.

“Was there an express?  Maybe she threw the phone onto the tracks. Or at the train? In front of it, whatever.  Perhaps it was a stranger, a mugger.  That would be why it disconnected.    Is that the answer?  But why vanish?”

Walter took his mobile out.. tapped numbers and spoke into it:    “It wasn’t the 15.11 express, that stopped at the station.  It was the one on the ‘through’ track.  It was late and must have been just ahead of the stopper.  Talk to the drivers of both trains.  Get lights on the track and search for the mobile. Or bits of one.”    He listened while it was repeated back.  “And don’t forget to stop the bloody trains in both directions!”

“Thank you, Harry.”    He pocketed his phone.  “Timing, eh.  Bloody timing.”

I was feeling bolder, “What about CCTV?”

“None available.”  He shook his head pensively.  “What was that course we met on?  I just remember an arrogant bastard hitting on my girlfriend.”

“We were friends a few months before that.  But the lecture was ‘Social Unrest in the 18th and 19th Centuries’. Which was me.  And I sat in with you for the two on ‘Victorian Morality and the Police’ and ‘Forensic Evidence; collection and presentation.”  I felt no pleasure in that particular feat of memory.

“That was when you got bored and wormed you way between me and Ann”

Not something I could deny.  I was into the social side; forensics was much too niche for me,  Ann was much more interesting.

“Should I apologise again?”

“No; Walter under the bridge!”  He raised his whisky, drank and said he should go and that I should report to the station before ten next morning.

Was that a joke, I wondered as he walked out of the bar with a brief wave.  No handshake but then we were still a little wary of each other.


It was a warm morning, the sun was up but looking soft at the edges, like it was hungover.

It was a fair distance walking to the police station from the Lazydaze Hotel and the freshness of my new clothes was worn off when I arrived that next morning and asked for Walter Copper.

“Chief Inspector.” I was advised and directed upstairs, “second passage on the left and check with his P.A.”

“P.A.?” I thought as I walked the lavender corridors.

It wasn’t so much a corridor that I turned into, more an alcove with a desk jutting out.  The placement, and the man behind it, seemed purely to obstruct entrance to the office door at his back.  I could read ‘C.I. W. Copper’; black on white in its frame on the wall.

“Harry Leem,” I began but stopped as the young man silently pointed fist and cocked thumb backwards over his shoulder towards the door.

“Go in, he’ll be with you in a minute.” He didn’t take his eyes off the small screen with its flashing colours under his other hand. “Yess!” He said under his breath.

I stepped sideways  between desk and wall then opened the door and entered.  More like a cupboard than an office.  Or a cell.  A high window, darker lavender walls, a small desk with an old p.c., plus notebook and pencils that filled the desk-top. There was a comfortable high-backed swivel chair with just enough room to swivel and a set of floor-to-eye shelves.  Some books, some momentos of ‘whatevers’ and six cards displayed on its top shelf.

‘Congratulations on your retirement!’  Said one. Others were more in the current taste of stills from old films with new words.  One caught my eye.  It was Humphrey Bogart towing the ‘African Queen’, up to his knees in water, looking knackered and the card read:  ‘I thought they said Cruise, not Crews.’    Philip Marlowe would have put it better.

The door opened. Walter peered in, jerked his head as he said, “Come on let’s get out of here.” I followed his sidling between wall and P.A. desk.

We walked briskly, he was used to striding, I had forgotten how and the memory didn’t want to return.

“We’ll go to the pub.”  He announced.

The walk was threatening to send me to hospital but we arrived at some bulging windows of a cream painted building on a corner in the old part of town.  An old wooden linteled  door. The building fronted the main road and round the corner,  sloping up the side-street.  We ducked our way in, a shabby table-high shelf to our immediate left with a biggish black book sitting on it.  Matt black and shabby to match the stained oak of the wall behind it.  It was like the shortest hall-way ever. You expected a second door but it never existed.  Two steps and we were in an old fashioned, stone slabbed bar with another bar to the side. Once there was a wall between but this was now a much more open view where the lath and plaster had been removed leaving the ‘renovated, polished’ beams in their original upright and angled positions.

