Frosted Needles (warning explicit language)

The large steel door creaked and slammed shut as Adam climbed the last few steps to the roof. As he shuffled towards the railings the bitterly cold chill cut its way through his clothing. Heavy frost clung to every surface; only solitary thawed drops were allowed to escape. Adam shivered as one found its path through his layers to warm skin….hanging his head, he sighed.  Beneath him, frosted crystals shone with an orange aura, twinkling in the streetlights. It looked like glitter. He thought of a Christmas card that once stood on the mantle…he sighed again.  On the floor by the railings Adam spotted a small coin nestled in bed of frosted needles. He picked it up and looked at it. Lifting his head he gazed at his view; there was a calm warmth about it, all golden and at rest. For a while he stood completely motionless, the only movement being a tuft of his coal black hair twitching in the breeze…

‘Why are you sighing? You sad piece of shit! I suppose you think that by hanging your head down being miserable, that no one notices you. But they do notice…because you smell and you’re filthy. They notice because they know what you did!’

Looking over the edge, Adam noticed how close the ground seemed. He stroked the face on the coin.

‘Yeah go on flip it, heads you don’t, tails you do, at least then you’ll feel like you've got some fucking control…ha ha ha’

Heads

Adam tried to ignore the irritating verbal in his head. The voice pierced through his every waking thought. It dug deep into his dreams when he slept, if he slept. It had been his constant companion for the last few weeks and Adam was drained! His clothes were torn and filthy. Faded jeans covered thin white legs; a black t-shirt clung to his skinny torso. The hooded sweatshirt he wore as a jacket was as waterproof as a paper bag and not much warmer. The sleeves hid the intimacy he’d had with a razor once. His face was tear-stained from bloodshot eyes. The grime of the streets was five years thick and home was a corner of the roof-space.  He had reached that place in the dark where there were no more lights. Trying to control his thoughts Adam started to hum his favorite song…the verbal piped up again…

‘Humming? Seriously! Do you actually think that will shut me up, drown me out? What a waste of space you are. I suppose you think you can sing? You know what will shut me up’

Tails

The wind was picking up a little, a layer of snow thick enough for a covering had settled while he’d been stood there. The town below echoed that on the Christmas card, all peaceful and calm. Closing his eyes, he remembered, snow angels, ice-dens and icicles as ‘long as your arm’ and how the snow suffocated all that lay beneath it…he dropped his head again and sighed.

‘Oh there you go being all sentimental…you stupid prick! Bloody snow-angels… what a joke!!...I remember you as a boy!!! Pathetic little git who wet himself all the time…Smelly Wiggins… yeah that’s what they called you…’

Heads

Adam thought back to his childhood. Verbal was right! The local kids were cruel, most kids are. They didn't know what kind of life he was living. They didn’t see what he saw. To them he was just a tatty kid. Deprived of the things that make children smile; toys, sweets, holidays, clothes, shoes, food and love.

There was a happier time, him and mum had just moved into the town and he was starting a new school. The house was clean, mum was clean; he was clean. Then the dickhead came, then Sally came, then..., Adam signed again. From that moment all memories of being happy always included Sally.

‘What’s that? You happy! When? Never… that’s when!! As long as I've known you ain't ever been happy…you’re just a sad little prick. Ah yes Sally! Pretty little thing, you two were close. She idolized you, shame! She knows what you did.  Can you live with that...now you’re all alone?’

Tails

The crap wasn't obvious at first, the odd shouting spat and a broken window or two. Things were ok. It was around the time Sally started walking that it changed. The drink, the names, the shouts, the slaps, pushes, punches, tears and pain all rained down on three of them. The dickhead would always be bringing boxes of stolen stuff home. Mum would always be making herself look beautiful just so he could call her a slag and then after it would be him, Adam, holding her while she’d cried. He remembered the first time his mum scarred her skin. The first time he saw her with a black eye and the first time he felt the same. He stopped going to school. He stayed at home, helped look after Sally, while mum slept off the drunken abuse from the night before.  Adam remembered that Christmas…the last one at home …

‘Yeah Christmas, what started that fight? You know…that fight!!! That moment! What was it that pushed that button? You know they will find him…you didn't hide the body right, cause you’re a fucking idiot. Five years of weather will reveal it…then they will find you’

Tails

Closing his eyes again Adam pictured the knife, upright in the body on the living room floor. Christmas was trashed but the presents remained wrapped. Mum had run out with Sally when the fight began. When they returned, both men were gone. On Boxing Day when Adam came back, his mum went for him. Slapping his face while she screamed, she believed the dickhead had just left her and it was his fault. For all his pleading no amount of truth broke through the beaten down woman’s head. Without a goodbye, Adam left…

‘She never believed you. She blamed you!!! She just thinks he left, what if she knew the truth, maybe she does know! You never even said goodbye to Sally…bet she hates you now. What would she say if she saw you, you sad bleeding twat…she’s better off without you!’

