Ice

(Beginning of story about a modern day mystery to track down a large amount of money left behind after World War 2 to spy on the Soviets, and still around today after the fall of the Berlin Wall)

I got off the Tube and stepped out into the summer heat of the Brompton Road. I strolled slowly, not wishing to work up a sweat in my Saville Row suit, passed Harrods and turned on to Hans Crescent and approached the big house. I climbed the stone steps and rang the bell labelled, "Strategic Research Consultants." No voice responded, the door lock simply buzzed and I let myself inside.

Cadwallader was standing at the balustrade of the first landing and beckoned me up. I often wondered whether this was his real name. But surely, if he was going to pick a fake one, he would have chosen something less conspicuous than Cadwallader. He led me into a lounge with Chesterfield sofas, that was noticeably cooler than the sultry day outside. He invited me to sit down. His only concession to hospitality was to give me, without speaking, a glass of iced water, instead of offering me something from the laden drinks tray on a table by the far wall. To be fair, he took only a glass of iced water for himself and, to be fair, the water was welcome.

He settled down opposite me and suddenly his steel-blue eyes fixed on me and the rest of the room ceased to exist.

"What do you know about the SOE?" His voice was quiet, but deadly serious. I wasn’t expecting a history test. Or maybe he was reminiscing, about to write his memoires.

I cleared my throat. "Well, SOE stood for ‘Special Operations Executive.’ They carried out raids and supplied the various resistance forces against the Nazis in Europe during World War Two."

"Absolutely," he said, levelly. "They were the covert British force during the war." He took a sip of his water. "And what was the Secret Intelligence Service’s role during this period?"

I felt like I was at a job interview and I had just been caught out. "MI6? I’ve no idea."

He put his glass down on the rosewood table in front of him. I noticed there wasn’t a coaster – condensation would run on to the table top. "Exactly," he said. His voice was still quiet, but it was as if he had spoken with sudden forcefulness. "And what happened," he continued, "when the war ended and the Soviets took control of Eastern Europe? Where was the SOE then?"

Again I had to admit I didn’t know. "Didn’t MI6 take over then?"

"And what happened to the SOE?" I couldn’t help feel he was harping on about this. "I thought they were disbanded."

"Indeed," he sighed. "They were disbanded. Despite, as Churchill predicted, that an Iron Curtain would descend over Eastern Europe."

"What does it matter?" I tried to stand my ground. "We had intelligence services watching the Soviets. What’s in a name?"

"You are right. What’s in a name? Many former SOE operatives eventually moved over to MI6."

"That’s what I thought," I offered.

"But what you don’t know was that SOE had plans for when the Russians arrived."

"That seems reasonable."

"SOE had plans," he emphasised the word, "to stay back, behind the Iron Curtain. Stay back! They knew the contacts. They knew the territory. They knew what was needed. They were not pleased at being closed down, and the scraps that were left to be assimilated into the SIS."

"I can imagine." I sipped my ice water.

"They also had the funds in place, in certain instances, to support stay-back groups."

I felt he had finally reached the true point of this meeting he had called with me. "Funds?"

"Yes. Funds. You can’t run a spy cell without something to pay your people. The SOE put funds in place to support a number of groups. They had to hand all this over to MI6 when they were closed down."

"I see," I said. Even though I did not. At least, I didn’t see what his interest was in all this.

"Sometimes it wasn’t always possible to keep track, in some cases, just where support of this nature had gone. Especially when a stay-back group had already been up and running for a while… before the war ended and the Soviets arrived."

"You mean," I felt I was being encouraged to guess, "not all the funds were accounted for."

"Why should the SOE hand on a plate, chapter and verse, an account of everything they had worked so hard to achieve, to an organisation that was about to move on to their turf and have them shut down?"

"But surely," I found myself sipping my water again, "any money involved would have been spent within months – years at most – of any cash put forward to run a covert group behind the Iron Curtain?"

"Normally, yes, you’d be right," He nodded. Everything seemed to hinge on that word, ‘normally.’ "But in one particular case, they was a virtual treasure trove set in place, but was never used for any purpose. It was not, how might you say? – ready!"

"But SOE still told MI6 – the SIS – about it, all the same?" It was a dumb question. I already knew the answer.

"SOE had just started to create one of its most ambitious stay-back groups in Belgrade, to infiltrate the entire Balkan region, when it took a bullet in the head from His Majesty’s Government, and MI6 – the Secret Intelligence Service – took over. But one of the many secrets they did not pick up on in those early post-war, Cold War days, was the money SOE had left behind to spy on the Russians in defence of the realm, the job they assumed but had been so absent from during the fight against the Nazis."

I felt this was getting needlessly didactic. "But what does that matter today? Here in the 21st Century?"

I could see Cadwallader bridle at this remark. "I’m not talking about politics," he hissed. His voice had dropped even more, and yet was more malevolent. "I am talking about the money."

"What money?"

"The money. Taxpayers’ money that was sent abroad to pay for a spy network that never came into existence."

"Fine. Right. Taxpayers’ money." I drained my glass and was prepared to hit the streets outside. I stood up.

"The money is still out there. In toto, as they say, if you’ve had a classical education. In a form that has kept – nay, appreciated in value."

"Yeah?"

"In today’s terms, we are talking a lot of money. It’s all still there, nobody knows about it. It’s just waiting for someone to go and pick it up."

"In what form?"

"Diamonds. Round, uncut."

"Worth how much?"

"At today’s prices? One hundred million dollars."

I don’t remember sitting down again. I do remember thanking him for the brandy he handed me from the drinks tray. "And," he added, "I want you to go and fetch them. For a share. Interested?"

To be continued (possibly…)

Imagine

(Imagine meeting John Lennon. A short story where a young piano-tuner from a sheltered background helps the composer of one of the world's most loved songs.)

Dave waited at the entrance to the impressive white mansion in Weybridge, the heart of London’s stockbroker belt. A distinctly un-stockbroker-like voice was audible through the gleaming panelled door.

"I’m not saying that I’m not doing any more rock and roll! I’m just telling you, like I’ve told other people before – I’m not going to be wriggling me ass at thirty to Twist and Shout." There was a pause during which someone may have been answering back, followed by: "Lemme get the door."

The door opened, and there stood one of the four most famous men in the world.

"What the hell do you want?"

Dave gulped. He had tried to prepare himself for this moment, but for the good it had done him, he could have spent the trip down from London playing tiddlywinks.

"Gosh!… Mr Lennon."

"Yeah, I know my name – who the hell are you?"

"I wasn’t expecting meeting you. I thought you’d have a servant or something."

"It’s his night off."

"But it’s day-time," said Dave, now slightly puzzled.

"Well, he’s must be having a hard night’s day. So what are you after?

"I’m from Steinway’s. The London store sent me."

John was studying him carefully. "What for?"

"We sold you a piano," said Dave. "I’ve come to have a look at it."

"I wish I had an exciting job like that. Why?"

For a ghastly moment, Dave began to fear he had made some kind of mistake. "You said it needed some attention. Can I just say that we’re delighted you chose one of our instruments? The thought that it will be on one of your records – "

"I’m not letting you in just like that," John interrupted. "How do I know you’re not just after an autograph or a lock of me hair?"

"Please don’t worry – I’m not a fan… Well, I am a fan, actually… of your music. I think it’s marvellous. But that’s not why I’m here. We understand you have a problem with a piano we supplied."

"Don’t you have a card or something?"

"We don’t normally carry them. But I’ve this." Dave produced a piece of paper from a pocket and read out: "The piano was a Walnut upright Model Z. It says here you paid just over a thousand pounds for it. I understand from the store manager that you took a liking to it when you learnt that it had been made in Hamburg."

"Yeah, that’s right." John seemed to relax. "You’d better come in. Welcome to Tittenhurst."

