Tag: short story

“Late as always”

“And good afternoon to you too.”

The man in black sat. The man in white pointed to the menu. “I didn’t take the liberty of ordering yet,” he said.

“How kind.”

“Why here?”

“It’s a change from the norm. Too many of your lot up there, anyway. It’s good to come down to earth once in a while. Makes you feel human.”

“So what did you want?”

“Pleasure before business, please. I suppose I’m buying?”

“It is your turn.”

The man in black perused the menu options which covered both sides. “You see, this is the fundamental problem,” he said.

“What is?”

“Too much choice. It brings out the worst in mankind.”

“But if man has no ability to choose what would be the point?”

“I didn’t say no choice, I said too much choice. Choice is good but keep it simple.”

“It was that way in the beginning, or don’t you recall?”

“Vividly,” the man in black said with a smile. “And he chose poorly.”

“With your help.”

The man in black ignored the other’s remark. “But with that choice a new mix of colour came into being, one with many shades. Something your lot still has difficulty seeing.”

“Grey?”

“Precisely. Choice suddenly became a lot more difficult with the introduction of grey. The conscience has trouble negotiating it. Take, for example, the fine diners surrounding us.”

He nodded to the table at the window.

“Exhibit A: Martha and Kyle Jackson. Early thirties, five children, two of whom have a different father. Never worked a day in their lives. They sit at home with their feet raised, flicking through an endless cycle of channels. Both venture out only to collect their handouts and spend them foolishly.”

“It seems like a clear case of sloth to me. How does that relate to having too much choice?”

“But, my brother, therein lies their problem. With so many avenues to choose from, they have decided to take none. At the crossroads of life, they have sat by the verge, confused and fearful. Is that being idle or merely being cautious?”

“It is cowardice.”

“Cowards they may be but fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

The man in white considered this before speaking. “What about the others?”

“Exhibit B: The hot-rod executive, Reg Rollins. Works in the city making his fortune from those less fortunate. Clocks up eighty hours a week and the rest he spends in a club called ‘Spanky’. Reg has a coke habit to match any Hollywood celebrity and drinks malt whiskey for breakfast.”

“And I suppose you are going to defend his lifestyle choices?”

“Certainly not. He’s a greedy, selfish and utterly contemptuous beast.”

“Those are qualities you usually admire.”

“And I do but I won’t defend them.”

“So explain why Mr Rollins is a victim of too much choice.”

“Simple. Charity.”

“Charity?”

“Poor Reg looks at the world around him and sees the wretched souls in so much abject poverty. He watches the news as another earthquake strikes, a tsunami breaks, a contagious disease is unearthed. Within minutes a deluge of appeals flash on the screen. An insurmountable sea of voices begging, no, demanding that he dial the number or download the app to donate, donate, donate!”

“Surely he should share what he has with those in need?”

“And he wants to, he truly does. But where to begin? Which charity should he choose? The loudest? The saddest? The little child in poverty or the elderly woman with no food to eat? His heart is in turmoil. So much need. Too much need.”

“You honestly believe he should renege on his divinely appointed duty to care? The man has so much, cannot he spread his wealth?”

“And it would spread too thin. Whom then would it benefit?”

“Pick one then.”

“And that is my point. Why should someone prosper while millions flounder? Is it fair, is it right? And if he chose then afterward regretted it his conscience would be in a worse state than if he had given nothing.”

Just then a waitress approached. The name on her apron read ‘Dee’. “Good morning,” she said. “Are you ready to order?”

The man in black looked her up then down.

“Dee, my colleague and I were just debating the problem of choice. What to choose to drink, for example. Do you find in your life that there are just too many choices?”

“Mmm, you may be right. I have difficulty deciding what colour to paint my nails in the morning,” she said and laughed. The man in black took her hand in his.

“Dee, you have the most exquisite nails.”

“Th … thank you,” she stammered.

“What would influence you to choose this particular colour and brand?”

“God, I don’t know. I guess advertising on television. And magazines.”

“How many brands are there, Dee?”

“Hundreds, but I can only afford the cheaper ones.”

“And in those adverts, those beautiful celebrities, with their perfect skin and manicured hands, do they vie for your custom?”

“You mean do they make me want to buy their products? I guess they do.”

“So what you are telling me, Dee, is that you are constantly bombarded by those who are clamouring for your custom. At times, I wager, you feel overwhelmed by the onslaught on your purse leading you to one understandable conclusion – the desire to have it all. Why should you not have what others flaunt?”

“If I won the lottery then sure, I’d probably buy anything I wanted. I wouldn’t need to choose then, I could have it all.”

The man in white interrupted. “Envy, greed, lust, avarice – they are all part of man’s makeup. That these sins are proudly promoted is no surprise and does not give weight to your argument,” he said.

“But you have just admitted as much! Dee has shared with us how difficult it is to break free from the snare of consumerism. Its wide net has entrapped anyone with eyes to see or ears to listen. Their senses have become dulled to the errors you have just mentioned. They are now blind and deaf to their own moral plight and too much choice is to blame.”

Dee gave a tiny cough.

“I apologize,” the man in black said. “Dee, I would like a café con leche, but hold the milk.”

“Black coffee. And you, sir?”

“A latte, please.”

“One black coffee, one latte. Be a few minutes.”

“Thanks, Dee.” The man in black watched the waitress as she left a little too long.

“Lust. You cannot say that too much choice leads to lust,” the man in white said.

“Too much choice is at the very root of lust. For if a man had only one woman to choose from then his passions would not become aroused at the variety of flesh on display. Take our next exhibit: Harold Kimble.”

The café door opened and in walked a man of middle age. He wore a sports jacket, a gold chain drooped around his neck, and his few remaining hairs were gelled back against his scalp.

“Harold Kimble has hit the milestone of forty-five. At this age, a man’s mortality is seriously considered, possibly for the first time. He has done all that has been expected of him. He has found then won a woman. He has given her children, a home, financial security. But what does he get in return? A continuous nagging that only accentuates the growing uneasiness in his heart. At least half his life has vanished and what really has he achieved?

“His wife is repelled at the shell of the man her husband has become. She yearns to be courted once more, to be cherished and pursued. He no longer is interested in her, their marriage bed has cooled. Does she deserve this after bearing and raising his three sons?”

“Discontent and apathy are a natural part of life,” the man in white said. “They do not reflect that too much choice can lead to lust.”

“But they can both unite to ensure it occurs. Harold Kimble has opened his eyes for the first time in many years and has seen what he has been missing. He now realizes he does not need to be bored with his life or that the fear of loneliness should not hold him to ransom anymore. With a press of a button he can contact untold thousands of willing women, all of whom want what he wants – pleasure.

