Coffee people

(not a poem today, just a list of the people seen coming into one of my local coffee houses while I start the day there with my one shot latte…)

 

…a woman typing on her phone, not looked up once since sitting down; a man reading his book; an older man studying a newspaper, eating dunked biscuits; a woman outside reading her small screen and smoking; two men talking out there, smoking nonstop; two young female assistants chatting; a businessman buying a cappuccino, paper pad in hand with old fashioned pen clutched; an older man coughing, with two bags, with a double espresso looking like he needs it; a man on a mobile, very polite, disproving his dishevelled appearance;a  lady with a dog for takeaway coffee; a young man with skinny jeans buys a takeaway too; a woman with a child in a push buggy; two young women talking, one now on her laptop; two middle aged women taking up seats on the leather sofa; a short sleeved gentleman paying with notes from a wallet, with an American accent; each person’s order separated by ‘enjoy’; and a pigeon slaloming the chairs and tables outside…

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Fantasy rewrite – Lucida

(One of the optional prompts for my next Writers Group was to produce a piece of writing in the fantasy genre. We have one member who has written hundreds of thousands of words on fantasy and I think this choice was to honour him and make the rest of us try out something we may not ever think of attempting. Oddly enough I did write a long fantasy story – about 12,000 words – back in around 2010 so I decided to try rewriting the opening chapter from that. It was originally told in the third person from the main female character’s point of view, but this time I decided to write it in the third person from another character’s viewpoint.)

 

The Prince of Shadows felt himself being drawn inexorably towards his destiny. Towards the blazing citadel in the distance.

Just a month earlier it had been so different…

The Prince slapped Stralgaldirth’s side and felt the horse leap forward at the familiar command. Behind him a body of men followed, increasing their pace to a thunderous rumble. The Prince swung his curved sword, two black shapes which had appeared in front of the plunging steed dissipated into the air. All around, his warriors’ red banners waved among a flood of darkness. More and more apparitions were cut apart by swirling blades. But no sounds uttered forth – the opponents had no mouths. A silent battlefield; apart from the noise of horses and the dying screams of men.

‘Come, Stralgaldirth, onward, boy, onward.’

The horse responded and crushed waspish opponents beneath his hooves even as deadly fingers reached up towards his helmed rider. A path was made which allowed the Prince to swing around behind the shifting mass of shadows. His bravest soldiers kept close to his charging stallion. Together they began to slaughter the enemy now trapped on two sides.

‘Kave, take the right. Swit, the left. Finish this rabble.’

Horses peeled off in opposite directions, their blue-clad riders striking down the backs of the enemy with long strokes of swords. Men poured through the gap created by the Prince. Dark shapes withered and faded away as the attack from the rear carved through their ranks.

The Prince reeled in his snorting horse. He surveyed the final melee. Dark figures rose here and there, falling upon men, plunging their taloned fingers deep into the solders’ souls. The cries should have shaken the Prince but he sat unmoved, concentrating instead on the enemy being trodden under hooves or rent into pieces by sword and spear.

‘Small losses, a great victory, sire.’

A horse pulled up alongside bearing a grinning warrior, black powder coated a lance where it had struck down the foe.

‘Every man down is a great loss, Kave. Learn that. We are not plentiful, they are.’

‘But the men will return soon, like they, and we, always do, and we will drink together before we die together. Again.’

The Prince shook his head, a cloud of dust falling from his helmet’s rim.

‘That is true, but every death is still a death when it occurs. I don’t just feel the pain of my own demise, I feel every one. Now, let us return, count the cost. If another swarm appears too soon we will be in trouble.’

The Prince saw Kave glance over his shoulder at the hills from where the dark shapes had swept down. His companion shivered then kicked his mount so as not to be left alone on the barren plain.

The Prince turned his horse away, trotted in the direction of his citadel, soldiers falling in behind him.
‘Sire, we have word of a new building, a new citadel!’

The Prince looked up from the table. Maps covered the stained and gouged surface. Alongside him stood Kave and Swit, their fingers placed at strategic points.

‘A citadel? Impossible. Explain yourself.’

The messenger bowed low.

‘Sire, to the west, just within eyesight of our tower. Captain of the night guard ordered a patrol be sent out after a sentry spotted the light yesterday evening.’

‘A citadel?’

‘Yes, sire. With a flame. A very bright flame.’

The Prince strode from the room, followed by his entourage, ran up flights of stairs, opened the tower’s topmost door and gazed westwards.

A flame burned. Even in daylight it flickered.

‘But there are no other lords, only my brothers and me.’