"Thank you. May I say Mr Lennon, that it’s a privilege to meet you. We’re really not supposed to say this but I am really quite an aficionado of your music."

John closed the door and started to lead Dave into the depths of the house. "Yeah, well… that’s nice. D’you wanna cuppa tea?"

Dave was surprised by this kind, simple offer and nodded.

"Hey, Yoko!" John called out. "Put the kettle on – lad here needs a brew. What’s yer name?"

"David. Dave… to my friends."

They entered what was apparently a music room. "Right, Dave, let’s get cracking. One piano here, crippled inside."

Dave stared at the piano for a moment before saying anything. "Why have you taken the front off it?"

"Well – you have the lid open on a grand, don’t you? Like the big white grand over there?"

"So – what’s wrong with it?"

"I’ve only gone and lost me goddam glasses down the front of it, haven’t I?"

For the first time since his arrival, Dave felt relieved. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too difficult after all. "Oh, I see – I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’ll retrieve them for you right away."

"I’m not usually that clumsy. It was actually Yoko. She came up behind me to give me a cuddle. We got a bit carried away and me specs came off. They weren’t the only thing, either."

Dave was startled. "Good Lord! There’s nothing else in there, is there?"

"Oh no," said John. "Just the specs. I wouldn’t bother but every time I play this… what’s this chord? Something starts buzzing down inside. It’s like fret-buzz on a guitar, when you don’t hold the chord down properly. What chord’s that?"

Dave studied John’s fingers on the keys. "Let me see… It’s F6, in that inversion."

"In what? It’s not one of those aeolian cadences, is it?"

"No, Mr – John. An aeolian cadence is – "

"I don’t wanna know what one is. I still think they sound like exotic birds. Finding out would spoil it."

"But you do know chord names, don’t you? Pardon me for asking, but I was just curious."

"That’s alright. I know chord names on guitar. But I’ve been playing that since I was at art school. I’m composing more stuff on piano now ‘cos I don’t know it as well and I surprise meself."

"That sound like a great idea," Dave said. "I’m really pleased to hear you are still writing. I thought perhaps that when The Beatles – "

"Why does nobody think there’s life after The Beatles?" John suddenly became animated. "We weren’t born Beatles. We had a life before we were Beatles and we’ve got one now The Beatles are over. We were just a band that made it really big, that’s all. It was just a dream. The world will go on without us. It’s over. That’s reality."

"Of course. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take the bottom panel off."

"I tried to do that but I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I thought maybe it was nailed on."

"No – there are catches just inside. I can reach down this gap over the top of the panel, and… there we are."

"Great," said John. "Just as a matter of interest, how old are you?"

"I’m thirty. Why?"

"You’re the same age as me! Yet you look twice my age. And the way you talk. Take that stupid tie off for a start. It makes you look like Sir Joe Lockwood. Or Dick James. I don’t know which is worse."

"Very well. But… I’m not sure how – "

"Don’t grow old early. Walk before you try to run. And just relax, man. Hey, Yoko, where’s that tea? Do you fancy a fried egg butty?… "

Some time later, the two of them were reclining on the floor, tea mugs and plates scattered around them. The piano was fixed, the refreshments had been welcome, and Dave was finally beginning to unwind.

"You know your way round a piano," said John. "I’ll give you that. Perhaps you can teach me which end I blow into."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was only joking. How’s your egg butty?

"Ah," Dave laughed. "I’ve never had one before. Best one I’ve ever had!"

John, seeing the joke, laughed back. "So d’you really like me music, Dave? Honestly?"

"Honestly, John? I love it. You create such wonderful images. Some of the chaps at Steinway aren’t convinced, but to me it’s like dreaming outside your head. Specially that one, I am The Walrus. It’s like a Van Gogh painting in music. It’s like you know a dream I’ve had – even if it was a disturbing dream – and you’ve set it to music. How did you do that?

John was suddenly serious. "Dreams you dream together are reality, man."

"Gosh. It’s brilliant. I think you’re a genius."

"Yeah. I am. I know." And then he winked.

Dave hesitated. "I’d love to know how you compose something like Walrus."

John reflected. "Sometimes it’s easy. It just comes to me in little bits. Then I join them up. You hear something and next thing it’s in a song. I loved that noise you made when you brushed all the strings in the piano at once, Dave. How’d you do that?"

"I was leaning on the loud pedal so that none of the strings was damped. All the strings were vibrating at once."

"The world’s biggest chord. It sounded like thunder. I wonder if you could use that somewhere in a song. It’d sound really weird, – not a lot of people would get it. They don’t get that it’s just as good art as anything else. It’s a con – only it’s not a con. If you call it art, then it’s art."

"I suppose it is," Dave nodded. He’d never thought of art like this. "Who’s to say something isn’t art?

"Exactly, Dave. Exactly!" He turned and peered at Dave over his freshly-retrieved spectacles. "I suppose you know all the chords there is?"

"I’ve grade 8 piano but… "

"When we first started playing, before we even became Beatles, we’d travel all the way across town to meet someone who knew a chord we didn’t. Right back when were The Quarrymen, if we heard someone on the other side of Liverpool had a chord they could teach us, we’d get on a bus and go and see him. Just to learn it."

Dave nodded. "But I’m no composer. Not like you."

"Don’t put yourself down. There might be a hit lurking in you right now."

"Well… you’ve got your glasses, John. I think you should find that the buzzing sound has gone now."

"Ta." John leapt up and perched on the piano stool. "Let me just try it. There’s this song I’ve been working on… That’s a C major, I know that one. Oops – got a wrong note there."

Dave was watching carefully. Standing next to one of the world’s two most famous composers while at work was something he would remember till his final hour. "It’s not really wrong, John," he said quietly. "You’ve added a ninth to the chord. You just caught the D with your thumb."

"Is that it? I thought a ninth would make it bluesy, like a seventh. I wanted something a bit softer than that."

"But you’ve left out the seventh. So it does sound, sort of, more dreamy. Debussy might have used it like that."

"C with a ninth added? I wonder if that smart-ass McCartney knows about that."

"I don’t know, John. He might do. Is he a good piano player?"

"He thinks he is." John grimaced. "Specially since that Long and Winding Road. Probably does know a bit more about it than me. So if I play C with a nine then F with a 6. What do you think of that?

Dave listened thoughtfully. "It’s quite nice, isn’t it?"

"I like the idea of a nine," said John talking almost to himself. "I like it being like a dream. Nine is a very special number. I was born on the ninth. I think special things’ll happen, every time the ninth comes round each month. When me and Yoko had our names changed to John Ono Lennon and Yoko Ono Lennon, there’s nine letter ‘O’s’ in our names."

Dave smiled. "And nine letter ‘N’s’"

"N for nine. Nine’s me lucky number. I like that. Lemme try it again. If I just rock me hand, like strumming a guitar softly… What d’you think of that.

Dave could feel the prickle of hairs rising on his arms. "That’s so simple. Yet it’s so beautiful."

"Yeah. That’s going to be me fave rave. Thanks for your help, Dave. I think I’ll do it like that. It does sound better with the nine in."

"It really is lovely," said Dave, drifting into the music. "Peaceful. Uplifting even. What are you going to call it?"

"You’ll have to wait and see, Dave," said John. "It’ll probably be on the next album. Till then, just imagine."

THE END.

Love In Birmingham

(Short humorous story about a romantic tryst in The Midlands city)

Steve would never say he was, as they say, "desperate," but it had been a good few months since he had last been out on a date. In a moment of elation – or, possibly, weakness – after Birmingham City had actually won a match, he confided in his friend, Jerry, this fact, just as they were leaving St. Andrews football ground.

"How long?" said Jerry, choking on his Bovril.

"Many moons," Steve replied.

"I know someone I can set you up with. Her name’s Ann. Leave it to me."

A week later, Jerry said he had got Steve a date.

"How will I recognise her?"