“It is unavoidable. Society has accepted the inevitable and permitted the advocacy of promiscuity as simply a need to be fulfilled. Demand is high and now so is supply. History records this as well you know for what is one of the oldest professions? That has grown exponentially so that the temptation to lust is only outstripped by the ease to satisfy it.”

Harold Kimble sat next to a woman he had only introduced himself to a minute before. They began to chat and flirt.

“Ah, the temptress herself,” the man in black said, “and my next exhibit. May I present to you Ms Carla Cervantos.”

The men watched as Carla and Harold shamelessly petted each other, both in word and touch. She let out a shrill shriek at his feeble joke.

“If the roles were reversed in the Garden Carla would have surely lured the serpent to do her bidding.”

“You jest,” the man in white said.

“Ms Cervantos is a Black Widow. She flits her eyelids at any male attention, puffing the man up with pride. But when she is done they are cast upon the burning rubbish heap to reap the hellfire they so richly deserve. It is an irony then that it is Ms Carla Cervantos’s ego that has slashed their pride to make them crumble before her. She towers above them gloating at the ruin they have become and marks another notch on her bedpost.”

“Once again I do not see how her pride relates to too much choice,” the man in white said. “She seems a solitary creature who is able to take her time to discern her victims and not be bombarded by an influx of suitors.”

“No doubt this woman has the power of patience, yet such is her self-desire that the array of hapless males tempts her only further. Her sense of ego must continually be fed, like the queen bee high amongst her drones who labour to make her honey. Never satisfied, she desires only that which pays homage to her beauty. With so much on offer that cycle will only stop at her decree.”

A few children passed by their table. They waddled to the counter where fresh pastries were displayed.

“I suppose there is no point commenting on the effects of choice as a catalyst for gluttony,” the man in white said. “That particular sin seems to thrive on selection.”

“Excess breeds excess. Man always wants what is within his reach. But for those young unfortunates what is to blame – the choice of food or their parents’ inability to teach self-restraint?”

“You have revealed a hole in your whole line of reasoning! You have consistently said that too much choice leads to a variety of sins but now you are even questioning that!”

“Such black and white thinking justifies my original statement regarding you and your people. Cannot sin have multiple sources? Many poor decisions can lead a man, woman or child to fall which does not negate my point but strengthens it. Even if a child can resist the pies, desserts, and candy what of the influence of their gluttonous parents? Combining the choices before them with a family lineage of choosing to wrong their bodies guarantees failure. That their parents advocate an unhealthy lifestyle daily only curses them further.”

“Then there is no hope for them?”

“Hope does not concern me.”

“And never did,” the man in white said.

They drank in silence. Customers came and went. The man in black sat down his mug and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“This has been an enjoyable morning,” he said. “I am afraid I must be leaving. Lot’s to be getting on with.”

The man in white raised a single finger which made the other man pause.

“Don’t take flight just yet. There is one last transgression to discuss.”

“There is?”

The man in white nodded. “Wrath.”

At the mention of this word, the man in black shifted in his seat.

“No ready argument? Then perhaps I should begin. Man’s wrath is based solely on his sense of justice. His conscience, unwittingly won when he fell, is a righteous trait. It provides discernment against wrong and right, in all their guises. The conscience plows through the many shades of grey dividing the light from the night. It is an instinct that evaluates reality and truth and rings with alarm when either becomes crooked, for the paths of truth are straight and narrow. There are many who attempt to twist and contort, trying to even say that white is black and black is white.

“The conscience will show the stain on both a man and his kind if they veer from reality. A truth is always a truth no matter how much he tries to perceive it differently. Any deviation is seen as an injustice and the conscience demands order be restored; it has no choice. Whether it be one alteration or one thousand a man’s conscience is pricked and always seeks restitution.”

“So what is wrath?” the man in black said.

“Righteous outrage gone too far.”

“But how far is too far?”

The man in white considered this then replied, “The true conscience will know.”

“With such uncertainty man’s conscience may become muddled at the many degrees of seeking justice, would it not?”

The man in white was stumped. He finished his drink, stood to his feet, and reached into his pocket. Some notes were placed on the table.

“That will cover us both and the tip,” he said. “I suppose you wish to meet again?”

“As ever.”

“Where will the rendezvous take place?”

The man in black looked up to the man in white with a smile. “I’ll let you choose.”

Lee Harding

The final four kept one eye on their chips and the other on the nimble fingers of the dealer as he dealt each of us two cards. The stacks were almost even.

To my left, crouching low over the lip of the table, Silent Joe focused on the same spot he had been staring at for nearly two hours. Unlike the others, he did not check his cards until the betting arrived at his doorstep. His drab, vacant expression revealed nothing. Even during the previous hand when he knocked out Billy Boy Boyd with triple Kings and was awarded two-hundred thousand he did not tweak an eyebrow or curl the corner of a lip. Joe was not a gambler. He waited to pounce like a Venus flytrap when the deck went his way but if it did not he folded. A simple game plan to be sure, some would say foolhardy, but Silent Joe was amongst the best.

The Joker flipped a chip over each of his knuckles, eager to begin. He sat directly opposite me and had tried his usual shtick to harass and harangue. Pretty Polly had become so disgusted at one of his filthy jokes that she saw his all-in just for the chance of ridding her of his presence. With his broad grin and a mouthful of narrow teeth, he flipped an Ace to beat her King and had laughed her all the way out of the room. It was all an act, of course, designed to jolt your nerves but it worked only on a certain type of player. Instead of letting the howls exasperate me I often butted in to ruin his punch lines. It was an effective backfire, denting his ego while simultaneously piercing his masquerade. He laughed it off but only after I’d taken several thousand chips from his stash. His Small Blind bet of twenty thousand swayed by his palms.

The third of our quartet was the Queen of the Heartbreakers, Suzie Lous. Doe-eyed, with long lashes and pink cheeks, Suzie gave the impression that she had just disembarked from a ship as a Poker virgin. The innocent charade baited many a sailor to his doom by the blonde siren as she scrubbed the deck of the unworthy. Her stack was slightly smaller than my own having lost a war with Silent Joe on the previous hand. I could sense retribution in the air. She had drawn the Big Blind bet – forty thousand was needed to bet against her.

And then there was me. Ace. Number One. I was the champion of champions, the king of the hill, and blessed with luck most lottery pundits would kill for. They called me the Final Bullet because I’d drawn a winning Bullet – an Ace – on the final upturned card more times in one game than there seemed Aces. For show, I routinely rested my wrists on the table to turn up my shirt cuffs proving I had no hidden cards there. What can I say? I’m blessed. Now I had a tournament to win.