Tails

Adjusting his grip, Adam felt the metal frozen to his skin…a gentle pull and the fresh breeze cut though the new reddened sore on his palm.

‘Oh now look what you've done you stupid git. Fucking freeze burn. Go on! I see you looking…thinking that will shut me up…go on!!.........let go…

Tails

Verbal’s tone had taken a lower sinister feel to it…like a razor sharp whisper. Adam opened his eyes and looked down. There were lights now coming from a small café a short distance away. He could smell coffee and bacon. Smoke and steam were illuminated by the coldness in the air. The day was awakening and Adam knew it was time to move on.

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

Sticking her nose over the polystyrene cup, Sally inhaled the aroma of her hot coffee. Sitting on the wide window ledge she leaned back and glanced up at the falling snow. She smiled remembering when she was little. The ice dens in the garden, games invented by Adam to hide from the bad stuff indoors. They made snow angels, his little angel Adam would say. For as far back as she could remember it was always her and Adam. Mum was asleep a lot during the day and the waste of space she shacked up with walked through them like they didn't exist…until that Christmas…

Adam had been a memory for years; her social worker said that he’d gone off the radar…whatever that meant? She knew she missed him. Even more on days like this. She wasn't angry anymore that he’d left, she just thought of him often. It had been rough. Mum left leaving Sally behind, she was sixteen; it turned out to be a blessing. With Adams help Sally had grown up savvy, she was smart, a hard worker. This knowledge had served her well…

Sally loved town on mornings like this. She glanced down the road. The soft white blanket wrapped itself over the ground, hiding the gloomy littered speckled streets. The rain that fell the day before had frozen overnight and glistening shards hugged to every surface. A golden glow added a fire like heat. There was a peace that only a select group of eyes saw. Sally was one of the lucky ones. The first of the days transport were leaving tracks in the fresh virgin snow. The small café on the corner had just opened. Familiar faces greeted her as she smiled a ‘hi’ at them. Every morning Sally brought her coffee here. Every morning she saw the same people. Every morning she sat on the same ledge and every morning was the same…until…

Sally looked at the small coin nestling on a bed of frosted needles; she looked up to see a face looking back.

‘What is it?’ a voice called.

‘Heads’ Sally replied.

©Mills Laine

Phoenix

PHOENIX

 ‘You flat-lined for 19 seconds’ the gentle handed man- who was sat on the edge of my bed - said.

Not the usual response you expect when waking up. But there he was, gently tapping my hand. Informing me that the day before...I died! But he and his colleague had saved me. Now I know what you must be thinking...what did I die of? Well blood loss...I think! The gentle handed man did say I also needed a full blood transfusion. So I assume that ‘death’ happened around the same time. The pain in my chest was from the defibrillator. Never did I think when seeing it being used on TV. That it would hurt so bloody much. I felt like someone had knelt on my chest for a lifetime.

So there I was lying in bed being tapped on the hand whilst trying to get my head round my ‘death’. Have you ever stopped still and counted 19 seconds...it takes ages!! I did wonder if at any point the gentle handed man or his colleague thought...

‘Oh sod it, she’s dead...lets just leave it, we can be in the pub by 12’

I have to admit. I’m very glad that they chose not to ‘sod it’. I think I fell in love with that gentle handed man on my bed. He told me I had second chance at life and must make every bit of his life-saving certificate count. So I lay there thinking about what I could do. Being as right now I couldn’t even tell if I was peeing myself or not. The future did not look bright.

The gentle handed man has gone on his rounds. He’s left me lying, thinking, planning, and weighing up the pros and cons of a lifestyle ‘change’. I was thinking my life had changed. No longer could I develop a little person inside me. There was no womb for it. I’d spent decades trying with no success. I’d had years of pain from the development of a lesser known disease I caught after the birth of my son. Now I was relieved.

Later that day, I attempted to eat some ‘nutritious food’ which basically involved slurping down some red jelly stuff and being sick afterwards. Even so I did manage to roll myself out of bed. Whilst attached by a thin clear tube to the hat-stand that housed a bag of fluid. This clear liquid had been dripping into my arm ever since my ‘death’. Hat-stand had become a permanent fixture. I loved Hat-Stand with its bag of fluid. Which was good as it was to be my companion for the next few days. Anyway, after rolling out of bed...I went to the shower room. Lifting the yucky nightie I had to wear for modesty sakes. I glanced at the black n blue mess that was my stomach. I cried.