‘The captain reports a figure gazing from the top of the fortress. A woman.’

The Prince turned. He glared at the messenger.

‘A woman? You jest?’
And that is how it began. The Prince sent out spies, then delegations, then gifts. Tales came back of a beautiful young woman, clad in white leather, with hair as white as the winter snows. And a flame. Not only above her citadel but above her head when she left to ride around the land. Just like the flames which burned above the Prince’s and his brothers’ heads.

After another verbal report sang high praise of this newcomer, the Prince snapped his fingers at a cowering servant.

‘Bring me parchment. I shall write to this woman. And know more of her history.’

Hushed whispers fluttered around the room like moths startled from dark repose. Courtiers could not remember the last time the Prince took up the quill rather than the sword. Kave stepped forward.

‘Should we not ride out with soldiers, take the citadel, raze it to the ground.’

The Prince looked up from his silent study of the reports about the woman.

‘And what would that achieve?’

‘The Dark Ones. They might be attracted to her flame, overpower her fortress, cut off our access to your brother The Knight.’

‘Let us wait. We have spies watching the land around this woman’s citadel. If any of the enemy is sighted we shall saddle up.’

‘This is foolishness! You are a warrior, you do not write letters.’

Kave folded his arms, teeth biting his upper lip in controlled frustration. The Prince raised an arm towards a messenger.

‘There is something strange here, my friend. This woman, this…what does she call herself?’

‘Lucida, sire. She calls herself Lucida.’

‘Yes, this Lucida. I want to discover more about her. We shall act if necessary.’

Kave sighed, rubbed his jaw with a mailed fist and scuffed his leather-booted foot. He whispered just loud enough for the Prince to hear.

‘Let us hope we act before it is too late.’
Letter followed letter followed letter. The Prince became enraptured by the woman’s replies. The missives grew longer and longer, the Prince declined to ride out on Stralgaldirth, the horse stomped with boredom in the stables, the Prince ate less and less, his armour lay unused, his sword no longer gleamed from daily polishing, his men grew restless.

And then an invitation. From Lucida. To visit her citadel. Kave threw the parchment on the floor.

‘You’d be a fool to go! We should mount up, ride out, no men guard her tower, only two other women, rumoured to be her sisters, escort her.’

‘I must go. There is something odd here. Her words, even on parchment, lure me to her. She does not threaten in any way.’

‘It is a trick. A deception from the Dark Ones. Beware, sire!’

‘No, she does not come from them, I am sure of that. I must go, while I still have strength left. Prepare Stralgaldirth.’
Across the barren land walked the Prince’s horse, its coat now unkempt, its muscles weakened from inaction. On its back sat a man in rusting armour, barely able to lift his sword. Yet something enticed the Prince on.

Ahead he saw a woman on a white horse coming towards him. This must be the one they call Lucida, he thought.

She stopped a few yards away, raised her hands to her mouth and blew a kiss towards the Prince. It enveloped his steed then dissolved into the creature’s very being. The Prince sensed he was sinking. He glanced down to see his once noble warhorse disintegrating beneath his legs. Atom by atom. The Prince sank to the ground until he rested upon his knees. He looked up at the white-clad woman, a vision of angelic whiteness now close upon him. A sword hovered by her side, unattached to any belt.

She stared at him, seemed to look right through his body.

The Prince felt as if he too were fading away.

The woman moved closer and knelt. Her sword shifted, to hang above his decaying figure, as if ready for a final thrust.

‘Yes, it’s there, still beating strong. Your white heart beats within your decaying red one. I will whisper your real name, Prince of Shadows, and then I will ask you one question.’

She bent down. Her mouth almost touched his ear. Her nearness sent a shiver throughout his dying frame.

‘I speak your name. Asb’el. Now join with me or enter the realms of Darkness, never to return.’

The Prince’s weak eyes blazed once more, with recognition. Not since the Day of Outcast had he heard his true name. No one knew that name, apart from the Maker. How did this woman in her citadel know of such things? He looked into her eyes. He felt his fears melt away.

‘I join you.’

The Princess blew a kiss into her right hand and placed the palm over the Prince’s white heart. Warmth and light and strength spread throughout his body.

‘Enter my citadel.’

Lucida stood, the sword at her side, and turned her gaze to the distance. Darkness had crept towards the Prince’s tower.
Far away in the darkest corner of the world something shifted. The black flame of a candle was quenched. Talons clenched and released. A black tongue licked grey lips. Pointed teeth, ebony and sharp, were bared.

‘Ahthydreylh! A Fallen One is restored.’