“Bullet, the betting is on you. Forty thousand to call.”

I carefully folded the edge of my cards up a fraction: Ace of Clubs, 8 of Hearts. Two sets of eyes scrutinized my every facial muscle; Silent Joe’s neck did not budge. I moved my hand to my stack.

“Forty-thousand,” I said. I counted off the chips and pushed them out.

“Forty-thousand to call,” the dealer said pointing to the man on my left.

Silent Joe paused before glancing down at his cards. His dead stare revealed he had a pair of Aces; or a pair of Threes; or a Seven and a Two. I knew more about brain surgery than I did Joe’s hand. He threw his chips in to call and turned the play over to the Joker.

“I once met a girl who loved to gamble,” he began. “Being a bit of betting man myself I asked her what her biggest loss was. ‘Forty G,’ she replied. I said, ‘That’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.’ She shook her head. ‘Not when your cup size is that big and they’ve taken your blouse already!’.”

He roared at his own joke as Suzie chuckled into her hand. The Joker called the bet and Suzie Lous bit her lip. She lifted a fistful of chips and I sensed a raise. It was a feint, a clever ploy to ensnare the undisciplined into revealing the strength of their hand. Joe, Joker and I were far from foolhardy to be caught in her trap. Instead, she checked to finish the round.

The dealer put the top card from the deck onto the table to burn it then placed the next three face-up. The reveal of the first three cards called the Flop showed the Ace of Spades, Ten of Clubs and Nine of Spades. With my Ace of Clubs buried under my palm, I had a Pair. From the corner of my eye, Suzie Lous wiggled her finger around her hair. It was a tell that I had played on in the past until she realized her mistake and had dropped it. The deliberate sign made me nervous. Had she two Tens in her custody already? With two Spades showing she might be aiming for the Flush – having five cards with the same Suit – which gave her nothing at present. The Joker’s smile had dimmed. The Flop had not been generous. Silent Joe did not quiver an inch.

It fell to the Joker to check or bet. He chose to check, passing the betting on to Suzie Lous. The Queen of Heartbreakers wet her lips and tapped the table twice. Perhaps she had nothing after all. Texas Hold-Em is the most psychologically dextrous form of Poker in my opinion. A player could be sitting on a monster of a hand and still decide not to bet. Then on the final River card BAM! See you, wouldn’t want to be you. I’ve had the pleasure of doing just that to the grinning idiot sitting opposite and it couldn’t happen to a nicer person.

 The play was now with me. I decided to get things moving. “Bet forty thousand,” I said.

It was a clear sign that I had an Ace or better and would hopefully weed out the chaff. Joe seemed to ponder the bet. With a Nine and Ten on the board, there was a possible High Straight where five of the cards would run in sequence. In characteristic fashion, he called without moving his lips. It was on to the Joker.

“I’ll be honest, I’m holding a Pair of Tens,” he said with a grin. “So I will see your forty and raise you double.”

The bet was one-hundred and twenty thousand. The Joker’s eyes danced to each player as if daring us to fold. The Queen of Heartbreakers fluttered her golden lashes at him.

“Honey, that’s no match for my hand,” she said and called the bet.

The play had returned to me. To continue I would have to pay an extra eighty thousand. That Suzie had called the Joker’s bet with such ease gave me cause for concern but with an Ace in my pocket and a prayer in my soul, I pushed in my chips to call. Silent Joe followed.

The dealer burnt the next card called the Turn and I saw my prayer being answered. An Eight of Spades descended from the heavens to garner me with two Pair: Aces and Eights. I am not a superstitious person and was thrilled with the arrival of the Dead Man’s Hand. Wild Bill Hickok met his end with exactly this hand in the Wild West when he was shot in the back, but hey, I’m the Final Bullet, not the Blindsided Bullet. The Turn made little impact on Silent Joe’s temperament but the Joker was bouncing.

“I’ve got three Eights!”

“Honey, a minute ago you had three Tens,” Suzie said.

“You must have misheard me,” the Joker replied. “Nobody hates Trip Eights.”

Suzie Lous shook her head then returned to twiddling with her hair.

I had a tough decision to make. With three Spades on the board for a possible Flush and a Straight available, my two Pair was weak. Weakness never wins in Poker.

“I’m all-in.”

My announcement was met by a snort of derision and a gasp of disbelief. Even Silent Joe took a glimpse at me. The dealer counted my remaining chips. “That’s one-hundred thousand to call,” he said.

Silent Joe nodded his consent. He slid his remaining stack forwards without a whisper.

“Money is about even. Joker to call.”

The Joker smiled at the dealer then to me. “You got big balls, Bullet, I’ll give you that.”

“Still have three Eights?” I asked.

“Eights? I meant Aces,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And I can smell a bluff. Phew.” He wafted his hand over his nose.

“Show me you have a pair,” I said.

He smirked but did not speak. I began to drum my fingers. Then checked my watch. Then yawned.

“Any time this year,” I said.

“Call.”

The Joker toppled his chips. He was in. That left the only female in our little ensemble.

“Suzie, will you call?” said the dealer.

Suzie Lous’s fingers had trapped in the wound curls of her hair. She bit her lip. To most, it would indicate indecision but immediately I knew I was in trouble.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

It was the best bluff of the tournament.

“Oh well, why not?” she said.

The pot was one million, chips stacked to the ceiling. This was it.

“Turn them over,” said the dealer.

I flipped my cards all the while staring at the table. Silent Joe threw a Seven of Diamonds and a Jack of Hearts: a Straight Run! Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten and a Jack; but it could be beaten by a Jack and Queen. The Joker was limping with a King of Spades and Eight of Clubs: a small Pair but with the chance of a high Flush. Suzie Lous was in front. She had collected a Flush with her Ten and Three of Spades.

“Oh, I seem to have five cards of the same Suit,” she said.

“Looks like the lady’s a winner,” the Joker said and laughed.

I needed a miracle. Silent Joe was out. If another Spade appeared the Joker would walk as the victor. Suzie Lous fanned her blushing cheeks. The dealer readied the final card: the River.

“Ace of Diamonds.”

“Of all the luck …” The Joker’s smile had vanished. Suzie Lous’s mouth was agape. Silent Joe gave me a nod.

“Full House. Bullet wins,” said the dealer.

Three Aces, two Eights. I shrugged, trying to restrain my jubilation. I had won the million on the final Bullet – my namesake.

“Officer Johnston!”

My name being bellowed brought me to an immediate standing attention. The others followed suit as the Senior Officer marched in.