‘Hi Walter!’  The woman called out as they entered, “Same as?”

“Just a coffee and…” I agreed to one too,  “And another.  Americano.”

She brought the coffees on a tray.  I had to watch as she walked across the bar, I’m old enough to know much better.  But then maybe not.  Obviously mature but a lot younger than me, us. Casually curling golden hair, framing her round and flawless face with a smile and twinkling eyes to catch anyone’s breath.  I noticed she was quite tall and her rounded hips balanced perfectly between length of leg and body.  The gently tailored dress and half-scooped neckline suggested equal perfection underneath.   Not a mood I catch myself in very often these days.  Too many students acting like waifs or mannequins took the edge off.  Plus a few brief couplings and goodbyes that weighed me down.  And at the back of it was still Ann.

I watched as she walked to the coffee machine and back.

She returned with a cafetière and mug for herself and sat with us.

“This is Angel,” Walter introduced her.  She held out her hand, I took it.

“And you are?” She asked, our hands still.

“Harry.  Harry Leem.”

“Harry,” she said thoughtfully as if committing the name to memory.  Her hand firmed with mine and she smiled right into me.  Hands parted, I watched her carefully plunge the cafetière.

“Coincidentally,” Walter started the conversation,  “Do you know anyone called Angelo?  Or maybe talking about someone with that name?”

She stopped pouring into a half-filled mug and put the cafetiere down. Looked up.

“Who is missing?  It was all the talk here last night.  I gather it’s a woman.  She must have a name, is she local?”   It sounded false, more guarded than interested.

“This has to be off the record.  Today is my last day, after tonight I am off the job.  They tried to kick me off today, the D.C.I. In no uncertain terms.”

“Winnie put him straight?” she said it without a smile

“Partly.” He looked briefly at me then back to Angel.  “Harry might be a witness so I’m on babysitting duty.  We don’t know if there is a mystery yet.  It might be that someone dropped their phone and stormed off.”

“Did you find the phone?” I had to ask him.

“Yes.  You were right.  It must have hit the first ‘through’ train and we found it, or the bigger bit at least.  With the SIM card.  They were testing it when we left. dropped or thrown, or by who, we don’t know.”

Thankfully I’m not a grammar-tart!

“Her name? And the friend meeting her, you said.”  Angel encouraged an answer.

“The missing woman is Adriana.  The friend on the train was  a contact rather than a friend.  She had come from Leeds to meet Adriana. They had never met and she had only spoken on the phone and no photograph.  She knew her name, that she had long black hair, thirty years old and wanted to escape an abusive partner.  To hide.  A woman called Nira was to meet Adriana at the station.   Nira may have had their tickets for the next train journey so no trace of where to would be found.”

“So Angelo is the man she is running from?”  I assumed.

“Yes, it seems so.” Walter agreed, “But Nira seems to know nothing more.  Harry’s accidental contact seems to firm-up the man’s name as Angelo but nothing else.  Hopefully the sim will give more.  Ideally the Contacts List will have full details of both.”

On hearing the name ‘Nira’ I noticed Angel’s eyes tighten a little and look away briefly.

She looked back at me, “And you drove here just on a wrong number?”

“The way it disconnected worried me.  And her voice was odd.  No accent but something seemed wrong.”

“Are you police too, ex police?”

“No,” I had to smile at that suggestion, “Ex rubbish lecturer in Social History mainly 18th and 19th Century”

“Oh,” she smiled quite sweetly but obviously no convert to the subject.

“Don’t put yourself down like that.” Walter stepped in, “you were good at stealing girl friends!”

“Ah.”  I had no more response than that.

She leaned across and patted my knee. “It must have been years ago, though.  He doesn’t hold grudges forever.  Well not many.”   This didn’t really help. I drank some coffee.