"Easy," said Jerry. "She’ll be in the Bull Ring tomorrow afternoon, dressed all in purple. If you miss her, here’s her mobile phone number."

Steve, however, had his doubts. What if he didn’t like the look of her? To be on the safe side, he took the binoculars he used at football matches with him, so that he could do a reconnaissance of his intended companion, unobserved from a safe distance, and arrived at the Bull Ring twenty minutes early.

He was glad that he had. He spotted a female figure, dressed, unmistakably, all in purple, hovering near the market stalls. All in purple, except for a claret-and-blue scarf.

Just as he was about to sneak away, his mobile rang. It had never occurred to him that Jerry would give his number to her. He didn’t want to be rude.

"Where are we going to meet?" asked a female voice.

Steve had a brainwave. He told her where to find him, then slunk off home.

Next week, Jerry caught up with Steve.

"How could you? How could you do such a thing?" Jerry demanded crossly.

"Do what?"

"Tell Ann to meet you like that?"

"I said, ‘Meet me at the corner of The Rotunda.’ I thought she would have known it was a joke."

"But she was an Aston Villa fan! She was walking round outside the building for three hours!"

The End

Little Miss Perfect

His life was simple and perfect, but not everyone was pleased. So he tried to do better. Then she came along... and that's when things started to get complicated.

"Spare some change, guv’nor"

"Why don’t you try getting a job and doing some hard work, you lazy so-and-so?"

The man was smartly dressed, a typical City type.

"Can I ask you a question?" said Bill. Bill was far from smartly dressed.

"What?"

"What do you work at? What do you do?"

The man gave a patronising smile. "I’m a futures and derivatives trader – if that means anything to you."

"Any particular market?" Bill asked affably.

The man, who had looked as though he was about to hurry away, hesitated. "Well, Commodities actually."

"Metals? Oil?"

"Some oil. I’m not at the Petroleum Exchange."

"I bet Brent Crude at 50 dollars a barrel is causing a bit of a headache for you, isn’t it?"

"It wasn’t to be expected." The man was no longer smiling.

"You’re not happy."

"Nor would you be, with the market so volatile." The man was beginning to look uncomfortable, as if he had entered what he thought was a familiar building but had got the wrong address.

"Well," said Bill. "There you go. I’m happy. I’m not worried about anything at all. And there you are – dashing off to work with the weight of the world’s future oil prices resting on your shoulders. Sure you wouldn’t like to swap places?"

"I, er – "

"‘Cos I wouldn’t."

The man made a sound as close to "Harrumph!" as makes no difference and started to stride off, when Bill called after him: "Don’t bid 55 dollars."

The man halted once more and turned reluctantly. "Why not?"

Bill smiled as he himself began to turn away from the conversation. "Because people don’t like a price that divides exactly by 11. It looks too much like an accountant’s stuck on an extra 10% for himself."

The man glared at him. "You’re wasted down here," he said with a hint of rancour, "do you know that?" With that he marched off in one direction, while Bill sat down on the door step next Soppy Sally and Big Jimmy, a broad grin now creasing his grimy face.

"Poor sod," said Bill. "What a day he’s going to have, eh?"

Soppy Sally was staring at him seriously. "He’s right, you know," she said after a long pause.

"Oil going over 55? No chance – it’ll slip back first and then he’ll be happy – for a few minutes."

"No – not about that," said Sally, "I don’t even know what that means. I mean what he said about you being wasted down here."

The grin evaporated from Bill’s face. "Oh don’t you start," he sighed.

"No, really. You’re young, you’re clever, you know things. What are you doing here, living rough, sleeping on the streets? You could make something of yourself."

Inwardly, Bill cringed. "You’re sounding like my father."

"Maybe he was right," said Big Jimmy. "Are your folks still around?"

"My Dad is," said Bill, "my mother died when I was a kid."

"Why don’t you go and have a word with him? You never know – maybe he could help you go to college or something. Got to be better than sitting here all day, getting piles."



So that’s what started it really. Bill was still on good turns with his father, Archie, despite the "dropping-out" thing, and Dad was only to glad to welcome his prodigal son home. And when the son expressed a firm intention to finish his schooling at college and get some qualifications, his father could not help but be delighted. By the time Bill had got some ‘A’ levels and was all set to go to University, Daddy could hardly believe the reversal of fortune in his only child.

"You must be very proud of yourself."

"I suppose…"

"Aren’t you pleased you’ve become such a success."

"Maybe."

Bill’s father couldn’t understand his son’s lukewarm attitude to his own achievements. "You’re not… just doing this to please me, are you son?"

"No, of course not, Dad," Bill laughed, "I’d never do a thing like that."

"OK," said his father, choosing to let the matter rest – seeing as he couldn’t understand it – "what do you want to want to study at University?"

"What do you want to want me to study?"

"What do I want?" said Archie, surprised. "Let me think. You were always good with numbers and you did well at economics. Why don’t you do a business studies degree?"

"In that case, I’m going to do biology."

His father was crestfallen. "Is that to get back at me in some way – for something I’ve done?"

"No, Dad," Bill assured him. "I just don’t want to end up working in the City."

Bill’s degree course flew past. He got a double first in molecular and physical biology. Bill’s father had retired by now from his job in the fitted-kitchen-bathroom business, and could not help the glow of pride he felt every time he thought of how well his son had turned out. "What are you going to do now?"

"Doctorate," said Bill, without expression. Then he shrugged. "I’ve got this thing about genetic diseases I wanted to check out."

Bill’s father still felt puzzled. "Do me a favour, son. Don’t get too excited or anything."

"Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t"

And so it happened that Bill spent two years at a university in the West Country, doing research in genetics, quietly and with application, without ever once communicating any sense of enthusiasm for what had become a considerable body of work. He even got a paper published in a prestigious journal, but mentioned it only in passing to his father, when he was home one weekend early in the summer, just as he was popping out to fetch some milk. If anything Bill by now seemed to Archie almost morose, sullen even. When he came back with the dairy product, his father was waiting for him.

"What’s up?" his father demanded, as if he was claiming the repayment of some debt his son owed him. "You’ve become a real high-flyer, achievements other people could only dream about, you get your work published, yet you hardly remember even to mention it. What is wrong?"

Bill chewed on his lip. He knew there was no way of evading the issue with his father. "It’s just that – this life… It just feels like, like I’m missing something."

"Well, you are son. I’ve known you were missing something for some time – and you’ve only just realised?"

Bill took a deep breath. "What am I missing, Dad?"

"I should have thought it was obvious! There’s no woman in your life. No love. No fun!"

Bill regarded him steadily. "I think you might be right." He nodded to himself. "Yeah, that could be it. Ever since I met – well, there’s this one woman I met recently… I really like her, but – "

"But what?"

"I don’t know how to get near her. I don’t know how to impress her."

"You are joking. What is she, Little Miss Perfect or something?"

Bill sat down at the kitchen table, interlocked his fingers and covered his mouth. "She could well be," he mumbled.

"Why don’t you ask her out?"

"Because it wouldn’t work," Bill said, shaking his head behind his fingers, like every word was a betrayal of some personal secret.

"How do you know until you give it a go?"

"I know."

His father considered for a while. "Bill – nothing’s ever out-smarted you before. You must have idea you can try."

Bill bit the flesh on the sides of his fingers. "There is one thing. There is a trip being organised for this summer – a canal boat-trip. She’ll be going. Some of my colleagues have been arranging it. She’s an environmentalist – background in biology, natural history, usual stuff. This group are going away for a trip on The Grand Union in two boats. It’s sort of a working holiday – like minds get together, sail through the countryside, discussing nature and so forth. If I tag along, I might just be able to get to know her a little. Then maybe I could ask her out or at least talk to her or something."

Bill’s father narrowed his eyes. "Sounds like it could be tough. A real challenge."