The event that followed reminded me of potty training my son, although could have done without the ‘how to’ instructions. The need to go but endless waiting as the body refuses to let go. Needless to say a long while later I emerged. Relieved!

I’d been told by the gentle handed man. I needed to walk around, not lie in bed all the time. My brain was saying ‘hang on a cotton pigging minute...I did die you know, in bed is exactly where I want to be’. But the gentle handed man insisted...telling the blue clothed woman not to feed me till I’d walked. So Hat-Stand and I went for a walk. All the way to the end of the corridor and all the way back again. A forty foot round trip that in future would take me a few minutes. Today however...half an hour! Passing the windows of my shared room, I could see sad, painful looks. Sick women lying on their beds, attempting to watch TV with no sound as one had just been brought back from theatre...she was snoring!

At lunchtime I was sat at the table awaiting my walks reward. A large male entered with a silver trolley that smelt great. As I died the day before, my lunch was the choice of whomever. It comprised of brown stuff next to white stuff. A glass of juice, at least I think it was juice, and a pot of red jelly like stuff. I gave that a miss. I played with my ‘food’ like I was 6 years old again. Childlike, I made swirly patterns by mixing the brown and white stuff together to make lighter brown stuff. Painkillers rock!

At 2 o’ clock a woman in white came in. She turned off the silent TV. Closed the curtains and informed us that it was ‘nap time’. Sixty minutes rest before the families arrive. As I had been ‘active’ the thought of going back to sleep was annoying. I told the woman in white that I didn’t want to sleep as I had slept and died yesterday. Today with the help of painkillers I wanted to live. She was having none of it. I napped.

When I woke, I asked if it was possible to go for a shower. Yellow stuff was coating my black n blue stomach. I felt mucky, dirty, like I’d been buried in custard. It had got into all the cracks. ‘If you’re careful of your stitches’ the blue clothed woman said. Hat-stand and I showered.

The gentle handed man came back just before the next round of red jelly stuff. He sat on the edge of my bed. He asked me how I’m feeling and had I walked, eaten and been to the bathroom. He is so polite. I love him. I said I felt ok but in a lot of pain. He replied with ‘take it easy, don’t rush, and give yourself time to heal’. I have all the time in the world...I said.  

The large male with the silver trolley passed the gentle handed man in the doorway. I walked to the table and waited. The six year old inside already had knife n fork in hand, waiting to mix and mash the colours to make yuck! The adult outside was hoping there were other colours being served. Who got their wish? Yes you guessed it! YUCK!

The shared room takes on a mystical appearance in the evening hours. The snorer was awake but quiet. The TV had some volume but only if you were sat under it.  The hands on the clock counted down to family time.  I wondered if there was somewhere I could go. Somewhere quiet, away from families. I didn’t want to nap. I didn’t want to be visited. I wanted to think. I wanted to plan. The fire exit door brought a welcomed cool breeze.

The families had gone when I returned to the shared room. The TV was silent. The snorer was well....snoring! Jigsaws and books filled the spaces in the other women’s heads. I sat on my bed. I lay a hand on my stomach. The painkillers had worn off enough for me to feel pain.  I cried.

The woman in blue brought my daily pills and changed the bag on Hat-Stand. I lay quietly on my bed till the warm pill blanket covered me. I closed my eyes. The gentle handed man would be here soon. My mood lifted.

The gentle-handed man’s voice was kind and soft.

‘How do you feel?’ he whispered.

I opened my eyes.

‘Alive’ I said.

©Mills Laine

Waiting

Waiting

The small envelope on Alice’s phone spun to show a text had been sent. She sat back in her seat gazing out the window. In that instant she regretted sending it. If only she could stop it arriving at the other mobile. But it was too late. It had gone. Now all she could do was wait for an answer... if there was one!

Alice grabbed another coffee. Returning to her seat she checked her phone again. No messages! Daydreaming she thought about Thursday past......

            She’d spent the morning studying for a forthcoming exam.  The afternoon was filled chatting with friends over coffee. Alice was excited about the night’s events. She was off to the pub with her roommate for its live music. One band in particular!

Alice smiled as she thought about Daniel the bassist. His cute face she first saw back in the summer. How she’d cheekily asked her friend to ‘go get him to sign’ the band’s CD. And how Daniel had not just wrote his signature on the side with the others. But a whole message on the blank side.