As I sipped at the hot drink I realised that his reaction was more like before the  messy collapse of our friendship.

Back to Nira, Adriana and Angelo.

“Has Nira gone back to Leeds?” Angel asked.


“Could Adriana have been asking for Angel rather than Angelo?”  I tossed a random thought.

“Why?”  She spoke and looked at me a little too sharply.

“I have no idea, just a question. Did you know Nira even if you didn’t know Adriana?  Is your mobile number similar to mine and or Angelo?  Is there any connection between Burnthorpe and Leeds regarding safe houses?  Which this seems to mean. Was Adriana really running from abuse or was it cartels or even the police? Did Nira actually hear Adriana naming this Angelo?  Is it just assumption because she said his name to me?”   I realised I was mouthing off a bit.  Musing out loud more than I should.  I hoped we would survive this interrogation when I had known her for a mere twenty minutes.  Let alone mending a fractured friendship with a retiring police officer.

I stopped.  We looked one to the other, conversation blunted.  “Oh Hell!” I thought out loud again. “Probably her partners name. Maybe she is Italian, he could be too.”   I tried to back-track.

I looked at the menu board propped on the wall waiting to be put outside.

The header was the pub’s name:  ‘The Jolly Puritan’    We were anything but that. I wanted to go home.

“The old vicarage.”  She spoke as if forced.  We looked blankly, waiting for more.  “Dad bought the old vicarage when they put the three churches into a pool. You know, a team approach going the rounds. They sold off our vicarage and spare land from the other two. Dad retired. Then he died.” She stopped and looked over to Walter. He nodded slightly in remembrance.

It meant nothing to me, I just waited.

“And?” The bar seemed surprisingly quiet as we sat there. Walter prised quietly.

“Nira didn’t have any tickets.”  Pause.  “It’s only up the road from here.”   She stood and casually pressed  down the creases from her waist.  I sat, quietly numbed, waiting for a dramatic announcement.

“It’s a safe-house.”  She started to place the mugs and cafetière on the tray and carried it to the back of the bar.    “Any more coffee?”    We both shook our heads.

“We can have three people max.. women, girls, and any children.  More would fit in the house but people might notice too many. “  she spoke with her back to us.  Turning, continued;   “I don’t know about the mobile numbers, we should check.  Or the name Adriana is running from.  But yes; she would have been given my number as emergency contact. And the name.”

“It’s you.  You would answer to Angelo.  Near enough your real name.”

“But she wouldn’t know I was a woman.” She leaned on the bar. “A little bit of security, we thought.  Three years and nothing has gone wrong.  Meeting at the station,  both by train then a taxi to the house.  I ring Madelie and she collects them and back to the vicarage.  Nira just keeps an eye on her.  On the train to the station.

Walter spoke. “I am an old friend, you and I.   For years, you know what I know.”  He rubbed a smear of coffee on the table.  “Why not even a hint? And I am police, for goodness sake!”  He shook his head.  “You said nothing yesterday!” his voice full of exasperation.

A deep sigh and, “Because you are Police!”  She stood erect.  “ You never said ‘Nira’.  I didn’t know she, they, were coming.  I just react to a phone call.  Some of these women have nothing.  Literally nothing, especially trust.  Especially trust in men.  Yes, especially!”  Attack was the best form of defence, she seemed to have decided.

“You could have trusted me, even so.”

Angel switched her gaze from Walter to me.  We briefly held eyes before I bowed away.  At which she moved to the coffee machine, “I need another anyway.”

In the quiet Walter resumed his thinking out loud

“So, we can check your two numbers to see if they are close enough for a mis-dial.  That would cover that point.  It explains why she, Adriana, was at the station. Partly the phone but not her actual disappearance.  Did she run from someone?  Did he, or they, force her or was she willing?        The upshot is, she is missing, she has to be found.”   He was interrupted by an old cartoon ringtone. His phone.

“It’s loud so I hear it in all weathers,” he passed it off as an explanation then listened with infrequent “yup”.    Finished, phone back in pocket.