Something moved in the darkness. Limbs stretched. An immense shadow heaved upwards. Glistening dark red lips parted. A tail flicked.

‘Fayll thiriflh! The Time of Times begins. The End is set in motion. Release the Fleydrll. Strike down the brightness.’

And one thousand creatures rose as one, silent wings gliding through the darkness. Blind eyes honed in on the bright-lit citadel in the distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It began with a coffee shop…

(Something I started writing back in 2015 after visiting a coffee shop in a nearby town. I’ve edited it a little, it’s surprising how my style has changed over the last two years. It’s still rather bland and just the opening scene but it’s better out here than gathering dust in a laptop folder…)

‘Excuse me, may I join you?’

That’s how it started.

I sat in the coffee shop, my cappuccino in front of me. Two paperbacks from the library lay on the table in a plastic shopping bag. It was my third visit here. Only 9.30 in the morning, but I liked to avoid the crowds and make certain there was a choice of seats.

Situated next to a small supermarket in a quaint Kentish town, a few shoppers drifted past with a number of middle aged women accompanying their silver-haired mothers. Around me, with their oversized cups of coffee, were a mix of retired single gentlemen and ladies, either seeking the company of the gentle hubbub of the pedestrianised passageway or stopping off for a rest before the walk home.

I usually headed back for my coffee. It seemed an unnecessary expense to buy when I could be home in five minutes and getting the same for free. But I had associated morning coffee in the lounge with my mother. It had been our time, a regular opportunity to meet up and exchange simple conversation. Now I felt the need to get out, to be surrounded by life.

I sipped from my cup. I gazed towards the shops across the paved walkway, imagining like so many others what type of life the people going by had.

Today I looked up, startled. A lady, in her forties, holding a cup in one hand and a handbag in the other, was hovering over the seat opposite me.

‘May I sit here?’

‘Er, right,  yes, of course.’

My eyes flitted around, spotting empty tables and chairs. I wondered why someone would want to sit with me.

The woman tugged the leather chair back, dropped her bag onto the floor and sat down, her cup still held above the table in her hand. Her brunette hair was stylishly cut down to an inch or two below her ears with longer strands hanging either side of her chin. She had one of those wide mouths that somehow made her instantly likeable.

‘I hate sitting by myself, and I’ve spotted you in here a couple of times, so I thought you’d be okay.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Er, I suppose I take that as a compliment, ‘being okay’.’

The woman placed her coffee on the table.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound, you know, patronising or something. It’s just, it can be awkward being a woman by yourself, especially if you want to sit around for some time. There’s always some man who’ll try and chat or offer to buy you another cup.’

I sat up straighter and self-consciously tidied my bag of books. I looked directly at her for the first time. Her hazel eyes had a sparkle, just like writers would say in a corny romance. But they did. They had life in them. I could quite understand why men would offer to buy her a drink. Or two.

‘I think you’re pretty safe in this quiet little town, most men in here seem retired and maybe a little bit tired.’

I nodded towards a couple of individuals near the window who were certainly scruffy, wearing crumpled beige summer jackets with their white hair sticking out over their ears. I couldn’t imagine a caring partner letting them out like that.

The woman drank from her coffee and replaced the cup on the table. Her lips were coated with a pale shade of orangey lipstick, something I always thought looked glamorous and seductive.

‘Oh, they are the worse, they just talk and talk, it’s terrible getting away from them. Part of me feels sorry for the old so-and-so’s, the other part is itching all over and wanting to run for the door.’

Her lips spread into a wide smile. I shifted my eyes to my own coffee and lifted the cup which in my house would have passed for a soup bowl. I’ve always liked women with those wide lips, just I like do women with cherub lips. Two extremes attract me it seems.

‘You come in here often then?’

In my head I couldn’t help but think what a corny chat-up line that was, but then I wasn’t chatting her up. Was I? No, I’d been enjoying the break from home and the chance to watch people around me. Women coming up and talking like this was a novelty. I felt out of my depth.

The woman adjusted her top, sleeveless blue with white polka dots, and rested her bare arms on the table. Her skin was slightly tanned, not I thought from hours spent soaking up the sun on a beach or by a pool, but probably from just being out and around in the fresh air. Or maybe it betrayed her origin or parentage. Her accent was very English, but that could be misleading.

‘Just in the last few weeks. There are so many coffee shops in this small place, it’s unbelievable. I can’t think how they all survive out of the tourist season.’

I nodded. It was a subject of many conversations among the locals, especially when some picturesque but unprofitable shop closed and was replaced by yet another outlet which placed its tables and chairs outside on narrow pavements and offered free wifi trying to recreate the insular camaraderie of ‘Friends’ or the bustling streets of Paris.