“What have I told you about gambling during your lunch break?” the S.O. barked. “If the prisoners are not permitted to gamble then neither are you. Clear up these matchsticks and begin the unlock.”

Meekly I slid the matchstick chips into my bag and pocketed my winnings – ten half-ounces of tobacco – and returned to my station.

The moon is waning, the waxen crescent slipping behind the dunes. Waves lap in gentle rolls. Stars above become eclipsed with the promise of a new tomorrow. They say the night is darkest just before dawn but what do they know of darkness?

I was borne in shadow, conceived in gloom. Forever imposed into a prison of night, my chains have held me fast for centuries, it seems. I have kept to the back alleys out of sight for fear that someone would point and call me hideous, monster, a villainous scourge of evil. They treat me like a plague with no cure. Like an animal, they hunt me when all I desire is nourishment and to live in peace. Yet they do not deter so the beast becomes unleashed. Torn remains always reveal my true nature but try as I might the tears cannot flow. So I return home, back to the mountains where none dare venture.

Even amongst the slabs of hewn rock, I keep to the dank crevices. Solitude is my soul mate. We have travelled countless weary years together, blind bats leading the blind. Long have I desired the touch of another. Soft skin, gentle caresses, the breath of life against the nape of my neck. Can an abomination such as I be capable of love? I desire it with all my heart but the beast will always devour. I have tried to cage it but no cell can detain its thirst. Its growls echo through my throat until love dies. That is why they hunt me. A father’s cry, a mother’s wail, the rage of a brother hell-bent on revenge. I imagine their pain, bring it into my being to flow like blood but it as alien to me as the light of life.

Even in my haven, they try to torment me. Rearing spears and blazing torches, they sweep like a serpent up through the forest. I watch their approach from the cleft of the cliff, sniffing the scent of mingled fear and fury. Their roars ring through the night waking my brothers. The rabble halts as the howls of the pack pierce their souls. Panic seizes some sending them sprawling back to their little village but the brother is not deterred. My head rolling by his feet is his only desire. As he passes my hiding spot, I see the soulless stare which mirrors my own. No hint of humanity, only tooth, and claw.

I spot the straggler at the rear. He twists this way and that, pride and fear of rejection the chain to his group. I sweep down and strike. His gurgles are masked by the hammering of hearts and the howls in the night. Three remain. Dancing between the shadows cast by the torches’ glare, I tear, felling one then two. The brother spins. He calls out their names. His voice is a tremor of more than just vengeance now. I wait for him to turn. My hand shoots out around his throat.

“I am sorry.”

My words surprise me as they do him. Never have I uttered such sentiment before. His feeble swipe is easily parried and as I choke I see my plight for what it is. Forever imprisoned in this existence, I desire to be set free. Not free to love or live like this dying man struggling to draw one last breath but free of this beast within. Silence returns with a snap. Instead of casting another body aside I place it on the ground. I study what lies below me and see myself: dead flesh with no soul.

Determined, I make my way south towards the shore. Time is short. The whistle of the birds rings out to greet me. I embrace them even when they flee in terror. The damp moss and feral ferocity are left behind as I slide down the hills. The years of waging war against my nature are finally coming to an end. Tonight will be the last.

I think back to my oldest adversary and wonder will she save at the twelfth hour? The words of her Holy book fill my mind as I reach the dunes:

‘The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.’

As my feet sink into the sand I stop to stare at the stars. I am tired, tired of the hunt, tired of being hunted, tired of endless nights and sleepless days. No longer will I be tied to the beast within. If it is to be freed then let be into a furnace.

The first rays peek over the horizon. My instinct is to fly but I hold fast. Long have I yearned to see it, much like an old man waits to greet Death. And then I am bathed. The burning glow bursts upon my face. I will my eyes open and I see the radiance of life for the first time. Glorious light, all enrapturing. Shadows flee at its awakening. Mankind was right to abhor the dark.

As my body bursts into flames I, Count Dracula, see my first sunrise and I am free. For it is my last.

Drifting along for years, it seems. Cracked lips chapped beyond repair, all hope of rescue lost at sea. Too weak to shield eyes from the sun’s final stare. Night now stalks and eardrums echo as the waves lap. Fingers melt to salt, skin drags the depths. Fading rays of hope eclipse. No moon to guide safe passage. Tonight will drown all sorrow.

All are gone, claimed by the sea of time or rage of windswept fury. Fretful furious faces forced away forever. Sea swirls to sweep swimmers of soulful grief. Swept into oblivion, never more to be seen.

A final prayer is whispered into the wind: “Tried but failed.” Eyelids flutter, strength falls, body flops. As the horizon suffocates, a glimpse of the next life blinks on. A light more precious than gold radiates above the surface. Its glow empowers, breaching the divide, pulling at death’s firm grasp. Yanked up to life, the ray of hope shines bright. It is a lifebuoy, a white ring of vigor, pulling to safety all those who see and believe.

Then it is gone and night returns. Cast into the shadow of death again. A cruel twist to a sorry tale. Anger flares like a firework. Why give a glimpse of salvation only to pluck out an eye? Cut off the hand too and be done with it.

Determined now, body sinks and no final breath is taken. As the murky depths invade the mocking light returns. It transforms the darkness to day and with it a vision of heaven once held dear. Streets of gold wide enough for two, pearly mansions fit for four. A radiance only a polished smile could extol. This house of lights rises into the sky alive with beings oh so precious. Angels hold hand-in-hand the promise of eternal bliss. Their voices ring a sweet song to feed the spirits within.

One spies a lost soul in desperation. She leaves the sacred sanctuary to offer salvation. Wings pierce the watery tomb and gently scoop the corpse within, drawing it back to life and light. The warm embrace evaporates night’s chill and loving eyes look down in peace.

Enraptured to be redeemed again. Mind, body, soul unite. A living being once more ready to return to the house of lights. But the beam twists like a knife and shines on another place. The angel vanishes, the house moves on, and gravity jerks. Crashing back to death, a body slaps against the cruel wet tombstone. It breaks, this time for good.

The house of lights has sailed and now only the abyss remains.

Bloody airport lounge. Hate the sight of them. Hate the smell too, especially this time of year. With the snow came the inevitable delays so everyone’s jammed in her like an open tin of sardines that’s three months off its sell-by date. Stale sweat, barfing coughs, that repressed fart smell, and the same bloody question I overhear every day: what time will we get home?

“How the hell should I know?” I bark making the little old lady step back in surprise. I shoo her away and slide further into my seat. I suppose I’m lucky not to be on the floor with the other losers. Families have made forts out of their hand luggage to claim their territory while the wind blows a bloody gale outside.

