Lambeth I

Michael Elmstead is pretty pissed when he finally leaves the office party. He had tried to pull Samantha all night and failed miserably, which did not help stem his alcohol consumption one bit. In fact, it just became a bit of a vicious circle: have a drink to loosen up, hit on Samantha, get rejected, drink some more, try again, rejected, drink, hit, rejected…literally ad nauseum, until that little homing signal goes off in his head and tells him to stop embarrassing himself as it is now time to go home. He had probably started drinking a little too early and a little too vigorously to make it to the end of the party in any kind of fit state. But he had a good day; closing a few good sales on which he would earn a hefty commission, and was ready to celebrate. He thought, rather mistakenly as it turned out, that Samantha was sending him ‘all the right signals’ as she helped close the deals, but she was just excited to be doing well in her new job and to get some of the commission.

Michael was happy with his career development and his overall stake in life despite failing to get Samantha to come home with him. He had worked hard to rise up in Harris Frank and Company, an estate agency with a large number of offices dotted throughout London. He worked in the Southbank and Waterloo office on Stamford Street, which was near one of the campuses of King’s College. It was a good area to work, centrally located and populated by a nice collection of upwardly mobile people and young students. He had worked there for several years now and knew the property market well. The company dealt in the higher-end rental and sales market, and Michael specialised in luxury flats overlooking the Thames. He had the gift of the gab and his boss always joked, ‘Michael, you could sell the German language to the Germans if you had to.’ He could close a deal without appearing pushy, and in the absence of a home life to brag about since his divorce of three years ago, he ploughed into his work with noticeable aplomb and vigour.

Once hearing the internal homing signal, he gets his stuff together as best he can, says some clumsy ‘goodbyes’ to his colleagues and then stumbles in semi-controlled fashion out the door and down the street to catch the Tube home. It is late May, reasonably warm, so he only has a light overcoat on over his suit in case of rain, which seems to always come when he least expects it. He gets to the end of Stamford Street and has to use a labyrinth of underground walkways to navigate his way around the Imax Theatre, which never seems to show any real films, just panoramic ones about space, airplanes, cars or anything else that makes him want to puke given that the screen is nearly three stories high. Waterloo Station is on the other side of the Imax, and it is from there that he grabs the Northern Line home to his flat in Camden. He doesn’t mind the commute across London as it is fairly easy compared to some people, like Samantha, who has to catch a bus, a tube and then walk a fair way to the office.

He doesn’t notice the man behind him as he starts walking down Charlie Chaplin Walk, a name which always struck him as a little bizarre, especially for some poxy underpass surrounded by 1960s architecture made of very ugly poured concrete. ‘The bloody Imax is probably a listed site’, he mumbles to himself as he just hears the skid of a leather shoe on the pavement behind him. The clutch of a very powerful hand around his windpipe catches him completely off guard, which when combined with his drunken state, throws him off balance and makes him instantly disoriented. He clutches at his assailant’s hand on his neck to try to break free, but he is amazed at the strength of the chokehold, especially since it is a one-handed grab. As he continues to struggle, a sharp pain develops just under his bottom left rib. The pain becomes excruciating as it grips his chest. He thinks he is having a heart attack, but realises much too late that a large and very sharp blade has been shoved into him. The choke hold around his neck is released, he gasps for air, and blood starts to foam up out of his mouth and run down his chin and neck. He starts to choke on his own blood, and as he manages to look down, he sees only a large, tapered blade being slid out from under his ribcage. In the few seconds he has left, he sees that the blade is drenched in blood and is being wiped clean.

He collapses to the ground; his head hitting the pavement with tremendous force as a large quantity of blood splashes out of his mouth and back down to cover his face, partially blinding his view. As the blood continues to gurgle forth out of his mouth, he vomits violently and asphyxiates himself on a mixture of gin and tonic, lager, sausage rolls, samosas, onion bhadjis, tortilla chips and Mexican salsa. He never manages to see who it is as the blood stops pulsing its way out through the small incision just above his diaphragm.

Romance

Romance

Clouds of sugar spun to sticky sweetness
Melting to nothing on the tongue.

Motion frozen, conversation held
And dangling in mid-air.

Tunes fading in the light of morning.
Smudged mascara, lipstick blurred,
Eyes red with weariness.

Clutching hands and fumbling kisses,
Lip to lip, and tongue to tongue.
Bodies straining to be one.

'Chanel No. 5' or Patou's 'Joy
Lingering on a dress.
The smell of sweat
Drying to acrid aftermath.

This is romance.

The March of Romance across My Landscape - by Izzy Garland

The assignment is to write about “Romance”. Time magazine says that romance is dead. The last romantic movie to really make it big was “Titanic” – everything else, since then, has sunken ignominiously. We are, after all, now living in a “war culture”.

When I was twenty years old, so long ago that I have to dust cobwebs off in my brain to remember, I was a silly young girl who adored romance novels; ate them up like they were chocolates. In fact I very often ate them with chocolates! I started innocently enough with Regency Romances, which I aspired to write…

‘Oh, la, Sir! How you do flatter a girl!’ Andromeda batted her long eyelashes coquettishly at Lord Marchfeather.

For his part, Sebastian Marchfeather was utterly bored with girls like Miss Winston-Stanley-Knife-Jones. These young minxes would knock on the door of his large estate, in Kent, at all hours of the night claiming that their carriages had broken down. He would have thought their footmen would have been mortified at the effrontery, but they all seemed to be as shameless as their mistresses.