‘Yeah, there have been rather a lot springing up over the last few years.’

I took a drink. It had been sometime since I’d had a longer conversation with a woman, I didn’t quite know what to say. I didn’t want to bore her or drive her away but I wasn’t sure what she wanted; someone to talk with or just another body sitting on the same table to keep away unwanted offers of coffee and company.

A hand popped across the table.

‘I’m Immy, by the way. Short for Imogen.’

Her hand felt warm and soft. I hoped mine didn’t feel too sweaty in return. I noticed how slender her fingers were, longer than mine. The nails were coated with an orange varnish a shade darker than her lipstick.

‘I’m… Jim.’

I stuttered over the word. Everyone in the family knew me as Jamie, all at any work as James. Why did I go for Jim here? And Jim and Immy – it sounded ridiculous. Suppose I’d said Jimmy, she might have thought I was taking the micky.

‘So, you’re an avid reader then, Jim?’

She nodded down towards the two books I’d borrowed from the library earlier. One was inside the bag, the other lay face down on top.

‘I was, not so much now. I actually borrow them to check if the authors have mentioned their agents. I want to contact a few.’

Immy’s mouth dropped open, revealing near perfect teeth.

‘Really? You’re a writer? That’s way exciting!’

I laughed. She had a nice way of making you feel relaxed with her voice and expression.

‘No, not really. I have written a novel, or rather a very long story as I call it. I thought I might as well send it off, you never know.’

‘Wow, that’s amazing. You’ve written a novel, you sit around in coffee shops, with a pile of books in front of you, that seems like a cool life to me!’

As she rocked in her seat her shoe accidentally grazed mine. I moved my foot back, hoping she didn’t notice. It was a long time too since I’d had any physical contact with a woman. Even the slightest innocent touch might cause me to misinterpret the signs. But it was nice moment, I had to admit.

‘Well, not really. I only come in here about once a week, it’s a bit expensive, I live ten minutes away and coffee’s free at home. But it’s fun watching other people, writing can be lonely at times.’

‘Oh, I’m sure, it takes great discipline too, I imagine. But you must feel proud, having written something like that.’

‘Sure, if you’d said a year ago I would write over 100,000 words on one story, I wouldn’t have believed you.’

Immy’s eyes widened.

‘A hundred thousand. God, that’s unbelievable.’

‘Well, most of it, like any book, is sort of padding, you know. You have a basic story and just fill it out in a way.’

Immy took her cup and sipped her cappuccino, flecks of foam sticking to her lips. Her tongue darted up and along, wiping the white away.

I almost turned to see if there was a movie director around somewhere, it was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen, and it happened right in front of me.

‘What do you do, Immy?’

She looked at her cup, tipping it towards her, the remains of the coffee swirling dangerously close to the edge.

‘Me? Right now not much. I’m taking time out, enjoying life. Regrouping, you could say.’

‘Right.’

Divorce rang through my head, it seemed the obvious explanation. Or a trial separation. Maybe her husband had had an affair. Maybe she had. I couldn’t help but think any man would be mad to cheat on her. I wondered if I should say it out loud, but I didn’t. It might appear too cheesy, or even suggestive.  It was just, one moment I’d been here pleased to be out enjoying the change, the next this was happening. I wasn’t used to such things. I wasn’t used to exploiting these situations. If a woman asked me to help her change a tyre I’d do it, but I wouldn’t follow up and ask her for a drink or a meal like some men would.

I felt it better not to pry into her answer.

‘And you’ve been coming in here much?’

Immy took another gulp of her coffee.

‘A few weeks, once or twice a week, or in another coffee shop. It’s good to watch people. I bet you do that for your writing.’

‘Um, yeah, I suppose I do, although not regularly, as I said earlier. Perhaps I should do it more.’

 

And so on… I wonder where this could go from here?

 

 

 

 

Dark Alice

(the opening of something I wrote a few years ago, still waiting to be developed or sent to the Recycling Bin in the sky)

 

Alice hit the ground hard.

And knew something was wrong.

This was no rabbit hole. It was stone. Slabs of stone. And dark. So dark.

Alice couldn’t see her purple mittens in front of her eyes. She stared and stared. Slowly, very slowly, pale fingertips came into focus. She sat up, forced herself to her feet, stretched hands out around her. There was nothing to touch.

Time passed without a tick-tock. The darkness seemed lighter now.

A light dark. Alice giggled. A light dark? That was silly.