Christmas Eve. I shouldn’t be here. Promised Samantha I’d definitely be home this year. Said if I wasn’t I’d sign those blood papers she’s been threatening me with. The kids are at that age that they’ve stopped asking where Dad is. Travelling across the globe never did sit well with fatherhood but it’s part of the job. Actually one of them was conceived during a bout of lust thirty-thousand feet up. Samantha was plastered at the time. I walked to the loo and nodded to her to meet me. The lights were low, red-eye flight. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my shirt at the top, but you couldn’t see if you weren’t looking. Even in a drunken haze Samantha only had eyes for me. Stumbled towards me with those high heels and click went the lock. Wham, bam, thank you Sam. I was already a member of the Mile High club but this was her first ticket. Found out she was up the duff a month later and all hell broke loose. Finally convinced her she was the only one for me. She stayed at home popping out the kids while I remained on board to pay the bills.

The man beside me shifts on his seat to face the other way. I snort and in doing so catch a sniff of my breath. God, no wonder people are staring. I rummage in my jacket for a mint but my finger slides against a bottle. One of the mini-bar offerings from whatever town I was in yesterday. I’ve probably had too much to drink hence the toxic cloud hovering by my face but dammit I want to wet my tongue. Alcohol’s forbidden in the main lounge. Normally I’d be holed up at the bar pretending to down mineral water while the Smirnoff slides down my gullet but that didn’t end well. It wasn’t my fault the waitress wasn’t wearing a bra. If you don’t want people to comment then dress appropriately, is what I say. I grabbed my cap and briefcase before security came and bolted for the benches. So here I am, gum stuck to my navy trousers, bottle pressed to my lips, trying to avoid the stares while the bloody snow batters the window.

I strain to see the monitor. Delayed, delayed, delayed. I slump back and push my cap down to cover my face. May as well get some shut-eye before the next leg of the journey. As I nestle down and my mind starts to drift the tannoy cranks to full volume:

“Captain Runnels to the desk, please. This is a call for Captain Runnels.”

I swear out loud at being woken up making a married couple sitting opposite to tut in disgust. I gave them a lopsided grin until they look away. Bloody tourists. Think they own the place when they come here. They haven’t the miles behind them as I have. I used to keep track of all that stuff. Had a little book too. But when you’ve been at this game for as long as I have you soon learn not to take it all so seriously. I close my eyes again and try to settle. As my body droops, I feel a tug at my leg and my lids snap open.

“What time will we get home?”

She looks about six or seven. A bogey hangs from her nostrils. She wipes it away with her sleeve. I look around but don’t see who’s supposed to be in charge of the little brat. I squeeze my eyes shut again hoping she’ll take the hint but no, there’s a bloody tug on my jacket sleeve.

“Does Santa fly a plane?”

I deliberately squeeze my eyes tighter blocking out the brat and all the other muppets as they chatter on and on and on about the bloody weather and if they’ll make it home in time. A tug on my tie. I open one eye. She’s snorting a snot bubble six inches from my face. It pops to cover her lip.

“Kid, what’s your name?”

“Vicky.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to bother strangers, Vicky?”

She sniffs the snot back up her nose leaving a snail trail. I sigh.

“Don’t worry about Santa, kid. He’s used to all this snow. You’ll make it home to your nice warm bed and wake up tomorrow to open all your presents.”

“Promise?”

I cross my heart. She smiles and skips away. The tannoy rings again. This time it’s a worried parent looking for their lost child. It could be her but it’s none of my business. I sneer at the couple opposite again making them look to the ceiling and take a swig from my bottle. Ahh. Much better. All I need now is a hot body to neck. I laugh, thinking back to that sexy little number from last week. Tore the hotel room up all night long, hmm mm. She liked a man in uniform, what can I say?

From up ahead, I see two security guards approach. I quickly screw the cap back on and stuff it into my pocket. Leading them is Joey, one of the attendants. I recognize him from one of the flights but these days it’s hard to keep track. He tries to keep his back straight as his hips sway down the hall. Don’t get me wrong, to each his own, but why try and hide it? He steps over protruding legs, and screaming kids until he reaches my row. I turn to face the window. The snow seems to have stopped.

His high-pitched voice calls to me but I ignore him, pretending to be asleep again. Bodies move aside as the three make their way towards me.

“Captain Runnels,” Joey says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t you hear the call? The runway’s clear and we’re ready to board.”

I straighten my tie, tip up my cap, and reach to grab my briefcase. Joey has to help me stand. I give a little wave to my neighbours opposite and as I’m led away say:

“See you on Flight 101.”

“I’m Jacob McClavish and I’ve been sent by God to help.”

Some of the group took their hands off their faces long enough to look up at me. I gave my best smile; a mix of hope, empathy, and concern. I could hear Mervyn and Roger whispering behind me as I addressed the rest of the group. The cast from a Hollywood film was somehow jailed with our little trio and looked petrified.

“I believe we’ve been put in this prison for a reason. God works in mysterious ways.”

One of the men appeared more agitated than the others. He was bouncing up and down on the bench and held that wide-eyed stare I’d seen with the junkies back in Glasgow. His bleached-blonde hair bobbed as he waved at me.

“Hey, padre. You think you can chain the great Rodriguez? No god can keep me locked up.”

The accent was a ridiculous attempt to capture the gravelly dialect of a Colombian warlord. The man’s face was familiar. Something about his chiselled jaw which was beginning to sag twigged a memory. It was Roger who got it first.

“You’re Jack Stiller Junior. Cyber Cop 1, 2 and 4. You’re a movie star. What are you doing here?”

The actor looked around as if a secret had slipped. He nodded to the security camera over the door.

“We’re still rolling,” he hissed.

Roger didn’t seem to notice the odd behaviour. He was star struck.

“I always wanted to know about Cyber Cop 3. Was it a scheduling conflict? Pay not high enough?”

One of Jack’s crew members pushed his finger to his nose and snorted.

“Too fond of the old coke, eh? Weren’t you going through your fourth divorce then?”

My friend’s questions were inappropriate. Jack Stiller blinked in five long flashes. I could see he was close to the edge. Whatever method acting he was into couldn’t quite connect with reality. The thought of someone having a psychological breakdown in this confined space of twenty bodies was not appealing. So I did the only thing I could.

“This isn’t Jack Stiller. This is the drug baron Rodriguez, feared by all the cartels in Bogota.”

Roger gave me a look but it was the cue Jack was waiting for.

“Gringo, you can pray to your God for help but I’m the only god in this country.”