Bill knew what his father was doing but went along with it anyway. "I’ll give it a try."

"What’s her name?"

"Felicity. Felicity fforbes-Akel."

"Is that a fact?" said his father, raising an eyebrow. "I’ll look forward to meeting her."



Felicity fforbes-Akel was not just "some environmentalist." She was widely recognised as one of the leading authorities on ecosystem modelling in the world. The Green Party in Germany came to her for advice. What she didn’t know about Mendel and the hybridisation of peas simply wasn’t worth knowing. She was also very pretty, attracted men like flies and had a tendency to swat them down as such, if they didn’t match up to her quick, witty and articulate intellect. Which was most men, actually. She left a trail of battered and bruised egos across the surface of the planet that she so strove to preserve. Yet still they came – while there was no man in her life, she was regarded as fair game. Game that had a habit of turning on and slaying the hunter. Bill’s father had spoken no less than the truth when he called her Little Miss Perfect. She wanted – demanded – perfection in everything. Bill had spoken rather less than the truth when he said he "rather liked her." He idolised her, he was besotted with her, he was in awe of her. This was the woman he thought would make him happy. He was sure, on this holiday, that he was about to die.

"This boat trip," Bill said to Archie, "I’ll go on it, on one condition."

It was typical of Bill, his father thought, to manoeuvre the issue so it seemed like he was the one forcing Bill to do something – as if that were ever possible! "What condition?"

"That you come with me. If I’m going to be flayed alive, I want some behind me in my corner, for moral support.

"If that’s what it takes," said Archie, in turn pretending that he was under duress, when actually the idea of a summer canal trip and the opportunity to meet some of Bill’s pals quite appealed to him, "then I insist on bringing someone along with me."

"Who were you thinking of?"

"My drinking mate, Freddie. He’s retired too now – could do with getting away for a bit of a break.

"It’s a deal."

It was quite a group, spread over two narrowboats. Dr Aubrey Pinkerton, an authority on ecological systems, Mr and Mrs David Souther who had once had their own natural history programme on TV and who argued a lot, Stephen LeClare of the Worldwide Fund for Nature, Jennifer Tiffin, Felicity’s closest friend and confidant, three other colleagues from Bill’s university department, and of course, Archie and Freddie. Archie has suggested, as it was being decided who should go in which boat, that Bill would be best positioned if he shared a place on the same boat as Felicity, but Bill had said that was getting too close too fast. So Bill, Archie and Freddie, with Bill’s associates took one boat while the rest were in the other.

"Hello, Felicity, you remember me?" Bill said as cheerfully as he could. "I once borrowed your library card off you and I never gave it back." Perhaps not the best gambit in the world.

She thought for a moment. "Aren’t you that post-grad who just published a paper on a theory of DNA-sequence-transposition-generated diseases?"

"Yes, that’s me."

"I thought I recognised you," she said, pausing to think. This sounded promising. "I thought it was flawed in a number of fundamental areas. I’ve already started drafting a critique in response." This did not sound so promising. It was, after all, the main thrust of the research for his thesis. More important, it was supposed to be impressive.

"By the way, Felicity," said Bill, with a nervous cough, "I’d like to introduce you to my father. Dad, this is Felicity fforbes-Akel."

"Heard a lot about you, Miss fforbes-Akel. It’s nice to meet you." Archie thought this would set a convivial tone.

Felicity addressed Bill: "I didn’t know one was bringing guests. Is your father an expert in something?"

"I certainly am," Archie answered when Bill looked as though he couldn’t.

"What’s your field?"

"Bathroom fittings."

"I see." Felicity turned to put her sports bag luggage into her chosen boat. "I was thinking in a little more global terms."

"Doubtless you were, my dear girl, but it still wouldn’t help you fix a leaky tap."

Bill prayed that he could just slip beneath the waters of the marina and drown quietly.

"That went rather well," said Archie to Bill as they clambered aboard their own boat.

"I’m glad one of us thought so," Bill replied heavily.

Things did not improve noticeably from there. Every morning, after being moored up overnight, the party was usually woken by Mr and Mrs Souther having a fight – or "debate" as there preferred to put it, about something or other. Bill tried to get across from his boat to Felicity’s whenever he could think of a pretext, but always found Dr Aubrey and Stephen LeClare in close attendance – when she wasn’t in deep discussion with her pal Jennifer – and, for his pains for trying to be helpful, he was given jobs like emptying the chemical toilet – which kind of ruled him out any romantic overtones until the smell had worn off.

On the second day, When Bill popped aboard asking if there was any way he could make himself useful, Felicity remarked that she was having some difficulty steering the boat. Only too glad to oblige, he took over the tiller and promptly grounded the keel in a silt-bed. Bill noticed the boat was sitting too low in the water. He immediately realised what the problem was – the bilge needed emptying and he promptly switched on the pump to drain it. This got the boat off the mud, but it got Bill into very hot water with Felicity for polluting the canal with diesel-laced mucky water and killing the fish. At a lock, he dropped the windlass in a bank of nettles and while Jennifer tried to retrieve it with the boat-hook, he accidentally hit the throttle, causing Stephen LeClare to crack his head on the hatch. Worse, Dr Aubrey fell overboard. It was difficult to be sure which of these catastrophes upset Felicity most, but if Bill had had to guess, it might have been this last thing. Dr Aubrey seemed especially esteemed in Felicity’s eyes.

Evening conversation at various canal-side pubs did not prove to be a successful second front. If Felicity spoke to him at all, it was with a cold, aloof air – usually to remark on something he’d said she didn’t agree with, think correct, or to remind him of something he’d done. Archie was watching all this carefully. At least his friend Freddie seemed to be having a good time.

One evening, Felicity seemed so overwhelmed with the ennui of it all that she and Jennifer returned to their boat early. As soon as they had left the pub, Archie dragged Bill outside.

"Son – you’ll never get her – I know you’re clever and successful and all but she’s Little Miss Perfect. She wants everything just-so, and you’ll never be able to please her. She wants someone not human. One of these other dweebs will get her ahead of you."

"Thanks, Dad."

Bill, as usual, was loathe to accept his father’s judgement on anything; he decided he would go on a little spying mission and listen at a port-hole to Felicity’s and Jennifer’s conversation. He recognised Jennifer’s voice first.

"I thought you were going to be spoilt for men on this trip," – Bill noticed she was giggling and probably a little tipsy – "Is there anyone who takes your fancy?"

This was just the sort of inside information he was hoping for. Better to know the score than play in the dark.

"There are those three chaps from the university," Felicity answered in a frivolous tone Bill had not had the pleasure of hearing before. But I think if I had to choose, it would be between Stephen LeClare and… "

"Who?" Jennifer was excited in anticipation.

"Dr Aubrey! I think he’s gorgeous!"

"What about that post-grad fellah, Bill – the one who’s brought his dad?"

"You are joking! I’d rather go out with David Souther than him."

"But David Souther’s married and a loud-mouthed bore."

"Nobody’s perfect" she replied.

Bill was, as they say, devastated. Nothing could save him from the awful mess his life had become.

Little did he know they were about to get a lot worse.

He was in no mood to returning to the boat and his father or the pub and the loose collection of folk he of recent times started to call his friends. He thought back to the days of living on the street, with real friends like Soppy Sally and Big Jimmy. He had kept in touch with Big Jimmy over the years and paying him the odd visit – there was no way Jimmy would have come to see him. As for Soppy Sally, everyone had lost track of her – but that was probably something of her own choosing.

Thinking about the old times gave him an idea. He hitched a ride – something he had become adept at doing in his former life – to the nearest big town, even though it was late in the evening. He needed some place to consider what he was doing, to take stock of his life and the changes he had made over the past few years. Somewhere he felt comfortable and familiar. Somewhere he could think.