She bent her knees and felt around on the ground. Her fingers found cold stone and gaps. Paving stones maybe? Alice inched sideways. The stones went on to the right. But to the left her fingers discovered a drop. A gutter. So, a road?

She took a step forwards, keeping the gutter to her left. The darkness definitely seemed less dark. Alice scraped her booted feet on the stone slabs. She didn’t want another fall. To where? Further downwards? Can you fall forever? She giggled again. What would it be like to fall for eternity?

Alice stopped. Kept still. She smoothed her dark purple dress. A dress that fell to her knees. Her favourite dress. Alice fingered her long black hair and let it fall down past her shoulders. She adjusted her hairband. Composed and neat Alice stepped forward again.

“And just where do you think you are going?” a voice boomed in her ear.

Alice spun around, too fast, a dizziness swam inside her head. She nearly fell. Again.

Something even darker than the darkness took up space in front of her. Alice giggled. How can anything be darker than the dark?

“Answer the question, please,” boomed the voice a second time.

Alice begun to make out a spindly shape. She was sure she could discern long arms and longer legs. And probably a body too, which would make sense. Alice giggled. Imagine arms and legs with no body! Too silly.

“My name is Alice. I fell here. Just now.”

“A Faller! I haven’t seen one of those for at least 500 years. My word.”

Alice could now make out a pale face. Long and thin. A nose crooked, and straggly hair sticking out from under a tall tattered hat.

“A Faller? I suppose I must be, since I fell. But this is no rabbit hole.”

“What’s a rabbit?”

Alice sighed. This was hard work. She rested her hands on her hips.

“Is there no light in this place?”

“Of course there is. Once the Switch is switched. In about a short time.”

Alice blew out her cheeks.

“Haven’t you got a torch or something?”

The shape in front of her moved. A light blazed. Alice stepped back and shielded her eyes. As the light dimmed to a comfortable level she gasped.

“Your finger is alight!”

The tall thin gentleman, whom she could now see quite clearly, smiled. And not very pleasantly. He bent down to come face to face with Alice.

“I’m very clever with my fingers. As you may well find out.”

Alice gulped. She thought about running. But where to? Into the darkness?

“Come now, girl Alice. Let’s go to my house for refreshment.”

A long arm shot out. It grasped Alice’s right forearm. A firm tug and she was being dragged along behind the spectral figure. Into the darkness.

Alice was pulled for miles. That’s what it seemed like to her anyway. It was probably just a few hundred yards.

“Here we are. Home. Your new home.”

“I don’t want a new home,” said Alice as she gazed through the gloom at the shambles of a house in front of her. The building had at least three floors. It could be more but the darkness wrapped itself around the top of the house. It was made of wood, old and worn wood. Grubby and peeling. Weeds grew everywhere on the ground. A gate hung from one hinge.

“Well, it’s yours now, so there.”

The gentleman, who was not so gentle and thus Alice decided to call him just ‘the man’ from now on, tugged her past the gate and up cracked wooden steps towards the black front door.

“Hey, let go, sir. I don’t require a new home. And you’re hurting my arm.”

“Be quiet, girl Alice. The hurt won’t hurt for long.” He chuckled, though to Alice it sounded like the chuckling came from deep inside his stomach. The door swung open as the man barged inside. Alice was pulled in behind.

The inside seemed darker than outside. It smelt. Of old age and neglect. And something else. Something not very nice. The man clicked his finger and light blazed from it again. Using the flickering digit he lit two oil lamps on a faded white mantelpiece. Two threadbare armchairs, a low table and an empty bookcase completed the dingy room.

“Enough!” exclaimed Alice as she dug her boot heels into the creaking wooden floorboards. “Let go.”

The man turned his head, lowered it until he was face to face with Alice and smiled. Alice grimaced at the foul air emanating from his narrow lips.

“But, little girl Alice, we’ve only just begun. I haven’t seen a Faller for so, so long. The last one only lasted me 103 years. I’ve been so lonely since then.”

His tongue licked along his lips as his faded grey eyes lit up.

Alice swept her right foot back. And kicked. Hard. The man screamed, released her and clutched his left shin. Alice turned and ran. To the door. Through the door. And out. Into the dark darkness.

And she fell. Again.