“It’s her SIM, we opened it.  Lucky for us she’d no idea of security.”  He continued, “ It had a tracking app on it.  She could have been followed.  Contacts include her own, and yours, or Angelo; we can check the number with yours.  And we seem to have a selfie or two.”

Angel brought her new coffee to the table.  Walter’s phone bleeped cheerfully again and he retrieved it.   Angel peered over to see its screen.

“That must be her.  No wonder she is running scared.” he said.

I looked across at the picture on the screen to see a young woman with long black hair and a worryingly swollen eye with massive black bruising and a cheek  that was just shining into deep purple with yellow outer edges.

Angel grabbed at my arm. “When was that? The date?”

“Three days ago.”  He scrolled down to more text. “ He left her messages but they haven’t sent them on.  His last one was 11. O5.  Just before she phoned you, as Angelo. “

“Is his picture there?” I asked.

“No. We are getting his details off his mobile account and trying for his current location.”

“Can you find where he was on his 11.05 text?”  Me again. Angel’s grip was beginning to hurt.

It suddenly felt incongruous.  Me, sitting in a pub with an old ex-maybe-friend and a woman I should have felt so much less for after only half an hour; and talking pseudo forensics with the almost retired policeman about abused women and maybe abduction or worse.   As they say, twenty four hours ago I was at home, bored.  Now I just wanted to get out and find that woman.  I had forgotten what adrenaline was like.  But then I rarely knew anyway.  Now I felt it, I wanted more.

Walter got his notebook out and wrote the number she had rung for Angelo.  It was my number. No surprise in the end.  We checked Angel’s number and the last six digits were the same as mine, as were the codes.  No!  Adriana had transposed numbers into my carrier’s when putting them into her contact list.  A simple mistake but it might have been her last.

He was on his phone, “ Get that search organised. From the railway station outwards. Circulate her photo.  Treat it as a suspicious action. We don’t know if it is abduction. Yet.”   He looked towards me, “ I will drop you at the hotel.  You can leave Burnthorpe if you like  but I might need to call you back. We haven’t done that statement yet.”  He stood. “Thanks Angel. I aim to forget about the Vicarage. You too.”  He looked at me.  I nodded.  “I have to rush.”

“I can make my own way to the hotel,” I thought it would speed him along.

“I can take Harry in five minutes.” Angel said quickly

“Whichever, I must go.”  He said and collected his hat, becoming the real policeman again. “I’m off. We’ll find her, Angel, we’ll find her.”     He ducked through the low doorway and must have knocked the Bible off the shelf.

Saying nothing, Angel glided to retrieve and replace the Bible.

She went behind the bar and explained that someone was due to start a shift and she could slip away for half an hour.  Plenty of time to drop me at the hotel.

I just shrugged and agreed to wait.  It wasn’t long before a young lad came in.  Following a brief conversation with Angel he settled both arms to rest on the bar, phone in hands and thumbs jabbing.

“Come on then,” to me as she whisked out via the gap behind the bar. I had to jump up and scramble through; following into and out of a kitchen, a final back-room and lastly a huge old door that opened onto a square yard and the brightest of sunlight.

“She handled the car like a pro; almost as good as I handle whisky”.  I rehearsed the line a few times as Marlowe came to my rescue while we dodged round the traffic and corners.   Had we been chased we would never had been caught.  We slammed into a parking space and the jolt matched the squeal of tyres.

“You can relax now.” She smiled as she looked to me, and twisted to get out of the car.

She was half way up the steps to the hotel as I managed to uncurl from the low-seat and straighten up.  I watched her moving up the steps and tried to choke Bogart’s voice before  I heard him say through gritted teeth “There’s a chassis to sashe with!”    Note to self: cut out reading Chandler.

Angel watched me approach the reception desk.

“If you’re staying in Burnthorpe your welcome to stay at mine until this is sorted.”

“At the pub?”