Every town has one and it wasn’t long before he found it – a run-down part of the urban landscape, seldom visited by the affluent and well-heeled. Scruffy, dirty, all but deserted. It felt like entering his bedroom after a long trip abroad. It was a seasonably warm night. He found the cosy little alcove of a set of loading bay doors behind some industrial-size bins and had the best night’s sleep he had enjoyed in years.

When he woke up, the stiffness in his limbs from sleeping on a stone step was almost pleasantly familiar. The bright light of morning prickled his eyes. The first thing to do, as always, was to go for a walk to get the circulation flowing again. Then perhaps find some breakfast; then: some serious thinking.

He’d found himself an abandoned bagel, still perfectly fresh – a real hunter’s trophy – and he’d treated himself to a cheap mug of sugary tea from a vendor’s van, and felt ready to decide what to do about Project Bill’s Life. He was aware of a reluctance to go back to the DNA disease research, but that didn’t seem important. He was aware of how utterly he had failed with Felicity fforbes-Akel, and that did. This wasn’t going to be easy. He’d wandered into a park and was seated on a bench, rapt in thought, when he was suddenly and unwelcomely interrupted.

"Did you drop that?"

A female figure of singular ugliness was addressing him. It wasn’t so much her appearance – though, in all honesty she was no oil painting, unless someone had splashed the canvass with thinners before the paint had dried – but her manner; that, and the uniform – with a bag across her shoulder – made her look a little like a military man, he thought. But, mostly, it was her attitude. A uniform meant authority and her voice was authoritarian. If there was one thing in life he detested, it was authority.

"Drop what?" he challenged her, querulously.

"Don’t be dumb with me, young man – " young man? he thought; on closer inspection she was not much older than he was – "that soft drinks can underneath your seat."

He put his elbow on one arm of the bench, propped his chin on his hand, tipping his face petulantly up towards her. "Where would I get a soft drink from?"

"Probably the gutter, judging by the state of you. Do you know it’s an offence to drop litter?"

Bill paused to bend forward and look between his legs to look at the offending article. He raised his head and said, "It isn’t mine," and blinked innocently.

"It’s between your feet. That’s as near to property you’ll ever have. Put it in the bin."

"No I won’t – it’s not mine!"

"Yes you will – it doesn’t matter!"

"And if I refuse?"

"You will be fined."

"I won’t pay."

"You’ll go to jail."

"I have a get-out-of-jail-free card."

She pushed his face close to hers. "No, you don’t."

"I know my rights."

"And I know mine. If I say something, it’s right. Pick up that litter, or I will arrest you."

"You wouldn’t."

"Look into these eyes. Am I lying?"

Bill looked. She had a point. "I’ll pick it up."

"It’s too late now – I’ve decided to give you a ticket anyway."

"For what?"

"Dropping litter."

"I didn’t drop it."

"I’d say you did."

"You’d be lying."

"Who would believe you when I have these eyes?"

She had another point. "That’s not fair," he protested mildly.

"I never said it was. What’s your name?" She had extracted a pad of forms from her military-style bag.

He hesitated. It was always appropriate to hesitate at times like this. "Freddie," he said at last. "Freddie fforbes-Akel."

"You’re kidding," she accused.

"Would I lie about a name like that?"

Touché. She wrote it down.

"Are you sure?"

"It was my father’s wish, God rest his soul. He left me an orphan. No-one raised me not to drop litter. How was I to know it was wrong?" Perhaps a bit of pathos would help.

"Address?" She barked. Perhaps not.

"The homeless hostel on Exchange Street." He had overheard it mentioned at the tea-van. Always good to get to know the local environment.

She asked him a couple of other questions, then she wanted to know if he had any identification on him. No, of course not. She persisted – then he had a brainwave – Felicity’s library card – it only showed her surname and initial. "I’ve a ticket for the library where I come from," he said.

"Why would you be in a library?"

"Because it’s warm."

"You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Because if you lie to me, I’ll have you for conspiring to pervert the course of justice."

"It wouldn’t be much of a perversion. You’d never make it stick."

"Look at these eyes again. I’m a community police officer and this is a no tolerance zone. Or, to put it another way, this is my zone, and I’ve no tolerance. I could make anything on you stick to a non-stick frying pan and fry. You’d feel the heat of my displeasure. I’d make sure if I brought you to book you wouldn’t need a library to keep warm for a long time, if you told me anything other than the truth. Believe me. Everyone else would."

If there was one thing Bill hated more than authority, it was authority’s version of the truth. He hated telling them his truth. He had no intention of telling this authority figure anything truthful.

"I believe you are right," he said, showing her the library card.

She glanced at it. "So your name really is Frederick fforbes-Akel?"

"That’s right," he said, sounding as honest as he could.

"Sign the bottom of the form," she directed, "here."

He was just in the process of signing the form, Mickey Mouse, and preparing to make a run for it – he reckoned in his casual clothes he could outstrip anyone in uniform – when who should come into view, walking down the path, but the real Freddie and Bill’s father, Archie?

"There he is!" said Freddie.

"Bill!" shouted his father, as the two hurried towards the bench.

The community police officer who looked a little like a military man, turned to look at the newcomers then turned back to face Bill. Her eyes seemed to grow until he could see the whites of her eyes all the way round their dark, piercing centres. "Bill?"

Bill swallowed hard. "I’ve no idea who this man is."

Freddie overheard this. "How can you deny your own father, Bill?"

"Your father?"

Bill wanted to look sideways to see how far a single bound would free him. But she would see his eyes move and give him away. "What’s your name?" he asked, as conversationally as he could.

"I’m your worst nightmare, but you can call me Doris. I say again. Father?"

"I can understand how the concept might be alien to you. He is my father but we’re not really close. In fact, he’s closer to that chap he’s with, if you see what I mean."

Doris made the error of looking round. Bill made no mistake as he fled across the sedate bowling green with a running-track sprint. Doris glared after him. "You can run," she said to herself, but you can’t hide, Mr – " she looked down at her pad – "Mickey Mouse!!!" Doris’s anger boiled over. She swore she would track down Bill if she had to chase him to the ends of the Earth. The Romans’ pursuit of Hannibal would be a mere bagatelle in comparison, she vowed, if he wanted to play pinball with her.

Still furious, she arrested Archie and Freddie for loitering with intent, soliciting, and performing a lewd act in a public place, just to help her calm down.

And so Bill started his first day on the run. Every police car that came near him put him into a panic, and with good reason, because on every occasion they started chasing him. Goodness only knew what story Doris must have told them. He could not go back to the canal, the to the boat trip and his friends whom he now missed slightly. He needed to hide. He felt sure he could loose himself in the town. But he could find no respite from the hunt. Hell had no fury like an officer of the law belittled. He moved on to another town and things were no better. Doris tracked him down inexorably. In every town he went to, just as he found his feet, she found him.

He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he was developing a respect for her persistence, as well as her ability seemingly to follow – even predict – his every move. He gave up trying to hide in the town and moved to the city. Firstly, Birmingham, but she was hot on his trail – too obvious perhaps, being at the end of the Grand Union Canal. Then Manchester, but to no avail. Next Liverpool and he nearly walked into a trap. Then Leeds – once again she was waiting for him.

He could not risk returning to the university. He managed to contact them and made a vague description of his circumstances and they merely replied, in effect, that he had to submit his thesis with six years of starting for it to count, two of which had elapsed and beyond that they seemed not to care. He wasn’t too concerned about this; he might want to return to his PhD at some point – the thought of all his work going to waste chafed him mildly; as he said to himself, he just liked to have as many options as he could and keep them all open. He dare not risk, for a variety of reasons, to attempt to approach Felicity – she appeared more than ever to belong to a different world, one he could never reach. He wrote to his father on a few occasions but never risked leaving a return address.

Yet, still, he found himself, for all his care and cunning, just one step ahead of his arch-nemesis, Doris. There was apparently nothing this woman would not do to get her man.