And then there were the young ladies who contrived to faint at his feet at the tedious balls thrown by their not so terribly cunning mothers. They were “over come by the heat”. Or had seen a dead rodent or a corpse on the path…

There. You see? It’s no good. I do actually think that Regency Romances can be good fun and an excellent medium for humour, but derision has kicked in. Oh Georgette Heyer, where are you when I need you?

I married at twenty-three, and as a young matron felt I could move up a level on the romance scale. I finally knew what it was all about and was free to read and write anything I wanted.

She was out of breath and the dogs were nearly upon her. The flinty walls of Drumhell Castle hardly cut through the pain of her ragged gasping as she collapsed against them in fear. Her auburn hair had come lose from its pins and hung long and twisting down her back. Lord Olliphant would set his huge mastiff, Satan, to grab her by her curls should he catch up with her.

But just as the pack closed in upon her, sturdy arms reached out from the shadows and drew her through a hither-to unseen doorway. Sebastian Marchfeather pulled her into his strong embrace, his black cloak enveloping them both, rendering them invisible to prying eyes.

‘Sebastian…’

‘Hush my Darling; you are safe now; from Olliphant and his dogs, at any rate.’

Her chest heaved a sigh of relief and yet her heart beat harder as the tips of her breasts brushed against Sebastian’s muscular upper body. And then she was crushed to him, his mouth slanting over hers time and time again. A throbbing began in her loins and was matched by the rod of his manhood straining against his leather trousers, wanting to be free.

If only the severed head had not fallen from the shelf as they lunged about the room. As it glanced off her shoulder she tripped over an unattached arm and two disembodied legs…

Oh how can you write a “Bodice Ripper” if you start laughing at the absurdity of it all?

“Nothing in our cultures, not even home computers, is more overrated than the epidermal felicity of two featherless bipeds in desperate congress.” says Quentin Crisp.

In my thirties I had my own passions a plenty and no need for books or stories to keep me going. And when I stopped reading them, the Regency Romances limped off to the corner to sulk and Bodice Rippers became the laughing-stock of lonely people with nothing but electricity to satisfy them.

So I just lived my life. I divorced, re-married and time moved on. My very own baby grew up to be a young married woman who dotes upon lurid “Cowboy Romances”, of all things! But then these young things think nothing of wearing low slung trousers that show acres of flesh and the stringy bits of the thongs they call underwear. Times change and I am now a “Wrinkly”. (To be followed by being a “Wobbly”, I'm told.)

I’m aware that I’m not yet dead, however. Occasionally some man will develop an attachment to me and find pretexts to chat me up whilst staring at my bosoms. It amuses me to observe that they are completely oblivious to the fact that I can see that their words are being addressed to the two items that live below my neckline and can not answer. Silly men, I am far too old and too tired for your slap and tickle. I think I’ll just settle for slap and send you on your way. Crime and humour have won the battle for my affections. I’m yours with a curled lip and a sneer, Sirrah.

I look up and see that my husband has put some wild daisies in a white jug on the mantle to my left. He smiles at me and winks. When my tired feet ache at night he rubs them. If my food hasn’t digested properly he makes me a soothing tea, no matter what the time. That, my friend, is romance.


©Izzy Garland - 1st October 2007

A Romance

by Milverton Hyde

Rain dripped off splintered wood, steam drifted along the cutting, and the men’s boots crunched on the soot-covered gravel.

“When did this happen, George?”

“Don’t know mate, but according to the Gov’nor must have been before seven this evening.”

“How’d he know that?”

“Coz it didn’t arrive mate, that’s how.”

“Oh I see, what time should it have got in then?”

“It’s the 7:35 evening one, or it was.”

Shouts rose from further up in the darkness.

“Got another here, bring some planks, strong ones, and be careful where you tread, you don’t want to squash nobody underfoot!”

Men, and even a few local women, trod over the twisted mess towards the voices, lights bobbing along as their step brought them closer to the area; torches, lanterns, and even candles in jars had been utilised to try to bring a gleam of hope to this jumble of chaos, broken glass, wood, steel and human remains.

“George?”

“What now?”

“I didn’t think as they was using this bit anymore.”

“They wasn’t, they’ve not done for years, just the odd truck in case the troops ever needed to be here again.”

“So what’s it doing here now?”

“Looking up the price of peas I expect! How should I bloody well know!”

The man at the head of the beams of light stood and wiped the soot from his forehead. He shook his head. “Another dead ’un, great bit of metal through the ribs, wouldn’t have stood a chance, best pull her free and get what’s left down to the lane.”

“What about the other services?” the small man asked his mate George.

“They will have to be stopped, or diverted, I expect.”

***

Constance McGregor stroked the oblong cardboard box. It was tied with string and was tissue filled; a pure extravagance lay within, white and crisp, a soft falling of snow like pearls dancing over the tulle and a fine muslin under-dress. She was going to look like a girl from the films as she walked down the aisle of Saint Barnabas. Her mother would frown, but when she saw it on she would melt, all the silent stars were wearing this style now.

The train slowed down and Constance could smell the heat of the brakes. The carriage lights dimmed and then all was still. A door opened, and a woman stepped up into the corridor from the platform.

“She looks a bit of a mess, needs to go to town and have that hair done I think. We don’t usually stop here, though!”

Constance’s thoughts took on to the darkness of the station and how lovely it would be to live in the centre of a modern and thriving town, but her trail of dreams was broken as the door to her compartment slid open, and the woman announced to the three occupants,

“I am so sorry to bother you, but there has been a problem on this line and it seems that everyone has to get off this train and wait for another one. If you would be so kind as to follow me I will take you to the waiting room. It is just along the platform, and I know that there will be a fire and possibly a hot cup of tea too if we are in luck; always a shock how cold it can become at this time, especially when you have to break a journey so suddenly.”