“The Vicarage.”  She continued, “There’s a spare room, if you want it.”  No signs, just a straight offer.  It made it easier to agree.

“You wait here, I’ll pay the bill then get my bags.”  I should have said rucksack, with its two unwashed items from yesterday but it’s only a habit. I had binned the carrier.

I went to the lift, she chose to wait in the bar.

It only took seconds to stuff shirt and boxers into the bag.  An automatic check round the room proved I had nothing to leave there. The sun flicked through the windows and off the mirror, catching my eye.  I am not one for bright sunlight so I turned my head a little.  Bad move. I saw myself in the mirror.

Three days since I shaved.  At least I had showered but the brown stubble I expected had patched into a thicker layer of grey bristles.  Not enough to be trendy but plentiful if you need to look gaunt, old and weary.  I must have lost weight as the creases down my jawbone sagged through the stubble.  “No wonder she offered me a room, I look homeless and friendless.”

I stopped the cynical voice before it started.   ‘And here I am with just an overused rucksack to my name’.  Excluding the car in the car park it was pretty accurate, actually.

The sun flashed into my eyes again. Stopped, flashed and stopped. Annoying.

Marlowe muttered something about reflections and mirrors and cuties.    I looked out the window.  It was not a pretty sight.  The railway lines ran a stones throw away.  You couldn’t see the station despite it being as close as a hundred metres.  Looking towards it I could see the signal lamps over each set of tracks fixed to the gantry above sets of points for switching lines.

I put a nose to the glass and looked out at the shabby building trackside.  You don’t see many of them nowadays.  An old signal box.   I couldn’t see inside, it’s windows almost one floor lower than my view and mostly greyed with dirt and rain from years of neglect.  I imagined it when it was a vital tool of the railways.  It would have been pristine cream with unbroken ornate eaves.  A  balcony with paling fencing, entered onto via a multipaned door.   That was my nostalgia kicking in.  In reality it was a near black ruin with its doorway jammed shut by an old wheelbarrow.  The sun seemed to reflect briefly off a corner pane.   Bogart would not be amused by this,  I turned to find an Angel; much more his style……

She was at the bar talking to the young man laying out beer mats.  She thanked him when I arrived at her shoulder.  She had been showing Adriana’s picture on her mobile.

“He’s not seen her.  Not seen any particularly odd blokes either.”

“How do you recognise odd?”

“Don’t worry, he would.  He pointed you out.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Guess I’ll go and search then. Coming?”

I followed her lead outside.

“How do you know Walter then?  He just said it was from a long time ago.”

I was tempted to ask the same question of her.  “He was on a course and I was a young lecturer. We got on well.  That’s it. Typical lads.  Went our own ways and now meet again, must be twenty years.”   She got my short version. “You?”

“I was a kid and he sorted a boyfriend out for me.  I’ve had a soft spot for him ever since. If he was a bit younger….or I was a bit different.”

We were walking to the back of the hotel, nettles and weeds aplenty.

She spoke again,” He said you ‘snuck off’ with his girl.“  Angel smiled at the words.

In front of us was the chainlink fence running along the tracks.

“I reckon they will start at the station soon.  We can start here and work towards the platform.”

Okay, this was where my affinity with Chandler thinned a bit.  I didn’t fancy climbing the fencing when the police would get there eventually.  She saw me looking at the barbed wire curled along the top in all directions.  Moving closer to the fence she scuffed down the weeds near a concrete post.  “Come on then!”

I approached and she somehow unhooked the fence and raised it like a curtain.  I foolishly started forward to help, got stung by nettles and accidentally leaned into her.  I felt myself blush as I regained my balance.  Obviously I had been entirely deserted by any of the suave cops I used to read.  Still, it is a memory I find quite easy to remember.  I was unsure of the look she gave me.  Our faces so close, briefly.  I just remember her eyes as we pressed together.

No words as I crouched under the raised fencing then held it up for Angel.

“We can’t just walk along the track!”