He struggled to stand. There was dried blood on the side of his cheek. The Jack Stiller of Cyber Cop fame was lost within this shell of a bedraggled man. Everyone stared at him.

“You work in this pigsty, padre?”

“I’m just visiting.”

“Then you’re going to get us out.”

I saw a blur as Jack struck. He grabbed my arm and spun me around, pushing his forearm into my throat. My friends ran forward to help.

“Don’t come any closer or I break his neck.”

“Jack, that’s just in the movies. Let him go, man.”

One of the crew stood to face us, preventing Roger and Mervyn from knocking Jack’s head off. Jack was more solid than I assumed. Years of training meant the muscles were real, unlike the place his mind was in.

“Rodriguez says knock on the door. When they see the padre needs out we jump the guards.”

“You’re losing it, man. This guy’s gonna pass out.”

Although the grip was strong, I could still breathe. I could have stamped his foot or clocked him with an elbow but I had to see this through.

“Knock the door or I swear I’ll twist his head off.”

The crew member stepped alongside us, wary not to get too close. Jack dragged me back on my heels which scraped away some grime from the floor. The door was hammered with the ball of a fist.

It took a minute but we all heard the sound of jangling keys approach. Jack relaxed his grip and pushed his mouth to my ear.

“Tell them you want to leave. No funny business, comprende?”

I tried to nod but he gripped my hair. The panel on the door slid aside and a pair of unflinching brown eyes peered in.

“I’d like to leave now,” I said, knowing full well what the answer would be.

The guard laughed and threw back the hatch. Jack seemed confused. He reached out himself and banged hard. The hatch jerked open.

“The padre says he needs to go so open up before I kill him.”

The hatch slammed shut. Jack’s breath steamed the hairs on my neck. He threw out a kick that rocked the doorframe.

“I’m going to twist his head off and use it as a football,” he yelled.

The noise reverberated around the room and into the core of my skull. Through the ringing, I could still hear the rattle of keys. The door pushed outwards to be replaced by a black baton.

“Put him down.”

The guard stepped into our movie. He had to duck to get under the door. His beard ran thick and travelled down his body to sprout out of his uniform. Jack made sure the camera on the ceiling could capture the action by drawing him inside. His arm was wrapped around my throat again.

“Why don’t you make me, grande oso?”

The insult made the guard pause. My Spanish wasn’t great but did he just call him a big bear? The guard pointed his baton at Jack’s face. The dents on all sides testified to its past abuses.

“Put him down.”

I wasn’t sure where this would go. Was Jack so into character he would try to fight this giant of a man? Where did that leave me? My thoughts turned to my own plight. Stuck in a Colombian prison, not for my faith but something I wasn’t guilty of? If this was jail I dreaded to think what prison was like. It was then I noticed the open door. The gap was only a few inches but could easily be forced open. All the others were glued to the scene of guard versus con but I visualized something else.

“Take that big stick and shove it up your bungholio.”

Jack was really into his part, not realizing his teeth would soon be knocked down his throat. The guard had enough. As he stepped forwards to end the siege, I decided to act. No matter the size of the man a swift kick to the gonads always has the same effect. The guard collapsed with a groan. His hands were squeezed between his legs as he curled into the foetal position. The goolie shot also made Jack drop his grip in surprise. I used the distraction to enact my plan.

“Men, God has spoken, and he says we need to get the hell out of here.”

I took the guard’s keys and tossed them to Roger then lifted the baton and stood to face Jack.

“Rodriguez, the Columbian Liberation Army salutes you. We need you to take us to your base in the jungle. You think you can fight through the rest of the guards?”

I bit my tongue hoping he would take the bait. Ever the professional, Jack saw the next imaginary scene unfold in his mind. He stood straight and saluted.

“Lead the way, Padre.”

Not wanting to stay and rot here any longer, I waved at the others to follow me. They stepped over the fallen body writhing on the floor to aide me in our search for the exit. Rodriguez would come in useful, if he made it out alive, but I was the Padre and not even God could stop me now.

“So, Rodriguez. You think you can waltz into my neighbourhood with your fancy guns and armoured trucks and take over?”

Rodriguez chewed on his toothpick, flipping it around with the tip of his tongue.

“No one can take my spot, you conejillo de indias. I own this territory. I own these men. The policía follow my command.”

The heat of the sun bore down through the Columbian rain forest. Sweat ran as rivulets from their foreheads to their soaking vests. Two small armies faced each other in a line, waiting for their commanders to give the word. Del Blanco grimaced through his beard. His beady eyes narrowed as the toothpick was tossed to the sides of his enemy’s mouth with the skill of a juggler. The silence reached even to the animals who incessant squawking and screeching vanished in the midday light.

Rodriguez reached up to extract the toothpick.

“You’re an old man, amigo. Why don’t you retire gracefully? Jump into that white limo you love and drive off into the sunset. It’s time to let the new sangre take control.”

Del Blanco drew in some phlegm to the back of his throat and spat. The mucus flew to land beside Rodriguez’s polished shoes.

“I will spit on your grave,” he screamed.

“And I will dance on yours.”

Rodriguez pushed the toothpick between thumb and forefinger and flicked. It hurled into the air and both sides watched as it speared Del Blanco’s eye. His howl sounded the battle cry.

Bullets ripped from sub-machine guns as both sides pulled their triggers. Bodies slumped to the earth as the rounds found their marks. Rodriguez took out his pistol and charged. The tackle caught Del Blanco off guard and both men fell to the ground.

“You think you can kill me? I am Del Blanco. I am immortal.”

A fist shot out to catch Rodriguez on the chin. He held the pain in check and rained down a blow of his own. It caught a golden molar that flew out of Del Blanco’s mouth with a thick mix of spit and blood. But the old hand wasn’t finished yet. He replied with a knee to the gut causing Rodriguez to lose his grip. He reached up to claw at his face but was countered by a headbutt. Both men rolled along the forest floor, each determined to destroy the other and claim the prize.

An explosion broke the ranks of the armies as a grenade fired. Others stepped forwards to take the spots of the fallen. The Columbian sky became ablaze in orange with the screams of the injured drowned out by the hail of bullets. Del Blanco had his hands wrapped around the usurper’s throat. He had managed to gain control and now straddled the younger man’s chest.

“Pathetic rana. No one comes into my patch to take what’s mine.”

Rodriguez was fading. The grip was getting tighter. He had one chance to reply.

“You’ll…never…”

Del Blanco paused as if waiting for his enemy to speak.

“You’ll…never…”

Rodriguez was turning scarlet. He tried to mouth something.