“Thank you.” Constance followed the messenger along the carpeted passage and down the steps on to the platform. She noticed that the woman with the unkempt hair was wearing a strikingly good set of country tweeds. Must have money! she thought.

“In there, through those doors, soon have you all sorted, this mist will always be bound to make one shiver at first, in you go. Well done, must just see if my helpers have got the rest of you who are coming. In you all go that’s right, soon have you sorted and yes! There is tea.”

It had got cold, a wet summer so an early winter. Constance rebalanced her parcel as she entered the waiting room. She turned to the man beside her as he said, “This could give some of the other train companies a run for their money, seldom do we see a good fire in the waiting room at Haybarn and I must say never is there any form of refreshment room there, not now anyway; was in the 1890’s of course, everything was like this then, knew where you stood.”

“I didn’t see the name of this station as we came through, it was so dark outside, they must still have the windows blacked.” Constance looked above the fireplace at the embossed mirror; the name of their temporary stop was etched into it with the livery of the train company. “Oh, ‘Narrow House’. Trains never stop here I thought, or not often anyway, fancy having such a lovely building and hardly anyone to use it.”

The tweed clad woman entered the waiting room, and several people followed in her wake. Somehow she seemed to be in charge. Constance wondered how and why this woman had taken control; maybe she was the lady of the local manor and these things came naturally to her; probably had the entire village knitting socks for the troops in France. This would be something to tell Freddy about. She would write to him as soon as she got home.

“Please do help yourselves to tea. A train will be ready for you all very soon, but until then do try to get warm and dry.”

“Heavens I am wet, I had not noticed!” exclaimed Constance to her standing companion. “It must have been that mist on the platform. I hope my parcel is unscathed, it is my wedding dress. All being well, my fiancé Freddy will be back from the front next week and we will be married at Saint Barnabas.”

“Did I hear of a wedding? Oh my dear how delightful, is he a local boy?” The tweed woman had paused and overheard. “Anyone we may know?”

“Frederick Morris-Baker, his family live in Willow Bridge. We met on this line before he was called up last Christmas. The trains were late because of the snow and we just got talking and before we knew where we were we were walking out together, all quite romantic really.”

“Morris-Baker? Probably knew the grandparents, seems a familiar name to me, lovely, I do so love a romantic story. But get some tea before it runs cold! Mabel, pour this girl a cup, go on dear, go and get it!”

Constance took the offered cup from the woman behind the counter; this woman in charge must have rallied the entire neighbourhood to help.

***

“Get me some lights down this end, I think we might have another person here, might be another living one, too many bleeding stiffs so far.”

“That’s good George, very funny, bleeding stiffs!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny, mate!”

“I think they are sending another train up the other track through one of the sidings, get the survivors to the town and the injured to the hospital.”

“Good, this will take a week to clear; bloody war will be over before this one’s opens again.”

“Wot dun it George, do you reckon?”

“Bloody great bomb I shouldn’t wonder.”

“They is serving cups of tea at the old station.”

“Get us a cup then, mate!”

***

The tweed lady, as she was now called in Constance’s mind, was talking to the young woman behind the tea and refreshment counter. “So good of you to do all this at such short notice. I am really very proud of you for coming, after all you not being so readily found like most of the others. But we have put up a good welcome I think, not often we get to greet a crowd, you must find this too, just the few people passing through, ones and the odd couples, possibly a little family, but to have a train full already, I think, Mabel, we have done well!”

Mabel Larch looked to her baby in the small cot beneath the trestle.” Just like old times, really.”

The tweed lady clapped her hands together. ”Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. A special train has been laid on for the final part of your journey, please remember to take any belongings with you that have survived so far, as I fear that if you leave them here we may not be able to retrieve them at a later date. The train is already quite full as we have had to make collections at previous venues before here.”

People began to move towards the side door of the waiting room which led out to a lesser platform.

“Ah, young lady!” It was the tweed woman. “I have found a friend of yours, knew that name was familiar, and did I not say I like romantic stories?”

“Freddy? What are you doing here, I thought you were in France! I was just going to write you a letter about all this and you are here! How?”

Freddy smiled from one dimpled cheek to the other. “We got put on a troop train, but the line was blocked and somehow we got on to a replacement and ended up on this line.”

“But from where, Freddy?”

“Well, France of course!”

“Please board the train on platform two, Ladies and Gentlemen, now hurry along, thank you.” The tweed lady gave Constance and Freddy a polite push. “Show him the dress, dear.”

“Oh I couldn’t, it would be unlucky!”

“Go on with you, times have changed, show him!”

“Oh, Freddy, it is a wedding dress, for us, well me to wear for us, you shouldn’t see it really, not really, but I suppose we are in modern times now.”

Constance opened the box at one end.

“Oh, Freddy, I have got the wrong one! How could that have happened? This is not the one I saw in the shop.” Little red flowers decorated the folds of each hem and small red poppies had replaced the pearls. “Oh Freddy, what can have happened?”

“It looks just fine to me Connie, very pretty.”

***

“Bert, there is a box down here by this one, shine the torch and keep it bloody well still, another for the undertaker.”

“That’s sad, George, looks like a wedding dress! Covered in her blood though look.”

“Bert, I hate this war, I do really.”

“No one loves it, George.”

“Those bloody politicians do, Bert, they bloody do.”

***

The train pulled away from the station. The tweed-clad woman and her helpers stood and watched it vanish.