She nudged me and suggested we walk beside the track, because of the trains!  Towards the station.  I could stay this side and she would run over the tracks to the other side.  With that she was gone.

I didn’t think, I just followed her, jumping across those glistening tops of rails.  Eight rails and I am not very elegant, or, rather, athletic.   We must have both been mad.  At least she had looked, I just ran.  She shook her head at me as I arrived by her side.  Saying nothing.

We had our backs to that old signal box.  My mind slunk back to my eight-year-old self, “Let’s look at the signal box.”  I would love to get inside and see if the levers were still there, maybe they still pulled!  I wasn’t put off by another withering look.

Surprisingly, Angel followed me along the wall and round to the jammed door.

“Watch out for trains,” I was now aware how dangerous it was.

“Half an hour,” she said, “before the next one. “But it will be this track.”

We looked at the upturned wheelbarrow, rotted and stained but still solid enough to be jammed under the brass door handle.  It could have been there for years, since it closed.  I looked up to work out which hotel window I had looked out of, counting along.  The sun was high over the hotel and hitting the box’s windows.  I recalled the reflection into my room.   What if?   I looked at the barrow and it was firmly fixed at the top although on the ground there were long scraped strips of fresh soil at each handle.

“That looks quite recent.”  I thought out loud. “Maybe it wasn’t reflection.”

It was all too easy.  Move the wheelbarrow.  Pull the door open.  Angel was in the gap first and calling.  Muted response but someone, female, scared.


We looked before we crossed the tracks this time although aware we should have plenty of time.   Three of us scurried under the fence.  Angel had an arm round the dishevelled woman, guiding her back to the hotel entrance and hurried her to the bar area and into an armchair.

“You phone Walter,” she said. I didn’t have his number so she handed me her phone.

She was talking to the woman, Adriana, while I spoke to Walter.   He said he would come at once. I heard him shout to call off the search, then back to me to say, “I’m on my way.”


Walter arrived in short time, accompanied by d.s Winnie Maitland.   She went to the woman’s side and Walter to mine.

“Winnie can do the interview and put a call out on the bloke.” …. Assuming he was involved etcetera..  “how come you found her?”

I explained that Angel insisted on looking over the lines and I headed for the signal box for no very good reason.   Noticing the marks on the ground was key, I suppose.  Myself, I liked to think Adriana had been signalling me.  Somehow getting the reflection in my eyes.  Quite a classy thing to do.  A real storybook escape.  Maybe as good as any 40’s film, even of ’39 Steps’, standard.

We sat around.  Coffee appeared via Angel’s organisation.  She stayed with Adriana who spoke with detective Maitland.  Some time passed while I pumped yet another coffee from the urn they had brought out. then picked out a few biscuits and sat restlessly again.   I am not good at waiting.   More time.

Eventually Angel came over and said she could take Adriana to the Vicarage now but I would have to give them a couple of hours to settle.

“No problem”, was Walter’s quick response, “We can go to the station and take that statement.”

That was settled, then.

I had to tell my story to a different police woman.  Walter claimed he was actually retired now the woman was found. The detective I spoke to was going to follow it up, if there was anything to follow, that is, or was!    I think my tenses are somewhat confused now.

Anyway, it took a while. I just gave the salient details.  Basically the original phone call, meeting people and then the lucky search with Angel over the railway line.  I mentioned the possible signalling I saw from my window, just to add a little flavour to the story.  Without that it all sounded rather mundane, no hint of the ‘film noir’ that was in my mind.

Eventually we all ran out of conversation at the police station.  The few chairs that were filled had people staring at their computer screens and playing with keys or mice.  I was shown the canteen and waited for Walter to re-appear.

He turned up two more coffees later.

“Well, at least we know most of the story.”