 

She came in through the bathroom window

(a short piece written after coming across a Beatles’ song of this title. It apparently appeared on their Abbey Road album)

 

Of that there’s no doubt. The latch swung free, grating in the wind on the paint-flaking frame. Everywhere else had been securely locked. Like it always is. I’d been cooped up in the house for two days. I had to get out. And she saw the chance. To get in, carry out as much damage as she could. And get out before I returned. The timing was immaculate. Uncanny in fact. The first clue had been the bathroom door slightly ajar. I knew I’d shut it earlier. It put me on my guard at once. My hand flew to my pocket. Ready. Ready for any surprise. Any movement. I’d worked my way through the bedrooms. One by one. Cautious. Listening. Looking. Little clues gave away her trail. Something moved here. Something disturbed there. Every door was opened expecting a fright. A collision of minds and bodies. She wasn’t here. Not upstairs. The stairs creaked as I made my way down. No way to make my entrance a surprise. I just had to be prepared. My hand loitered inside my pocket. My fingers gripping tightly. The hallway mat was crooked. I’d missed that on the way in. Or had it happened since I went upstairs? I froze. Listened. Nothing. Perhaps I just missed it. The kitchen door was an inch open. The lock never worked properly. I peeped through the crack between the frame. No shadows gave away any body. I took a breath. Swept the door back in one flurry and stood still. The fridge hummed. Nothing else. The drawers all appeared closed. The cupboard doors shut. Strange. I’d expected some evidence of a search here. What was she looking for? I spun around. Lounge or dining room? I chose the latter. Nothing of concern to her lay in there. It was empty. But was the vase of flowers on the bureau turned forty-five degrees? Had she looked there? But why? The lounge door was wide open. As always. I had no cover. No wooden frame to hide behind. It would have to be all or nothing. Most of the room lay to the right of the doorway. I rushed in. Spun to my right. My hand shot out from my pocket. And there she was. Laid out cool on the sofa. Eyes blinking. In command. As always. She sat up as I approached. And purred as I slipped the cat harness over her long-whiskered head.

 

 

 

Guest post – Real Charlie’s angels

(an offering from ‘Jessica’ who used to write a blog back around 2010-12 and who now concentrates on writing books. “One of my recurring posts was about three young women sharing a house in Dulwich, London. Here’s one of my favourite pieces, based on a true event. Thanks, Jamie, for letting me resurrect it.”)

‘And what about last night…another classic episode in the lives of three simple girls in Dulwich.

About 8pm me and Lucy are sitting in the lounge listening to music while Rosie is upstairs in her bedroom doing…well, it’s never a good idea to ask what Rosie alone does in her room…
Suddenly Rosie comes hurtling down the stairs at full speed.
‘Rats! We’ve got rats!’
At once me and Lucy lifted our feet off the floor. After Rosie had calmed down she claimed she had heard a scraping sound coming from the loft. It took a while but she did at last convince us, so reluctantly we went up and sat in her room for 10 minutes listening. Not a sound. Back down we went, leaving a worried Rosie behind. A few minutes later…down she comes again.
‘Rats” Mice! Something! In the loft!!’
Here we go again…me and Lucy looked at each other and dragged ourselves upstairs again. Nothing. Down we went again…10 minutes later…
‘Rats! Rats! Mice! There is defo something in the loft!’
We had just about had enough of this and only just managed to stop ourselves from locking Rosie in the downstairs loo. But we are nice friends…so we trooped upstairs yet again! We sat on Rosie’s bed and listened. And…
There was a scraping sound!!!!!
Yikes!
We all leapt on the bed together in surprise. We thought about calling one of our neighbours but said, hang on, we’re tough cookies from South London, we can deal with this ourselves!
A few minutes later we are clambering up the ladder into the loft, torches in hand and rolling pins at the ready – well, Rosie couldn’t find one so she grabbed the nearest longish round object from her room…say no more…- and we started to look around the loft.
We stood there by the loft flap in the dusty, box-filled space and scanned everywhere with out torches.
Nothing.
We listened.
Silence.
We were about to suggest going back down when we heard it again – a definite scraping sound.
OMG!!!!
It was a rat or a mouse!!
It had to be!
Lucy nearly fell down the loft stairs, followed by us two. But, we’re brave, tough, no-messing-with-us-girls, aren’t we, so we went back up, went further in and began looking behind boxes.
Suddenly there was the sound again!
As I fell back in shock I knocked over a large packing case.
Bang!
Onto the loft floor…dust everywhere.
And there we stood, in the middle of the loft…just like Charlie’s Angels, back to back, torches shining out, trying to find the rat or mouse. What we would do if we found it was anyone’s guess…
Then the front door bell rang.
We nearly hit the roof joists in surprise!
Now what? Down we went, carefully closing the hatch to stop whatever it was coming down into the house. We opened the door. It was John from next door. He looked a little startled – three girls, covered in dust and cobwebs, shining torches into his face and looking like they just seen a ghost.
‘Er, just wondered if you girls were ok? I heard a tremendous thump from your loft just now. I’ve been up in my loft room scraping the woodchip paper off the wall, hell of a job……….’
Let’s just say John very nearly went home with a torch inserted where torchlight wouldn’t be of much use…

 

 

 

Do You Want To Know A Secret?