“How long will it take them to realise they are on their final journey?” Mabel looked across at the now empty waiting room, the empty grate and the dusty cups.
“When did you know you had died, Mabel?”

“I think it took a day or two to sink in.”

“I suppose when they realise that the train hasn’t stopped at the next station.”

“So is it back to our graves now?”

“Until another welcoming committee is needed, yes, ladies. Oh, and thank you all.”

*********************************

Doing it Cold: Prologue

PROLOGUE

July 2007

Bow, East London


‘I am sensing the letter R coming through.’

No one says anything.

‘Rita? Rowena? Robert? Randy?’

‘Yes!’ a voice shouts from the middle of the left side of the room.

‘Well, which is it?’

‘Ronald. My dead uncle’s name is Ronald!’

‘Yes, exactly! Ronald is speaking to me now. He has passed over and his passing was without pain, no?’

‘He died in his sleep.’

‘Indeed, he died in his sleep at home.’

‘No, he was on holiday.’

‘Yes, at a holiday home somewhere near the sea.’

‘Well it is somewhat back from the sea, but yes, it is in a seaside town near Alicante in Spain.’

‘Right, and you had spent some time there with him in the past?’

‘No, but my mother used to go with him there on holiday.’

‘Of course, but you no doubt have photographs of their time together, and his passing weighs heavily on you since you never really went to see him there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, some days it weighs on you and some days it doesn’t.’

‘Yes….uh…yes, I suppose that is correct.’

There is a smattering of applause from the audience.

‘And you were reasonably close to your Uncle Ronald?’

‘I was when I was growing up, but we lost touch as I grew older.’

‘Indeed, and it is this distance that developed between you that now weighs on you, at times, now that he has passed.’

‘Yes.’

‘He is at peace, and he too wishes that you had spent more time together, but he harbours no regrets or resentments and he has the fondest of memories of you two together, and enjoyed his last days in the holiday home in south east Spain, breathing in the fresh salt air and enjoying the late summer sun…’

‘He died last April.’

‘Sorry, yes of course, the early summer sun, since summer in Spain begins slightly early compared to England. But nevertheless he is now at peace.’

‘Thank you!’

More applause, but this time it is slightly stronger. He scans the audience and receives a sympathetic look from a woman in her late 40s three quarters of the way back on the right side of the room, in which more than eighty people have turned up for tonight’s performance.

‘And you madam? You are no doubt here this evening to learn of any news from the other side?’

‘Yes, from my husband.’

‘Who died very suddenly and tragically?’

‘He was taken from me without warning, yes…’ she says with her voice trailing off.

‘He did not die in his sleep, but in some other way.’

‘Yes, he was hit by a car while changing a tire on the M25 a little over 18 months ago.’

‘I am sorry for your loss, and you have been seeking closure ever since, but as yet you have not felt entirely resolved to accept his passing.’

‘This is true.’

‘What is your name madam?’

‘Joyce.’

‘And your surname?’

‘Wilkins.’

‘Joyce Wilkins. But correct me if I am wrong, this is not your birth name, since you have kept your husband’s name?’

‘Yes, I have kept his name. My maiden name is Avery.’

‘Yes, I suspected as much. You see, with your birth name – Joyce Avery – I can calculate your representative number, which is the underlying harmonic force or vibration that guides you. Knowing this number may help you in finding whatever it is you think you need. Would it be alright if I did that for you?’

‘Yes, I suppose that would be alright.’

‘Thank you. I assign each number 1 through 8 to three letter groups from A to W and then 9 to Y and Z. So, using your name and assigning numbers to each letter, the number for your Christian name is 21 and the number for your surname is 27. If I add these two numbers together, we have 48 and if I add the 4 and the 8 together, we have 12, which when added together equals 3. You see, throughout this kind of numerological process, the idea is to reduce down the multiple numbers that represent your name into a single number between 1 and 9. This single number, linked to your birth name is your birth number, much like a birth stone or star sign. Your number is 3, which means that you are a scientific person and a seeker of knowledge, who is also powerful. Does that sound an accurate description?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Are you a seeker of knowledge?’

‘Well yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Are you not in search of knowledge about how to accept your loss?’

‘Yes, but I would not say that I am scientific, nor particularly powerful.’

‘Nonetheless, you are seeking information, and you feel that no rational explanation beyond mere probabilistic chance can account for your tragic loss, and thus you are seeking the truth through other means.’

‘Well…uh…I did come here this evening…’

‘That is correct madam.’

More applause this time that is even stronger.

‘Now, I would like to invite five members of the audience to join me up here for a small demonstration of mind reading.’

As the five volunteers are brought forward, no one notices the man in the back of the audience with a set look on his face stand up and leave the hall; nor could anyone have possible known what he was thinking:

I am going to savour this killing…

A Cold Reader Meets a Cold Killer

As a professional magician and mentalist, I have been working on an idea for a novel based on a character who is a 'cold reader', which is someone who replicates 'psychic power' using a combination of psychology, linguistics, and sleight of mind.

The main character gets drawn into a complex relationship with an urban serial killer, and ends up working with the police to help stop the killer from killing again. There are many parallels between techniques for cold reading and police interrogation, and I thought a nice sub-plot would be the relationship between the police detective and the cold reader (fractious at first and then improves with time, etc).

There are many opportunities for subthemes about the paranormal, the degree to which the public embrace psychic practitioners and alternative belief systems, and I would like to develop the innner thoughts of the serial killer along occult and esoteric lines.

I have been using the snowflake technique to develop the novel and I am open to many ideas and suggestions. The 'magician as hero' has been done, and 'Tarot killers' are common, but I am confident there is a niche market for my idea.