He went down into the very depths of the city, places nobody outside knew, a world within a world, a world he had grown used to and could understand, move in, get lost in, but where no outsider should be able to follow. She followed. She knew the streets as he knew the streets, she even seemed to know how he walked the streets, where he would eat, where he slept. He was accepted by other street-dwellers wherever he went but, wherever he went, he got reports that "a woman from the law" had been asking about him. Sometimes it was the previous day, sometimes a few hours earlier, sometimes just a few minutes before. The occasions where he just managed to elude her were growing. And she never gave up. Why did she trail him so? How did she know where to look? He couldn’t help feeling that, in a different life, they could have been friends. Certainly, or so it appeared, they would have had a lot in common to talk about.

How did she do it? No matter where he hid, she was on to him. It was as if she could read his mind, know his very soul even. He couldn’t help admire her, her tenacity, her cunning… But. He was running out of place to hide and of patience to run. He was going to have to resort to something drastic. Fortunately, he had left himself one option here also.

He had to go and see Big Jimmy. It was not a step he chose lightly. Big Jimmy had been a special friend. The one thing Bill didn’t want to do was to bring this authority figure into his neighbourhood, bothering him. It would also mean a farewell. It would be the last time he saw Big Jimmy. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised there was no other way out. Big Jimmy held the answer. Literally.

During one of his occasional visits from his new life to Big Jimmy, Bill had given him something to take into safe-keeping. A package. A package, containing something potentially very valuable. Bill had anticipated this, something he might need in his new life, and, as he had said before, he liked to have as many options as possible and keep them all open. He headed, by a circuitous route down to London, managing, on the way, to send a message to Big Jimmy that he was coming.

"Good to see you, Jimmy."

"Aye, and you, mate. Sounds like you’ve been having a rare old time of it."

"You heard?"

"Everybody’s heard. We may not move in your high-flying circles, but gossip’s a commodity – which you may remember from when you were one of us."

"One of you… I sometimes wish… Never mind."

"Why do you think she’s after you? She doesn’t fancy you, does she?"

Bill frowned. "I wouldn’t think so."

"Do you fancy her? Have you been leaving a trail she can follow?"

"Of course not!" Bill expostulated. "Don’t be daft."

"Alright – you don’t have to bite my head off."

"You’ve got it?"

"Here you go," said Big Jimmy, handing Bill a sealed package.

"You really haven’t opened it?" said Bill, scrutinising Jimmy’s face.

"Of course not… Well, maybe just a little."

"Of course you did. I would have. You saw what’s in it?"

"Passport, driving-licence, birth certificate, credit cards – a whole new identity. You’re going away and you’re not coming back."

"That’s right, Jimmy. I’m sorry. This is going to be goodbye… You could have sold all that stuff for a lot of money."

"Aye, I could have."

"I’d have paid you more."

"I know."

"I’ll give you money now, if you like."

"There’s no need, lad."

"Payment for holding the package."

"Alright, a few quid, but that’s all."

"One other thing," said Bill, "you won’t tell… anybody, anything about – "

"I didn’t even look at the name on anything. So I couldn’t even tell her, even if she used thumbscrews."

"Thanks, Jimmy, you’re a gem."

"Besides, it’s looks like I won’t have to. She’s standing right behind you."

Bill froze, Just for a moment, he thought Big Jimmy might be joking. But two things suggested that this was not the case. Firstly, Jimmy wasn’t really noted for is sense of humour. Secondly, he could feel the presence that had been on his tail for so long. Only this time it was very, very close.

"Hello, Bill," said the oh-so-familiar voice he had heard so many times in his dreams.

"Hello, Doris. You’ve caught up with me at last."

"You knew I would."

"I was wondering what took you so long." He turned to face her. Somehow she looked different. Still the same outfit, still the same outlook, but not the same anonymous figure of threat. She looked almost… well, desirable.

"You’re under arrest, on a list of charges too long for me to go into here. Anything you say will be used against you in any way possible."

"Doris, I wish to make a statement."

"Yes?" she said without interest, reaching for her cuffs, her finest pair of Kenwood Rigid-Locks; she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

"Doris, I think I love you."

Doris stared at him, speechless. Her eyes went all white a bit like the way they did when she first tried to apprehend Bill. But this time, it was with astonishment. She was not used being astonished. Even her face was astonished at showing an expression of astonishment, and it was astonished also.

"Love me?" No-one had ever said that to her before. She was not sure the words made any kind of sense in the real world.

"Yes," said Bill, "love you." You know me better than anyone else I’ve ever met – anyone alive. You know my likes and dislikes, you know where I like to go, you know the places I know. You know everything I do."

"Love you?"

"You do?" said Bill. "You love me?"

"I – " she began, but ran out of words. She dropped her cuffs on the ground. "I don’t know. What does it feel like. I’ve never loved anyone before."

"Like you want to stop running. Like you’ve found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. Like you’re home."

Doris turned away to think. Stared at a wall, like the uneven pattern of poorly lain bricks were in a code that might hold the answer. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, it does feel like that. Ever since you signed your name Mickey Mouse on my ticket. Funniest thing anyone’s ever dare do with me. Ever since we first met."

"Love at first sight," said Big Jimmy.

"Shut up" Bill and Doris both said to Big Jimmy, although they were both staring at each other. Then Bill turned to Big Jimmy and gave him back the package.

"Here," he said, "you might be able to sell this for a few quid."

"What’s in that?" said Doris, although she already knew.

"Believe me," said Bill, facing her once more, "you don’t want me to tell you."



It was, as they say, a whirlwind romance. They got a special licence and were married within six weeks. Big Jimmy declined to come but he sent his best wishes on a postcard, bizarrely, from Acapulco. Some of Bill university friends attended and one was Best Man. Felicity fforbes-whatever-her-name-was wasn’t invited – rumour had it she had married Dr Aubrey and the two of them were occupied writing pretentious articles for heavyweight journals describing the dire peril the planet was in. Bill’s father Archie was there, in a state of delighted bewilderment at the way things had turned out: "Are you sure she’s the one you want?" he said to Bill, before the ceremony.

"Yes, quite sure," said Bill. "She really is my Little Miss Perfect."
Archie remained bewildered, but luckily Freddie was there too, helping Archie drink too much.

For a honeymoon, the happy couple had been of one mind. They were going to go on a tour of the countryside, stopping at any bed-and-breakfast that took their fancy, and avoiding cities as much as possible, until they felt ready to come home – wherever that might be – when they were ready and not before. Their starting point would probably be somewhere near the university in the West Country which had agreed to take him back so that he could finish his PhD. They decided they would start in this general area and work their way in a rough clockwise direction around the country.

"You’re not hoping you might just bump into Felicity fforbes-Akel before we set off, are you?" said Doris.

"You knew about her?" said Bill.

"Of course," said Doris. "I backtracked where you had come from and found your little boating trip. Everyone was impressed by your efforts to impress her. Everyone except her, of course."

"No," said Bill, shaking his head. "She’s the last person I ever want to see."

As they set off westward down the motorway, little were they to know that Dr Aubrey and Felicity fforbes-Akel-Pinkerton were in fact just a few miles ahead of them in their new hydrogen-fuel-cell-powered four-by-four, which had just broken down; they had brought the huge but eco-friendly vehicle to a halt, as irony would have it, in a large diesel spill on the hard shoulder.

"Don’t you worry," my Sweet," said Dr Aubrey, "I’ll walk to a breakdown phone and call for help." (Felicity did not approve of Dr Aubrey having a mobile phone either.)

"But who are you going to call? The AA, the RAC or NASA – after all, they designed the power cells."

"Let’s see who gets here first," was all Aubrey could think of to say. He was just about to set off when he realised that diesel oil was all over his boots. He stepped on to the grass verge and was trying to scrape the offending fluid off, when he lost his footing and fell down the bank out of sight. At least he had not tumbled the other way and landed on the slow lane.