(this is a follow-on for ‘The Dancing Girl’ post. That one ended suggesting the girl was a ghost. I then thought, there are so many tales like this I wondered how you could continue the story having come to that type of ending. Here is my attempt. It changes the story from the ‘ghost genre’ to something else and leaves a lot still to be explained. I’m not sure it works, although I quite like the first half of the writing)

Three days later I returned to the property. The keys turned slow in the locks, the doors eased open with reluctant agony. I stopped on the thresholds, breath held, ears peeled like when I used to smoke a Lucky out the bedroom window scared ma might get back early from the store.

‘Rose?’

My word echoed eerie around walls which seemed lent in, listening.

‘Rose?’

Nothing.

‘Anyone here?’

I went up the last few creaking stairs to the room where I’d encountered Rose, her, whoever, whatever, I had the other day.

Just a damned squatter. Maybe, Mr Diederich, maybe.

Real estate agent Diederich had phoned to say he’d sent a junior around to check the place out, no-one was there and no evidence was found of anyone living in the property. He’d asked the local cops to drift past in a black and white, see if any light shone from the dust-washed windows. The owners, a trust fund, were keen to sell, he reckoned they’d take an offer ten percent under the asking price.

Did I want to find Rose? If I didn’t, and never did, would that send the shivers up my spine every time I thought about the building?

My hand wrapped around the well patinated brass doorknob. I hesitated.

‘Rose? You there?’

My heart was thumping. Stupid jerk, I thought. It’s just a vacant house and a young woman playing games.

The door yowled open quiet. It hadn’t the first time I came, but then I’d swung it wide and strode in confident, assessing ceiling cracks and bouncy floorboards.

The room was bare, empty, nada around.

I breathed relief. Or was it disappointment.

Fine, it was a great property, perfect for renovation into five, six large apartments. Money could be made here. I did a circuit of the space, judging dimensions.

But my eyes floated more than once to the center where she’d danced. Was the dust disturbed there? A slow breeze oozed through a cracked window. That could explain an uneven spread. What was I, a PI?

A door stood on the far right, I guessed through to a store for the alcohol back when the place reverberated to saxophones and trumpets and fast paced feet. Off there, two more doors waited, closed. I moved to the nearest.

And stopped.

A voice drifted faint. From the furthest door.

A girl’s voice.

Holy crap.

I froze.

Run? Never come back. Tell Diederich to go stick his property where the Chicago wind probably emanated from? Or..?

I stepped forward. A floorboard acted as an alarm, squeak creaking on downward and upward pressure.

Closer. I caught words. Sung soft, a whisper, words for a lover’s ear.

‘Do you want to know a secret?’

Then silence.

‘Rose?’

I waited. Checked the door back into the large room. Just in case. In case of what? You never know, do you?

‘Hey, that you, big timer?’

A girl’s voice. Her voice.

My legs said get out, my thumping heart ached a beat out.

‘Rose?’

‘You got a crush on me, Mr Sanders? You can’t stay away?’

I hadn’t moved. Which way to go?

The far door opened, no creak, no cry of underused wood.

Rose leaned on the frame. No gold tassels wrapped her body, a blue dress this time, knee-length, dropped waistline, v-shaped neck, two strings of beads hanging flat over the chest, white Mary Jane’s on the smallest feet I’d ever seen. Whoever she was she liked the ‘20s look. And wore it well.

She ran a hand through her dark fringe, brushing hair over a matching blue headband. The look reminded me of someone, a photo I’d seen one wet afternoon in the city library. Ah, yeah, Louise Brooks. Rose had deep red on her bee-stung lips. A black and white photo would have you crying ‘snap’ with Louise.

‘What, what, what are you doing here, Rose?’

She hitched a drawn-in eyebrow, the edge of her mouth lifted. Confidence hung like mist around the girl. I was a nervous wreck.

‘What’s eating you, Mr Sanders? You nervous of little old me? I ain’t nothing but a hopper.’

‘I’m just surprised, to see you here. The building, it’s meant to be vacant, ready to be bought. Diederich said he’d checked it out, no-one was here, you weren’t here.’

My words ricocheted out. Why? Was it the memory of old man Diederich’s photo of Rose and her sister Clara? Or was the girl getting to me, so beautiful, so self-assured?