I am new to this group and my own blog is here: drtoddlandman.blogspot.com

I hope this proves to be a fruitful set of exchanges.

The Lady Loves ...

a ripping yarn by Scarlett Madison.

The band struck up another waltz, and he moved in fast while he had the chance, pushing all in his way to one side. Georgiana, his Georgiana, bejewelled and beautiful, glittered like an exotic treasure by the light of the chandelier. He thought his heart would burst with love for her, and he determined there and then that she was his, and no rival would have her!

He took hold of her elegant, silken gloved hand, and lifted it to his lips, brushing his perfectly-groomed moustache across her fingers. “Lady Pilkington-Derwent,” he growled, a thin veneer of formality struggling to mask his seething passion. “Dance with me!”

George half-smiled. “Lord Winchester.” She turned to her companion. “Crown Prince, do excuse me. I fear that Winchester here will wait no longer. Thank you for your kind invitation to the palace on my return. May we continue our conversation then?”

“Of course, dear Lady.” The Crown Prince bowed, and moved aside, displaying all the gracious manners that her prospective dance partner had forgotten. Silently, George let herself be escorted to the ballroom floor.

As the music drifted, Winchester pulled her close. “Damn it, woman, I must have you! Marry me! I cannot eat, sleep or concentrate at cards, for the memory of our night of passion!”

George winced as he trod squarely on her left foot. “Nor, it seems, can you dance. Winchester, get a grip on yourself. It is not going to happen. I sail at eight for the Middle East.”

He pushed her away, holding her at arms’ length, staring wildly at her. “No! I forbid it! You are mine, all mine!”

“Winchester, we have no future together,” George replied. “Last night was a mere bagatelle, a trifle. We both enjoyed ourselves, so don’t spoil it with your demands. A man like you will never tame my wild spirit!”

“But my darling Georgiana, I am afire! I can never have another!” wailed Lord Winchester.

“Then it looks like getting a grip on yourself really is the only option open to you,” snapped George. “Get up off your knees, man. People are staring at you.”

With that, she turned on her heel and swept away in a fury of perfumed velvet, leaving him sprawled on the dance floor. As she passed a handsome footman, she whispered that Lord Winchester had been taken unwell, and watched the servant’s retreating figure as he hurried over to help the floundering fool. “Mmmmmm ... and if you perform your duties well, young man, there could be a hefty reward in it,” she murmured after him.

Lord Barclay was at her side in an instant. “May I be of service?”

She linked her arm through his. “Yes, I rather think you may. Let’s dance.”

Barclay was as cool and collected as Winchester was hot and intemperate, and George rather liked him. What a refreshing change it was to dance with a sprightly young man who didn’t keep pawing at her. They danced until the band tired, and then sat on the terrace throughout the long night with bottle and glass, exchanging stories of old Hindustan, and the quest for the Ratzenwilder Emerald. As the dark of the night sky lightened to pink and gold, George reluctantly tore herself away from her most enticing companion. She even went so far as to wonder if she had finally met someone she could fall deliriously in love with, and forget the besotted old Winchesters of this world. Although she would never admit it, she wasn’t getting any younger, and maybe it was time to settle down. She hardly dared to hope that he might feel the same. With a coquettish glance over her shoulder, she blew Barclay a kiss that she hoped would be a promise of times to come, and took her leave.

Lord Barclay sat back in his chair, and drained the last of his fine single malt. His butler moved forward from the shadows to clear the table. “At last, Wilson,” said Barclay. “I thought the old bat would never go. She’s as rich as Croesus, but twice as boring.” He stretched back in his chair, and growled appreciatively as the handsome young footman nipped past them across the terrace and back into the main banqueting hall. “Now that, Wilson, is a little more like it.”

© Scarlett Madison, 2007.

(well, you asked for romance ... )

What I did in the holidays...

Milverton Hyde.



Things will have to change, nothing can stay as it is for ever. People will tell you that nothing has changed at a particular place, but of course it has; the leaves on the trees have regrown, the tide has turned, and there will be a new cloud formation in the sky. All that is change. However I needed a huge earth shattering occurrence to happen, for life just could not continue in the vein it was travelling any longer.

It was the start of the summer holidays, June 1913, eight whole weeks away from school, but also eight weeks stuck in a stuffy house with worst of all my family. Now some of them are actually quite nice, good fun almost, but the rest of them are grim. If I was to survive this summer, some of them would and could not, some of them would have to go.

The first week of the holidays was actually almost bearable as there was the usual amount of things to do, unpack the school trunk, explore the house and garden for any thing different. The old gardener had been replaced by a new and younger version I noticed.
Friends had to be contacted so that visits could be arranged, and then I had to make a list of the people in the family household who would have to be dealt with.

I made a list in order of people who caused the most annoyance, with a counter list of those who were just so dull that they were an insult to even have to look at.

First on the list was Father. He spent most of his time abroad, evidently he bought and sold tea. Well that was not a hardship, anyone could go and buy a packet of tea at any of the grocers in the town. When he was away his return was always used as a threat, ”Just wait until your father returns”. When he did return I was always being told “You will be sorry you said that when your father has gone away again” A truly no-win situation, so he would have to be removed.

Second on the list was little cousin Edwin. His father had been eaten by a tiger somewhere in India, and his mother had been so shocked she ran away with the husband of her best friend leaving the infant Edwin to the fates of his nanny who, on realising she was no longer going to get any wages, dumped the child at a railway station and went to be a devoted nanny to another family. Edwin, who by now had become some sort of parcel in human form, eventually arrived at our house for his nearest family (us) to care and love him. He has done nothing but cry since he came here, sad you might say, yes, but that was six years ago! He really will have to go.