"Aubrey! Aubrey! What’s happened," cried out an alarmed Felicity at the sudden disappearance of her husband. "Where’ve you got?" She clambered out of the passenger door and stepped straight into the slippery mess her husband had trodden in.

"I’m down here," he wailed faintly. "I think I’ve twisted my ankle."

Felicity looked down the bank and saw her husband in an ungainly tangle with hedge of meadowsweet.

"Hang on, I’m coming," she called. She never spoke a truer word; just one step and she too slipped and hurtled down the bank to join Aubrey in the bush.

"Are you alright?" said Aubrey, breathless and anxious.

"I – I think I’ve twisted my ankle too," she gasped.

"How are we going to get out of here?"

Meanwhile, cruising along the motorway came Bill and Doris.

"Do you know," said Doris, "I’ve never been happy like this before?"

"I know what you mean," said Bill. "I’ve never been happier." It was the first conversation between them for some miles. It was as if they were reading each other’s minds.

Both saw the large four-by-four, pulled over on the hard shoulder, door open, but no-one in attendance.

"Something wrong here," said Doris."

"We should check," said Bill.

"Right."

Doris pulled over. They checked out the exotically powered vehicle but could find no trace of its passengers. Something made them both feel they should look further.

"Damn – I’ve got Diesel on my shoes."

"Me too."

Just as they topped the rise, they saw the two unhappy eco-warriors, both waist-deep in a hedge.

"Felicity!" said Bill.

"Help!"

"We’d better get them out," said Doris.

Just at that moment, the pair of would-be rescuers both lost their footing, and tumbled down the slope towards its earlier victims, with a cry of dismay.

Now there would be some fun.

THE END

The Whisperbreath

Summary

Short story on the power of gossip and rumour

The Whisperbreath hung on the air, counting her oceans and the navies of truth, lies and rumours that sailed upon them.

She waited.

Where two or more are gathered together, there shall be my harbour and my company.

She spotted a bench, like a lioness spots a zebra, and began to concentrate like instant coffee getting ready for water. A person was moving towards the bench and had a feast to tell and a hunger to feed.

The person was a small man, middle-aged, receding hair, with no clue to the scene in which he was about to play a part. He took his place like a pawn on a chess board, not knowing when the game would start. Not knowing when the crucial move would come and the opposing king fall into check.

No-one was abroad that morning. The sun beat down palely on the man’s unprotected head as it had nothing better to do. The sun was not particularly interested in the man’s head and wished it had more serious tanning to do elsewhere. But it hadn’t, so it stuck to the man’s head, turning the taught skin faintly red like a photocopy of jam.

The Whisperbreath waited. She hovered like an empty apartment awaiting new tenants or a kettle starting to boil. The man fidgeted and looked at his watch as though he had suddenly realised that he ought to have an appointment but didn’t. The Whisperbreath knew that he did have an appointment, it was just that the balding middle-aged man did not know, because The Whisperbreath never told anyone of her appointments. The sun shuffled its hands into the pockets of a cloud and wished it had something better to do.

There, further along the sidewalk, The Whisperbreath saw what she knew she would see eventually – more people. More people moving towards the bench and getting in line to perform in the scene that The Whisperbreath wanted and the sun slid from behind a cloud like a tramp moving from behind a trash can to see what happened next.

The more people were two more. A young woman bright with a floral dress and a floral personality, slender and spring-heeled in the morning of life. The other woman was older and in late-summer colours, gathering her leaves for autumn. She was listening half-attentively to the younger woman with her springiness of speech with little to offer in return and wondering whether the sun was going to stay out or hide away with errands further abroad. It seemed like the sun might stay and watch for a while in case anything happened.

The two women reached the bench that had become the temporary home of the middle-aged man and realised that they recognised him, and greeted him. He, too, greeted them in return as if it had been a long time since they had all seen each other, though it was not clear whether this was the case or not. I mean, it is easier to meet total strangers on a bench in the sunshine than to run into some you know but have not seen since you were a different age and hue.

The older woman started to engage the man in some kind of conversation or chat, or it may have been just politeness or courtesy to keep saying something if they had not seen each other for a change in their ages. Certainly the sun couldn’t tell and was considering once again moving to more fertile fields with crops to raise. The younger woman wanted to speak but she kept finding herself treading on the paving stones of the conversation between the other two and missing the cracks. The Whisperbreath waited and looked on. This showed promise like a glow in the fuse of a firework.

At last the younger woman, who was seated closer to the man than the older woman, said, "Of course, you know what I heard."

Of course the man did not know what the younger woman had heard, otherwise there would have been no point in the younger woman saying that he had. He replied, "No – what have you heard?"

The younger woman leaned towards the man and away from the older woman, and whispered.

"What was that?" said the older woman. "What did you say?"

"I said," the younger woman began, and uttered something that was different from what she had whispered to the thin-haired man, who could feel his hair grow thicker as his importance in the conversation grew thicker, and The Whisperbreath grew also.

"Oh," said the older woman, unimpressed by not being whispered to. "That is very interesting," she lied. She wanted to have something she could whisper about in confidence to someone else, not something that was broadcast all over the city like the sunshine and the cloud. It didn’t matter. She would tell her version to someone else in a whisper later on.

The Whisperbreath settled down beside her and followed her the rest of the day like an obedient pet until she found someone else she could tell her private version of the truth to. The Whisperbreath also followed the middle-aged man with his crop of newly-grown hair until he could whisper his version of events that he had got from the younger woman, suitably embellished by its fermentation in his imagination. In fact, so potent was this brewing of The Whisperbreath’s heady sugar that, by nightfall, as the sun took its final look at the city and gave up on it for the day, there was a bar-full of rumour waiting to be uncorked.

As the sun had set, it missed the party that the rest of the people of the city threw that night, all dancing and chatting and getting giddy on The Whisperbreath’s liquor.

Tomorrow would be another day.

THE END.

On The Beat

(Short humorous story when a cop meets his favourite rock star)

"Claudia Raine?"

"You got me."

"I’m…"

"Call me Claudie. Come in," she said casually and walked away from the door.

The most immediately noticeable feature of the room – apart from the complete and utter mess, piles of clothing draped over half-hidden furniture, every surface covered with empty beer bottles, dirty glasses, crushed cans, overflowing ash trays, unidentifiable bric-a-brac and general rubbish – was a speaker cabinet with four – four! – huge drivers, standing on cheap set of open and overflowing drawers. That and the guitars. The guitars were all hanging neatly as if to attention along the wall from the kind of fixtures gardeners use for spades and the like in tool sheds. There was an Ovation Classic, two Fenders, both a Telecaster and a Stratocaster, a Gretsch Tennessean, a Yamaha 12-string and some others.

"You from Mojo?"

He stepped cautiously into the room. "No, I’m from…" but at that moment he stumbled over some cabling snaking across the floor. For a moment, he thought he was going to have to choose between falling on to a small television on the floor, or an expensive-looking record deck complete with vinyl LP perched precariously on a chair. He grabbed a littered table, causing a plant pot to fall off the back.

"Never mind," Claudie said. "I got a loose schedule today. You can interview me anyway. Wanna beer?"

"No… Thank you." Before he could say more she had gone into an adjoining room that looked like a kitchen except for the fact that a bomb seemed to have gone off in it. There was a crash, a tearing noise, and the sound of a bottle being popped with an opener.

He took in the rest of the room. Over to his right was an ugly set of Ikea CD racks, packed to the top. At least all the CDs were put away. Looking closer, he saw the CDs were stacked in alphabetical order. Under what might have been a bed were piles of sheet music, some in folders, stapled or paper-clipped together. On the nightstand, an ash-tray was grimly trying to contain a mountain of roll-up stubs, next to a Walkman with tiny earphones.