“Here it comes”, I thought, “the denouement.”   I rested my chin on my hands and leaned forward across the table.  The eco-lights above my head not quite the spotlit shaft off Maigret’s  desk that would have been pointing directly into any visitors chair.   Where was the smell and blue gasping haze of Gaulouse cigarettes?  Or was it cigars? Pipe?    Walter sat opposite. No pipe. Large fingers and knuckles clasped lightly on the table.  He moved to stir his mug of tea; not a sign of nicotine or bruised knuckles.    “Perhaps I really should stop living in crime novels,” I thought, yet again.

“Is it finished?”  I said flatly.   Fool that I am!

“No, but I am. I am now officially off the case.  Any case, for that matter.  I am now one hundred percent retired.”   He picked up the mug and drank as though it was his favourite beer.

“Let me take you to Angel’s.  The Old Vicarage.  She will be waiting.  You can decide if you are staying the night.  Unless you want a night-drive”  More rhetoric than actual question.

Whose car was I in?  I had to re-run the day to realise it was mine.  Walter directed me the short distance to the Vicarage.  A large house set back off a dead-end road, not rambling but a bit mis-sharpen with age  and a few angled beams visible on the upper storey.  Deep eaves under a steep roof.  I could just see the roof tiles were layered in a two-tone zig-zag of red and orange.  Elizabethan or just mad builder?  Lights on behind drawn curtains.  Up the stepped path to the trellis presiding round the front door.  It opened.  Angel kissed Walter and let him in.  Ditto me.

Shortly after we were all seated in a big room filled with one settee and assorted armchairs, some of which were covered with fleece blankets.  Very much a room to relax and be comfortable in.  You could understand how frightened women, and children, could begin to feel safe.

We sat, Walter, myself, Angel and the newly rescued Adriana, plus the finely sculpted  Madelie who had been waiting in the house for some thirty six hours.   Adriana looked more bruised than her selfie.  Time and a shower had softened the bulge of her eye and socket but the bruising was much more and multi-coloured from almost black through purple to ochre to cream.  Even a touch of green, it seemed to me.  It must have been a savage attack by her partner……ex-partner.  The settees were  much more comfortable and companionable than the station canteen!  And we each had a glass of something to hand.

At last!   The full story got rounded out by each of us following the time-line, as it were, from when  Adriana was first put into contact for the safe-house.

Most of it is scattered through these notes but those  missing pieces of jigsaw were of the following:

The mobile going dead in the middle of the second call to me.   Was she kidnapped?      Adriana found trapped in the signal box, how did she get there?  Who blocked her escape with the barrow?     How did she signal me from inside?

So much for solving mysteries!

Well, for the first.  It seems Adriana was very scared by that text he sent, saying she was being followed and then even more scared when she spoke to me, a wrong number, twice.  At that moment she realised she had a tracking app. on her mobile.   That was how he could follow her every move.  In sheer frustration she had thrown her mobile, mid-call across the tracks, co-incidentally as the express approached.  Her phone hit the train and, surprise surprise, it broke and killed the call.

Was she kidnapped?  A text and the event made it a serious possibility.     Nope!  Scared anyway, she ran down the platform, off the slope at the end and trackside.  We were all surprised she wasn’t seen and at least shouted at!  Anyway she reached the old signal box, saw the door ajar and ran inside to hide.

Who rammed the wheelbarrow against the door to stop her leaving?    No-one had any ideas.  Obviously someone, probably a passing railman but no idea at that moment.

So she was stuck there.  First of all hiding in fear then just unable to get out.

I had decided she had cleverly signalled to me and asked how she did it.      She hadn’t!  So us finding her was all down to Angel on a whim to search at the back of the hotel.

Where’s the clever solving of clues then?

And finally; it seemed she wasn’t being followed, chased, whatever.  The threats on the texts were just that.  All his texts were sent from the one place.  He had been taunting, not following.

At the end of all that talking there was little sense of satisfaction but maybe relief that it might have been so much worse.  So that was it, the evening broke up.

I was shown a room for the night, gratefully accepted. 

Finally, as I switched off the bedside light, I wondered if this visit to Burnthorpe would be my last.  “ Of all the places in all the world, how did I get here?”