‘Pah, Diederich, ish kabibble. Joseph never even tried to find Clara, them Diederich’s, they’re all high hats and flat tires.’

Clara. I’d wondered what became of her, meant to google the name, forgot in the rush of work. I looked at Rose, saw that same mischievous stare I’d seen on my phone photograph of her.

‘Clara. What became of your sister?’

As I asked the question I realised the cleverness of my inquiry. Would this actress, this squatter, know the truth, or be able to lie fast? I could check later. For the first time since entering the building I felt a confidence of my own returning.

‘I like you, Mr Sanders, but it’s none of your beeswax, is it? You gotta beware chin music, never know the trouble it might bring. My sister was darb, that’s all you need to know.’

‘And you wouldn’t know, would you, Rose?’

I was headrushing now, breathing deep, sure I had this young woman on the ropes.  My hand shot out.

‘Shake hands, Rose, shake hands.’

Flesh and blood can’t be, can’t be, a ghost. There, I’d it said to myself, the thought idling in my brain’s parking lot, afraid to be burning rubber into my mouth.

Rose’s eyes glinted beneath the heavy mascara, a tooth nicked her lower lip. She reached out, shook soft and warm.

See, she was real, tender to the touch, and no ethereal being haunting an old derelict dance hall.

‘Why, Mr Sanders, now we’re introduced you gonna offer to Middle Aisle me? Gonna buy me a manacle?’

I let go, glanced at my watch, realized I was late for meeting Dwight, my business partner, on the east side.

‘I’m buying the building, Rose, you’ll need to be out in a few weeks.’

‘Take care, Mr Sanders, don’t take any wooden nickels.’

She turned away, headed back into the room. My hand was on the door into the main building when words floated up the short hallway.

‘Do you want to know a secret, Do you promise not to say, whoa oh, oh…’

A mistake. I turned, ran to Rose’s door, pulled it open, saw her back to me as she stood over a bed, a suitcase draped with a yellow tasselled dress. I reached out to grasp her shoulder.

‘It’s ‘promise not to tell’, not ‘say’…’

And stumbled to the bare wooden floor, landing on my knees, a horrible emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

My hand had gone right through Rose’s body.

She looked down at me.

‘He’s here, Mr Sanders. You’ll have to come with me.’

‘Who? What? Rose, I just…’

Everything went black. Then white. Then the room returned into my vision. I was still kneeling, Rose’s fingers holding my wrist.

‘We gotta go, Mr Sanders, in case he gets lucky.’

‘Who? Lucky about what? Hell, Rose, what the…’

I held back on my language. Rose’s face had fear written in capital letters right across it.

‘The fire exit, Mr Sanders, it’s still safe, I’ve used it before.’

Rose pulled me into the hallway, the suitcase in her other hand, bundled us through an end door I’d missed and we clattered down iron stairs which I suspected dated to the original building. It was raining steadily. Strange. It’d been a sunny, clear day earlier and the forecast was dry.

‘This way, Mr Sanders, there’s an empty house two along.’

‘If you’re frightened of someone, Rose, we can take my car, it’s right outside the building.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘What?’

Rose’s urgent steps and pull on my arm put a period on any further dialogue.

We dived into a porch of a one story house, a For Sale sign leaning lazy to one side.

I slapped my thoughts into order.

‘Enough. Who’re you running from? And why did my hand pass straight through you?’

My eyes were wide, anger and fright mixed like a stirred-crazy cocktail. In front of me was still a 1920s Flapper. It was bizarre.

Rose’s look had returned to the one I saw when she danced into my heart.

‘I’m a long way out of place, Mr Sanders. Many hundreds of years. You ain’t gonna believe that, are you? You might think it all hooey. But remember that blackness? Go back and try and find your car too. And the weather, kinda different, huh?’

‘You’re freaking me out, Rose. And why you singing a Beatles’ song when you tried to scare me with the ‘20s act?’

‘The 60s were kinda darb too. I liked it there.’

‘Are there men in white coats looking for you?’

Rose’s eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t get that reference. Your tone suggests I better not. I’ll get you back.’

Before I could say anything Rose grasped my wrist. Everything went black. Then white. We were back in the building, ground floor, by the rear door.

‘Your Jalopy’s out front. Go.’

My knees wobbled. I reached out, placed a hand against a brick wall warm from the sun.

‘I gotta go, Mr Sanders. If you want, I’ll meet you here tomorrow, around five in the afternoon.’

She pushed open the door. And disappeared. A voice drifted faint through the wood.

‘Do you want to know a secret…’