"What magazine are you with, then?" She was stood in the doorway with a bottle of Stella in her hand.

"I’m not with a magazine, Ms Raine."

"Oh?"

"I’m Detective Constable Burton, Greater Manchester CID."

"Wow," she said, not seeming overly impressed. How do I know you’re a po-lice man? Where’s your uniform?"

"I’m in plain clothes."

She took in jeans and jacket at a glance. "You’re telling me, honey. You’re a walking style famine. Don’t they teach you how to dress? To blend in?"

"What’s wrong with my clothes?"

"Let’s just say you’d look better in your uniform. I could have tried your helmet on."

Burton turned away and, stepping carefully to avoid standing on anything, pulled a pair of headphones from where they were hanging from a drawer.

"You got a warrant to search these premises?"

"I’m not here to conduct a search," he said, stiffly.

"Betcha glad about that," she said with a grin, and punched his shoulder with her bottle hand. "So what can I do for you, Detective Constable Burton? You come to stitch me up?" She laughed at her own joke. "Burton – stitch-up. Geddit?" She propped the beer bottle against a cushion on the sofa and began rolling a cigarette.

"I’m here about an alleged incident at the Band On The Wall pub last night."

"You call that an incident? That was an event."

Burton had interviewed lots of people, over the years of his career, about alleged incidents. Usually, there weren’t too happy to be speaking to him. They had a tendency to latch on to word alleged, because that could mean that the incident hadn’t actually happened. He liked people to think they were in trouble because it tended to make them more co-operative, as they gave their version of the facts. He especially wanted Claudia Raine to take the situation more seriously. After all, he had an objective to achieve in being here. He studied a poster Blu-tacked to the wall. On it was the word Apocalypse.

"Have you been with Apocalypse long?"

She was licking the edge of her Rizla and paused a moment before answering. "A while," she said, and started hunting for a lighter.

"Before that you were with The Gin Crew, weren’t you?"

She looked mildly impressed. "Hey, that’s right." She held up her tobacco pouch. "D’you want one."

"No, thank you."

"I split from them months ago," she said tossing the pouch and the lighter on to the table. "Personal differences."

He bent down and retrieved the plant he’d knocked over and put it on the table, noting its familiar-shaped leaves, and looked at her, impassively.

"Got that from an admirer," she said. "Guess he couldn’t afford flowers. Such a little plant, too. Under eight inches tall."

"Quite," he said, and began to pick up other items from the top of the drawers. There was a small, round-topped box about the size of a packet of cigarettes, with the word Farter printed on it, and a can of Right Guard.

"I thought you said you didn’t have a search warrant," she said.

"I’m not searching. Just looking. Men’s deodorant?"

"It gets hot on stage. Girlie stuff can’t hack it." She still sounded relaxed, conversational. "What was this alleged incident?"

"It is alleged that you assaulted a member of the public during your act."

"I did?" She looked genuinely puzzled.

"You hit him with the neck of your guitar."

"It was a headless bass," she corrected him.

"You nearly turned him into a headless fan," he said, with an edge to his voice.

"The twat jumped up on stage. I was just fending him off."

"You fended him right off the edge of the stage into the audience. He needed stitches afterwards."

"He stumbled. It’s a long way down. Needed stitches, did he?"

"So did the member of the audience he landed on."

"Haven’t you heard? It’s lonely at the top. Or it’s supposed to be. If I hadn’t done it, security would have. And they wouldn’t have been so polite about it."

Burton could see he still wasn’t getting her rattled. He continued to inspect objects on the drawers, picking up the round-topped box. "What is this, exactly?"

"The Farter? It’s an effects pedal. Like a fuzz box. For lead guitar."

"Oh." He nudged a crushed beer can off the drawers and spotted a lump of something dark and crumbly wrapped in Cling-film. "And this?"

It was the first time she had looked uncomfortable. "If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And I’d have to kill you."

"Looks like a full ounce. Claudia Raine, I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything, but you may harm you defence if you fail to mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say…"

"It’s Oxo."

"What!?"

"It’s Oxo. I carry it around with me at gigs. You get dehydrated and lose a lot of salt with sweating. I like to have a drink made of that when I come off stage."

"What’s wrong with keeping it in the foil wrapping?"

"The foil tears. You see, I wear leather pants and they’re very tight. It’s safer wrapped up like that. See how crushed it is. Plus I don’t want to be known as some freak who carries Oxo around in her pocket."

"You must think I’m daft!"

"You arrest me for possession of a stock cube and everybody’ll think you’re daft."

"And what about the assault?"

"Get real. The twat fell off the stage. Five hundred people saw him. It’s not as if I swung my guitar like an axe and brained him. You’d never get that to stick. And you know it."

Burton sniffed the Cling-film-wrapped package. There was an unmistakable savoury aroma. He was wrong-footed. He played his last card. "Who’s to say I might find something else in my pocket on the way to the station?"

"My lawyers. Klein, Mullin and Mansfield. You’ve heard of them, no doubt."

He put the little package back down on the table. They seemed to be at an impasse.

"There might be a way out of all this," he said.

"I thought there might be." From her tone, Burton finally realised that Claudia Raine had been around a little and was way ahead of him from the moment she opened the door. She knew people every bit as well as he did. Everybody wanted something.

"I thought it a shame," he said, somewhat at a tangent to their foregoing conversation, "when The Gin Crew split up."

"Why was that?" She was prepared to be patient.

"I… I used to enjoy your gigs."

"Why, thank you kindly, sir."

"I went to a lot of your gigs."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Someone who dresses the way you do?" she snorted, and stubbed out her cigarette.

"Have you any idea how boring it can get being in the Police?"

"Well, it got to Sting in the end. Someone should write a song about it."

Burton coughed and studied his shoes. " I have written a song."

"Oh, God. I was scared you might have."

"Would you like to hear it."

"Arrest me now. I’ll even plead guilty."

"I was hoping I might be able to get it to you when you were in The Gin Crew. But they split up. Then I caught your act last night. And that idiot tried to get at you on stage and… well, that was the end of him. But it gave me an idea."

"To commit police harassment?" She swigged her beer.

"Something like that." He looked longingly at the beer. His throat was very dry. "I could make a real nuisance of myself. If I wanted."

"I wouldn’t argue with that."

"My colleagues and I could always make a visit to you backstage. What would you say the odds were against us finding something.

Claudia tapped the rim of the beer bottle against her lips. She seemed to decide. "What’s this song, then?"

"You really want to hear it?"

"Oh my," she said, with mock melodrama, "do I really have a choice?"

He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Something fell off the drawers behind him and knocked over a double angle spot lamp.

"That’s criminal damage," she said.

"It’s arranged for piano," he said, pulling a sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket. "Do you play piano?"

She shoved a heap of clothing off what Burton had presumed to be a desk, and revealed a Roland keyboard. "A little. I’ve got Grade Eight. What’s it called?"

"Love Patrol."

"Oh, Jesus," she sighed, and took the papers from him. She studied them for a moment, then pulled up a practice amplifier as a piano stool. "Perhaps we could do it in an ironic post-modern sense. Go and put the kettle on."

Burton navigated his way to the kitchen. As he got to the door, she threw the Cling-film package to him. "Make us both a cup."

He was gone a few minutes, time spent partly hunting for two mugs, and washing them. She played snatches of the chords he had written, and la-la-ed fragments of melody. He came back in and sat beside her, handing her a mug.

"Well," she said, taking a long swig from her mug, "the lyrics are crap but no-one ever hears them. And we’ve got to change the title. But it’s got a good hook." She took another drink. "A very good hook. I just might be able to do something with it."

He took a long drink from his mug and pulled a face. "This," he said, "is the strangest Oxo I’ve ever tasted."

"I didn’t say it was pure Oxo. Great, isn’t it?"

The End