“Never…Oh shit. Line.”

The director drew a line under his throat. “Cut,” he yelled. The film crew stopped the cameras and the bell sounded to end the scene. Del Blanco stood up and shook his head.

“Damn you, Jack. We almost had that one in the can.”

Rodriguez sat up and ripped off his wig. The dark locks dropped to unveil a mass of blonde hair. He was gritting his teeth. The director stomped over to his two leads.

“What the hell was that? You know how much this shoot is costing me? That’s fifteen takes of one bloody scene. That’s it. I’m calling it a day. I need a shot of tequila.”

He threw the script up to catch the breeze. The page floated down on the C-lister’s face. Jack Stiller Junior pushed himself to his feet while Del Blanco stomped off to join the rest of the cast.

“Hey, guys. You should have kept rolling. Haven’t you heard of post-production editing?”

The cameraman wiped down the lens as Jerry gave him a hopeful look. With no reply, he snorted and made his way to the trailers.

“How many times do I have to tell them to keep rolling. All these ridiculous lines. They just don’t get it. The audience knows when we’re faking and when it’s real.”

His minder José turned the page of his newspaper and folded his legs. Jerry rubbed at the fake blood on his nose with a wipe.

“I mean I know it’s acting but come on. This isn’t the eighties anymore. People want real. They don’t want stunts or phony accents.”

José scanned the sports page as Jerry ripped out another wipe.

“What that lot don’t realize is I have a pedigree career. Jerry Stiller Junior is more than just a two-bit Hollywood hack. Method acting is in my blood, man. I was up for that Oscar until Eastwood stole the spot. God damn westerns. I’m trying to make a southern, José. José? You listening?”

José ruffled down the sheets of the tabloid to read the headlines. Jerry flung another wipe onto the pile in the bin.

“If it were me I would redo this whole shoot. Go guerillastyle. Down in the trenches, dirty and mean, you know? I wouldn’t tell the cast too. I’d just light the place up one day and throw them in the middle of it. Just imagine. Toss in a grenade and see what they’ve got. BOOM.”

As Jerry closed his mouth the earth shook.

“I see you’ve come again, my queen? But pray, why do you always leave your king behind on your travels?”

“Out of my way, Sir. I have no dealings with the Blacks.”

The queen stopped by the foot of the knight’s steed. In the fading light, the black beast’s nostrils flared and its breath billowed to edge her back.

“Such a talented and powerful woman with the White kingdom at her disposal yet she ventures into our stronghold alone. Some would call it foolish…”

“And some who call it are fools,” the queen replied.

The Black knight peered through the slit of his visor at the damsel below. Her beauty often beguiled the unwary. Many times through their checkered past he had fallen to her charms. He chased her and pinned her yet it was always a ruse on her part. The White soldiers lay in wait and though he hacked and slashed they knocked him off his horse leaving him to flee the battle.

“A fool is one who dares face a knight of the Black realm unarmed.”

“You assume I carry no weapon?”

“Unless a dagger is cloaked beneath your garment the only weapon you possess is your sharp tongue.”

“Sir Black, you underestimate me.”

“Perhaps in the past, for you also possess a sharp wit. Yet your mind is no match for raw strength. You have found yourself trapped, alone and defenceless.”

“I have faith to protect me.”

“Ha! You put your trust in God? Do you think He will reach down and pluck you into the air?”

“We shall see.”

“Might of beast and brick will always triumph over silly prayers and fruitless promises. I have a legion stationed at my castles. With one word I could wipe the Whites away.”

“The Blacks are mighty indeed yet their place is always second.”

The knight raised his visor and sneered. “Tell me why I should not cut you down?”

The queen glanced around but saw no help was near.

“Because you are a man of honour. Just like your brother was.”

The knight froze on his saddle.

“It is a pity. Such a noble and valiant warrior but his end was honourable.”

“Who…who did this? Tell me!”

The queen saw the rage in the knight’s eyes. His steed pawed at the dirt, ruffling the soil to the harsh beat of his master’s heart.

“Your brother fought with dignity until his dying breath. I grasped his hand as he was taken from this world. He spoke his final words into my ear.”

“Woman, I am warning you. Tell me who murdered my brother.”

The queen continued unabated. “It was a mere whisper yet those words will forever resound in my mind.”

The knight’s fury faltered. “What did he say?”

“You wish to know if he spoke of gallantry? Of serving the noble house of the Blacks? You demand that his last desire immortalize you as his sole heir, to uphold the family honour? Yet your brother’s last release was none of these.”

The knight’s fury ignited. He drew out his longsword and held it high.

“Damn you, woman. Reveal what my brother said or I will strike you in two.”

The queen knew that her time was up. Only faith could help her now.

“As I withdrew my dagger from his chest he said that life was a game and we are all but pawns.”

“No!”

The knight swung with all his might. As the blade swooped it stopped. The steed buckled as it tumbled to the ground, its legs cut from beneath it. The knight’s body was crushed as the horse cried out. Standing behind them, the white robes of the bishop were stained by their blood.

“As I said, Sir Black, faith has come to save me.”

The queen nodded to the bishop to make the kill. The knight’s form went still.

“Checkmate.”

“You ever wonder when your last breath will be?”

“Shit, Stan, that’s morbid for a Monday morning.”

“It could come on a Monday morning. Or a Tuesday. Could be the same day of the week I was born. Wouldn’t that be strange?”

“Pass me the cigarette.”

I took another drag while Luke fumbled in the cold to warm his fingers.

“I swear it’s getting colder every year. Bloody climate change.”

I breathed out and watched as the smoke from my lungs joined the mist of our breath. Luke whipped the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

“Look at it go, Luke. We’re here for a moment, form into something that we think’ll last forever and then PHEW.”

I pursed my lips and blew. The smoke and mist that had tangled together evaporated to non-existence. Luke shook his head.

“Humans aren’t designed to dwell on their own existence.”

I gazed at the two cups of brewing tea by our feet. Their little lives struggled to be seen as the steam rose to meet the breath from my nostrils.

“Isn’t nostrils a funny word?”

Luke sighed and took another drag.

“Makes me think why I find it funny? Why are some things hilarious and others just stupid? It’s a bit like swearing. Who chose those words to be bad words? Who decides these things?”

“Probably some committee somewhere,” Luke said while lifting his tea.

“And who gave them that right?”

Luke shrugged, trying not to burn his throat as he swallowed.

“We accept things too easily in this life. We never question. If anybody dares to raise their hand then everyone else throws them out of the group. Why is that?”

“Beats me, Stan.”