Third on the list is great Auntie Wallace. She lost her boy friend in the War of 1860-something. I have not found out how he died and the family never mentions him, but the aunt sneaks around the house, often at night sniffing and going about duties she need not attend to; which is how she listens at doors. She is a sneak of the first order. I suspect her boyfriend stood up infront of the bullet or bayonet so that he would not have to get married to such a sneak.

Next on the list is Auntie Vera. She is always ill, always sending out for a potion and always wanting quiet in case her head comes on again. I did not notice it had ever come off, but a quiet house is no fun, and as she is always so ill she will not mind the odd bit of relief by the arrival of death.

Then we have the Dull Variety, and first on this list is another cousin, a distant cousin. Her parents did nothing so wild as to be eaten by tigers or run away with other peoples husbands, they just slipped off the planet with some sort fever, so Ann, their very drippy daughter drapes herself about the house in biscuit colour knit wear and flat mat-coloured hair, flattened to her head in a damp sort of arrangement. In fact damp sums her up, she can not even run to being wet, she is just damp. Well I heard my father saying to a builder that “The damp must be gone by the winter” and so it shall be dear Papa.

A close second on this list has to be my sisters boyfriend Reggie. Can you imagine a set of parents choosing to call a baby Reginald? He is all bluster and false charm with a hideous smile that would set custard. His father has bought him one of those new motor vehicles which he, Reggie, thinks is very impressive. Mother says it will be his undoing, and so it will.

Last on this list (but I can not promise I will not be adding anyone else) is the lady from the mission. The family do not like her and make faces and imitate her voice when she has gone, yet they still invite her and her silly little husband to tea. She says that God knows all I am thinking (well that is a lie for a start, as sometimes I do not know my self!) and that I will be destined for hell if I do not let him, God, into my heart. Well Mrs Simms we will soon see what is in your heart. Actually I am going to add another person to this dull list right now... Mr Simms; shame to leave him out of the game.

However, how was I going to get rid of these people and not get caught doing so? Well I had given it a lot of thought and had to have a small practice run. You will notice I said we had a new gardener, do not worry he is quite safe, it was the old one I killed.

Poor man, I know he liked little boys. How did I know? Well I haven’t always been twelve... I was little once, you know. So I led him in to the old Brewery sheds behind our house with the promise of something I had learnt at school, but that he would have to stand on an upturned bucket as I could not kneel down in my new long trousers. He did not notice the rope dangle from above and I quickly slipped it over his head and kicked the bucket away. I think he enjoyed it, until he realised it was not a new game, but a final one.

Of course I can not hang all my victims, that would be just too obvious! Even the local police may suspect foul play or even smell a rat, although they did not smell the gardener until just before last half term. So lucky that I was away at school and missed all the terrible fuss of the suicide...

Week two of my holiday started very well, for a given chance to begin the removal process was handed to me in the news that Mr and Mrs Simms would be coming to tea on Wednesday, after their meeting at the mission in the near by town was completed. I think they were deciding how best to be even more patronising to the poor this Christmas than they were last year.

In order to get to our house from the town they would have to travel along the Coven road, which has to pass the old cemetery and has many a sharp bend. But the good news was that they were running in a new mare who was at best “A bit jumpy”. All I had to do was go out on my bicycle and wait in the bushes for them to pass. I was naturally going to be in disguise.

Before this plan was carried out I had another stroke of luck! The rat man was demonstrating a new form of killer, not a poison, as such, but a gas. All you had to do was light the wick with a taper and make sure that no living stock or people went near the barn, or shed, or corn store for a couple of hours. Then all that was necessary was to collect up the dead gassed rats in a bag and throw them away. The killer came in little circular packages of about one and a half inch diameter, just like the round wicks in oil lamps. I pulled my cap down over my eyes and bought two from the rat man, he would never remember the scruffy lad amongst all the folk by the market. I had plans for this gas.

Wednesday arrived and I was really excited. I watched the drawing room being made ready to receive guests and was aware that the dinning room was being polished for the taking of afternoon tea. After lunch I took my bicycle and rode off with a bag of sandwiches, as I had decided that the adults would not want me to make an appearance at tea today. Also I had been very noisy (on purpose) thus Aunt Vera had a ‘head coming on’, so I was in trouble anyway.

Once away from the house and on the Coven road I slipped the bicycle in to the hedge and slipped on an old choir gown I had found in the church when I had gone in to borrow (on a permanent basis) some of the collection from evensong. The Rector spends it on tobacco anyway, one of the boys in the choir sees him do it. I also pulled on a long knitted balaclava that I was given by another aunt who should be on the list for bad taste.

I waited for the clopping sound of the Simms in their carriage. As luck would have it, a game keeper's gun had just fired across the fields and a chorus of rooks flew upwards, making the new nervous mare spring about and weave across the road. All I then had to do was leap into the path of the oncoming carriage, or seem to do so, and make the poor mare rear a little, just enough to upend the carriage and the occupants.

It worked beautifully; the beast threw her legs into the air and charged sideways, the vehicle uncoupled it self from the shafts and left the ground pitching forwards as it did so, thus tossing the two rug wrapped passengers high into the air. Both came down upon the spikes of the cemetery gates. The noise was the same as when you tread on a snail in the wet weather at night by accident. Both people let out a cry, actually Mrs Simms gurgled for several minutes, but then they both fell silent and just drooped. Their chests open to the air, God could see into their hearts now.