“Maybe it’s fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of where your breath goes when it disappears. If we can’t see it or make sense of it then we ignore it.”

“Then I’m going to be scared of you until I drink my brew.”

Luke took another sip and wrapped his hands around the mug to keep warm.

“I suppose it’s like having a voice,” I said. “Words are a dangerous thing in the wrong hands, so to speak. Revolutions start when somebody dares to open their mouth.”

“You better not start another strike, Stan. Christmas bills need paying, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Who cares about work? Who cares about the mundane? We should be caring about what comes out of our mouths.”

“All that comes out of your mouth’s hot air.”

“My point exactly. Everything we do in this life is like a breath of hot air on a cold Monday morning. We’re all just passing steam, Luke, just passing steam.”

Luke tilted onto one side and his face squeezed shut. The noise from his rear reverberated like a dying trumpet.

“Or passing gas,” he said and laughed.

I smiled. “I suppose our prayers to this world can come from two places after all.”

“Mummy, I’m home.”

Mildred forced her way inside. The door fought back as the tower of toppling newspapers refused to budge.

“Millie?”

Mildred blinked with the lack of light. She flicked the switch but nothing happened.

“Mummy, where are you?”

“What?”

“I said where are you?”

“In here, didums.”

Mildred felt around the hall table but all her hands could feel was the rough, wiry coat of the stuffed poodle. She pulled away as she grazed its canines.

“I can’t find the candles.”

“You can’t sign the sandals?”

“No, Mummy. Can you switch on the light?”

“You’re right, didums, two stitches to the right.”

Mildred lifted one foot and pushed it out. The tip of her shoe found a stack of mouldy boxes. She waved her toes around until she found a clearer path and stepped forwards.

“Mummy, it’s getting dangerous in here. You might trip.”

“I’m well aware of the drip, Millie. I’ll call for a plumber.”

Mildred sighed. She tucked her cape into her waist and slowly made her way along the hall. She had to turn sideways to bypass her mother’s wheelchair and old accordion, neither of which wheeled or wheezed anymore. Hopping over an open suitcase, she heard a rhythmic creaking and her mother singing.

“My little Millie, shirt’s so frilly, none so silly, as my little Millie.”

Mrs Ruddle tittered to herself as her daughter battled into the living room. Mildred merged with a dozen other shadows and soon was lost within the maze of junk.

“Did you enjoy the film, didums?”

“Yep. And guess what happened on the way home?”

“Oh, tell me, please.”

“I saved a cat from a tree.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My little Millie is a superhero after all.”

Mrs Ruddle beamed as she rocked in her chair. Her fingers flew as the knitting needles danced in her hands. Mildred used the noise as sonar. She pushed out her arms like a mummy trying to find her Mummy and stumbled on. Bric-a-brac strewn along the threadbare carpet caught her ankle but Super Mildred used her keen sense of balance to prevent herself from falling.

“I wish you would keep a light on in here.”

“Don’t need it, didums. Now that Binky’s passed on – may God bless his tiny soul – I don’t have to leave my chair to let him out for a wee.”

“But you still need out to wee, Mummy.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs Ruddle put down her knitting. “I’ve had an idea.”

Mildred finally made it through the labyrinth of leftovers to stop by her mother’s rocking chair. Her eyes were beginning to adjust and she saw her mother lift something onto her lap.

“I told you my precious things would come in useful one day.”

Mildred wasn’t sure what she was seeing. It looked like a bowl of sorts. A foul whiff wafted.

“Mummy, that isn’t what I think it is, is it?”

“Does the job perfectly. No need to go upstairs now.”

“But a sieve won’t work. There’s too many holes.”

“That’s why I plugged them up. Blu-tac to the rescue again.”

Mrs Ruddle put down the soaking sieve as its contents washed onto the rug.

“So you saved a cat?”

“I did and everyone saw. I got to show them my outfit and climb a tree and everything.”

“I’m so proud of you, Millie. Thirty-years-old and a real-life superhero. I only wish Binky were here so he could lick your face well done.”

Mildred wiped her cheek as if the dead dog’s tongue was still slobbering there.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, didums?”

“Uhm, there’s that thing we need to discuss.”

“No.”

“But Mummy…”

“I said no, Millie. A thousand times no. No, no, no!”

“It would be far better for you…”

“Don’t want to listen.”

“…and safer…”

“Nah-nah-nah-nah.”

“…not to mention cleaner. There’s lots of other people your age too. And the food’s delicious.”

The rocking chair creaked at breakneck speed as Mrs Ruddle thrust herself forwards and backwards with her hands over her ears.

“You wouldn’t have to pee in a sieve and you can see the lake from the house.”

“Binky hated it. Said it wasn’t for him.”

Mildred stopped herself from disparaging the late third member of their family.

“You can’t live here forever, that’s all I’m saying.”

Creak, creak, creak.

“Mummy?”

Mrs Ruddle had returned to her knitting. She was now singing a new song.

“Bad little Millie, wants to kill me, won’t let me wee-wee, bad little Millie.”

Mildred threw up her hands which almost toppled a stack of chairs. Then she had an idea. Feeling her way around, she found the path back and left the room.

“Ruff-ruff.”

The sound made Mrs Ruddle stop in mid rock.

“Ruff-ruff-ruff.”

“Who’s that?”

Mildred hid behind her cape and the stiff frame of the stuffed poodle. The taxidermist had ripped them off but Mildred hoped her plan would justify the exorbitant fee.

Mrs Ruddle rubbed her eyes. No. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

“Binky?”

Mildred stood out of sight behind the chairs and shook the dead poodle’s neck up and down.

“Oh my little Binky. I thought you were dead.”

“Ruff-ruff…I’m in doggy heaven but I can’t be at peace.”

“Sweet didums, what’s happened?”

“Knowing my mistress is all alone in the dark..ruff-ruff…she needs to be with friends.”

“But I have Millie.”

“Grrr…you need friends your own age. You need to move on. You need to leave me and this place behind.”

Mrs Ruddle covered her mouth with her hand. “I could never leave my home.”

“Listen to Mildred…ruff-ruff. She knows what’s best…listen to Millie.”

Like a ghostly apparition, the poodle ascended to float in the air. Mrs Ruddle gasped as her beloved friend gave one last bark before disappearing behind her things.

“Binky!”

Mildred waited for a full minute before emerging. Her mother had her fingers stuffed in her mouth and she was rocking.

“Mummy, are you ok?”

Mrs Ruddle looked up and saw her daughter. She reached out her arms. Mildred ran to hug her.

“It’s okay, Mummy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Author’s note: in my defence I’ve been watching a lot of League of Gentlemen recently.