Mercifully the mare was unharmed and is now in a field. Evidently she was never to have pulled such a heavy carriage as she was made to do, the Simms having bought her cheaply from an unscrupulous horse dealer.

That evening I was allowed to take several sandwiches and a cream cake up to bed with me as the tea time guests had not arrived, for some reason, which I was not going to be told about.

The thing with these new motor engines is that if you apply the break very hard you then have to replenish the brake fluid as it all comes out. I knew this because I took the hand book out of the trunk at the back of 'Dear Reggies' motor. It is the fluid that causes the compression and thus friction is made within the wheel. I put this knowledge to use later. But first I had to sort out the aunts.

Auntie Vera was a simple task. I was sent into the town to collect yet another bottle of "Doctor Wonder's Wonder Cure All" for illnesses that other doctors can not find, let alone cure. So very easy to put a bit of weed killer in the bottle on my way home. After the gardener met his swinging end I took the precaution of hiding a few of the weed killers, and other deadly fluids, away from the outhouses so I could put them to use; and a new employee would never have known they were in stock, thus they would never be missed.

Timing was needed for the next venture.

In the bedroom of Great Aunt Wallace I placed the circle of rat killing produce over the wick of the oil lamp. It was slightly wider than the wick, thus the oil of the lamp would light first. Wallace would go up to bed later than most of the family so I knew I would be able to dispose of her without too much fuss. I had also cut the wick of the other lamp in her room so that it burned with a very dim light, thus she would need to light the contaminated lamp herself a little later. As her room is at the top of the first floor landing and just around a corner, nobody else would pass her door. She is the end of the line,(or will be).

The following morning anyone up very early may have seen a wheel barrow being taken away across the garden. However the gardener does not labour on a Sunday, and breakfast is a more casual affair with things left out for whomever comes to eat, so no one missed her and by mid morning Aunt Wallace was to be seen sitting in the shade at a garden table, her bedroom windows being wide open to air the room. It was thought she must have had a bad nights sleep as she was fast to sleep now. Aunt Vera, having taken a vast dose of cure all after breakfast, (she may have found that the dose was rather a large one, as I had re-written the instructions on the label) tottered in a drowsy way toward the garden table and sat with Wallace in the shade. She had her nasty embroidery bag with her, so no doubt was going to pick the brains of Wallace on a stitch or two. Poor Wallace had lost some of her brains when I dropped her out of her bedroom window, hence the necessity to have her wearing her sun hat.

How was I going to get out of this one? Two poisoned ladies sitting in a garden is a bit much of a coincidence even for the local police force not to notice. This is where the motor manual came in so handy, for 'Dear Reggie' had just hurtled along the lane to our house and had to stop suddenly because somebody had left a wheelbarrow in the middle of the road. He swore as he pushed it away to the side of the road and got back in and sped away at top speed down hill toward the house. He applied the brakes, and just as I thought, he had never read his manual. He lurched the engine over the drive across the lawn shouting at the ladies to move, and splat! He got them both and he, himself, carried on into the damson tree that was acting so well as a sun shade for the two unfortunate aunts.

Reggie was expected for lunch, it being a Sunday. I took a large bit of roast beef and some gravy soaked bread down to the river with a bottle of Mrs Brand's ginger beer. Mrs Brand is the cook, she likes me. I think she is a bit peeved as not only did her sumptuous tea not get the full recognition on Wednesday, but her lovingly cooked Sunday roast seems to be second fiddle to the three act or death, tragedy in the garden. As I expect you have realised, Reggie died too. We probably will not be able to eat the damson fool that Mrs Brand made with the fallings, a bit of a shame that. Then there will be the funeral, well funerals, to attend, but Mrs Brand can be appeased by letting her go to town with the funeral teas. She could make little pastry boxes and put in tiny anchovies to resemble corpses in coffins, very in keeping with the theme.

So where are we on the list? Mr and Mrs Simms both impaled on the gates, Aunt Wallace and Auntie Vera both gone, and also the 'Dear Reggie', so who is left? Cousin Edwin, and distant cousin Ann, and Father.

I know it would be so easy to pour a bottle of poison in to a trifle and kill the lot, but that might implicate Mrs Brand and she is too nice to be hung for crimes she did not commit! Also, some other person might eat it by mistake and it would be horrid to kill someone whom I liked.

Edwin was easily dispensed with. One of his great loves in life was chocolate. All you ever had to do to get him to run an errand was to coax him with a bar of the stuff. There were lots of errands to run now! This was week three of the holidays and things had really picked up what with the parents having to go to the funeral of those dreadful Simms people. Then there were the funerals of the aunts to be arranged, and the silly funeral of that idiot Reggie with my sister weeping at the loss of him.

All I had to do was glue a bar of chocolate cream delights to the middle sleeper of the railway crossing and make sure the weeping Edwin would be due to cross the single track just moments before the train was due. His greed would do the rest.

He could not bear to see the chocolate go to waste, so stooped to pick up the treat. He stooped further when he found he could not get it in his fat little grasp, then knelt down to prise it off the wood. By the time the whistle blew, a warning to get off the track, it was too late. Not a very agile boy, he struggled to get to his feet. Thwak! Squashed and splattered over the driver and the tender. Such a mess. I should imagine that the foxes and other wild animals would be pulling bits of Edwin out of the hedges for days to come... a bit of variety in their diet can be no bad thing, and it may give the mice and the small birds a fighting chance of survival if the bigger creatures had a ready meal to eat without having to go hunting.

So we are down to the last two. Killing damp cousin Ann was great fun. I continued the damp theme, just to make her feel at home. Well she had to feel at home somewhere; afterall her parents had not provided one for her had they, selfishly dieing as they had!

Ann thought to cheer us all up by giving one of her utterly dreadful piano recitals. Very vain of her, I thought. She just wanted to be the centre of attention. She had even invited a few of the boring neighbours to attend this dirge. The drawing room was set up for the onslaught to our ears, the grand piano polished to shine (the only thing that would in this otherwise dull event), and on top of the piano was to be placed a vast array of garden flowers, the vase being set upon a long runner embroidered by the late poor squashed Aunt Vera. Next to the vase was the music reading lamp, one of the new wired lights we had downstairs.

Ann had the habit of resting one hand up on the top board of the piano when playing with the other hand, thus she would damply rest her limp fingers on the cloth, so lovingly created by that hypochondriac of an aunt. With just a few small fine drilled holes in the base of the vase and just the smallest piece of the fabric around the lamps cable being frayed thus the water gently left the vase and soaked into Aunt Vera’s runner. Water makes a great conductor of electricity, according to the "Boys Book of Hobbies". Thus was to be the end of sad damp Ann, for in front of an audience, with her waxen little face lit by the glow of the new electricity, she dramatically placed her hand upon the damp but electrified cloth and POP! All the lights went out and a strange smell of cooked chicken went about the room. Candles were lit to find a dead Ann slumped over ‘light music for the evening’. Such a sad accident.

Mrs Brand has been having a wonderful time, never in the life of our kitchen has there been so many funeral teas to make menu’s for, and the cakes! Simply wonderful!

Father was being very grumpy. It seems he has had to fork out a great deal of money to get this lot buried. I am surprised that our village policeman has not seen fit to ask why so many members of the family or their associates have met horrid deaths all in a matter of four weeks, however nothing of the sort has happened, silly man.

How to kill father was a bit of a puzzle, however I found a bit of inspiration from the local newspaper. A pump in a local village was being closed off because it was infected with typhoid or some other disease. I think the local sewer was running into the well that it was the head of. I cycled down to that village one dusky evening and found the well. It was not very securely guarded, just a bit of wire fence around it. So I crawled under the wire and filled a bottle with the fluid that poured from the pump, having made sure that I let the primer water soak away first , then I stored the water in a cool place at home and waited for the opportunity to use it.

Two days before father was due to sail to China he was complaining of the heat and of thirst, “Get me some of Mrs Brands Blackcurrant cordial” he shouted at me. You will notice he did not say please! The ideal time to use the cool water from the well. He drank, and then demanded another glass of it. Who am I to refuse?

He left for the docks two days later, he only had a slight sore throat but nothing that looked lethal, I was bitterly disappointed. However three days later we received a telegram to say Father taken very ill on ship and food poisoning was suspected. Two further days on mother was given another message to say that the ships doctors had done all they could, but father had died.

What fun this has all been! Now the house can really be fun to live in! I just wish the remaining members of the family would stop weeping.

One thing that is good, and I am really excited about this, Mother thinks that I should go away. She thinks I am being very brave, and she says she is so proud of me for not crying at our losses. So as a special treat she is sending me to her sisters house in America. I am not to go yet, because there are a lot of legal things to be sorted with father's money , but I have been booked to go first class, in the Spring, on the brand new unsinkable Titanic!... What a thing to look forward to. who says crime does not pay?

George Rides Again

(a snippet by Scarlett Madison)

The after-dinner speaker at last Friday’s British Museum gala dinner was Lady Georgiana Pilkington-Derwent, the renowned archaeologist and explorer. She has just returned from a hunt for the elusive Alimandera Diamond, deep in the Amazon jungle. Resplendent in scarlet velvet, a silk turban atop her elegantly-greying hair, Lady Derwent, or ‘George’, as she prefers to be called, was on top form, regaling the crowd with lurid tales of her recent skirmish with Peruvian bandits, and showing off the bullet scars. In addition, she still sports a jewelled eye patch, legacy of a narrow escape from Turkmenistani tribesmen last year whilst in search of the Lost Parasol of Ashkabad. Dr. Underwood, her nephew and faithful assistant, was on hand as ever to man the slide projector and bring on the exhibits, including a ten-foot crocodile killed and stuffed by the speaker herself. As a final flourish, Lady Derwent put her still shapely leg up on the lectern, whipped a gun from her thigh holster and brandished it at the startled crowd. Imagine their delight when a flame promptly shot out of the end as she pulled the trigger, enabling her to light one of her trademark cheroots! The rest of the evening progressed in similar style; after several bottles of fine malt whisky, and all-night dancing with Lords Barclay and Winchester, the admirable Lady left at dawn for the Valley of the Kings, in search of Rameses II’s legendary Golden Dentures.

© Scarlett Madison 2007

In the Garden" (Flash Fiction) by Izzy Garland

When Irene’s hoe struck something hard she thought it was just a rock and blamed Oliver for not clearing the new allotment better.

‘If you want a thing done right…’ and she bent forward to dig it up herself. Scraping back the earth revealed a human foot, attached to nothing in particular, which she promptly flung into the air with a scream. It landed in the row of cabbages and she knew she’d never eat a plate of them again.

The Vicar rushed out of the parsonage next door.‘I heard a cry!’

Pointing to the purple vegetables Irene gasped out what had happened. In response her new employer began to pace up and down the length of the field, scratching his head.

I’ve come to work for a mad man, she thought. Then he turned to her with a cherubic smile, ‘Mrs. Cotton I do believe you’ve found our missing cemetery!’

©Izzy Garland 2007