‘To Alice, thanks for listening, hope to see you at the next one, love Daniel x’

The ‘next’ one Alice missed and the one after that. Other commitments had come first. When she next saw Daniel it was last Thursday. The cold winter chill had left crystals on the ground. There was a cool breeze and icy drizzle. A text from her roommate and she was on her way to the pub. Alice stood outside waiting. Lighting a cigarette she composed herself. Alice looked round for her roommate; the text said she’d be there in 10 minutes. That was 15 minutes ago. Nerves were getting the better of her, although she didn’t know why. It had been three months since she’d seen him. He probably had a girlfriend now and had forgotten all about her.

Alice’s roommate arrived a minute later. They descended the stairs into the seductive atmosphere below. With its alcohol branded mirrors. Artwork from local artists and signed album covers from bands that had played there over the years. Heading straight to the bar, they toasted the evening with a drink. Alice drank hers down and ordered another. ‘Dutch courage’ she stated. Her roommate smiled a knowing smile that said Alice was falling in love. Alice of course had no idea.

A drink or two later they were joined by the band. Daniel was there being as cute as ever.  With his shaven head, beefy build and a shy look in his eye. Alice was sure he could tell exactly what was on her mind. As if ‘you’re cute as hell’ was written all over her face. Wandering down to the stage, she watched as they set up for the sound check. Alice loved their music and the bass especially.

When they had finished, Geoff and Daniel went out for a fag. Alice joined them. It was still raining. Looking round, the city was busy with Thursday night pub goers. Dodging cars, they crossed the street in the hope of finding somewhere dry to smoke. The other side of the road offered nothing but Daniel spotted a vacant doorway. Reaching out for Alice's hand he quickly ran back across the road to the door with her in tow. Alice totted on her heels.

Now dry. They chatted about the band, music, and the weather. Alice just wanted Daniel to hold her hand again. The electricity from the last time was tingling all over her body. She tried not to stare at him and acted normal: well as normal as she could. This all proved one thing...there was no way he’d have held her hand if there was a girlfriend. Alice smiled a relieved but giggly smile.

Back inside the band got ready to play. After getting a drink Alice positioned herself to the left of the stage. She had a perfect view across to the right side where Daniel was loosening his fingers waiting for the nod to start.

‘Boom’

The music was deafening. But Alice loved it. She danced and swayed. Dreamily she watched Daniel as he plucked the deep notes out of the bass. And when he started to sing she swooned. The deep seductive tones made the hairs on her neck stand up. ‘I will have this man’ she whispered to her roommate. Her roommate smiled that knowing smile again.

‘Yeah...if he fits in with your “ok to date” age thing’ she said.

Of course, Alice HAD thought of this. She’d halved her age and added seven.

‘As long as he’s over 27’ Alice informed her roommate. ‘Then he’s fair game’

It turned out that Daniel was 30. Alice grinned at the news but was aware that the age difference might be a problem for him, unless of course he was into older women! The drinks flowed freely and her Dutch courage grew. Alice waited for the band to finish with the full intention of spending the rest of the night flirting like mad with Daniel. The last song reached the end and Alice’s heart skipped a beat or two. As the band came off stage, Alice prepared to say something only to be met by Daniel’s eyes.

‘Fancy a fag?’ he said.

‘Yeah ok,’ Alice replied glancing over at her roommate with a childlike excited grin and a very noticeable glint in her eye.  

Taking her hand Daniel led the way. It was still raining outside. A queue of people stood at a nearby bus stop waiting for taxis. The smell of fresh chips floated out from the chip shop next door. Loads of people were bustling about working out the best way to get home. Some staggered around whilst others sat on the wet pavement. In the same vacant doorway, Alice and Daniel chatted about nothing and everything. Neither noticed time passing. Neither cared.

When Daniel’s mobile rang, they both jumped. It was Geoff wondering where they were as they had been ‘gone’ for ages and he was ready to head back the 70 miles to their home. Alice’s heart sank at the thought of Daniel leaving; she had no idea when or if she would see him again. What she didn’t know then was Daniel was thinking the same.

‘We better head back inside’ Alice said

‘Yeah’ replied Daniel.

Taking her hand, they walked slowly back towards the pub. Half-way Daniel stopped.

‘I suppose I’d better kiss you’ he said.

‘Yeah suppose so,’ Alice replied.

Daniel slid his one hand around Alices waist; the other gently held her face. As their lips touched the world stopped, there was no sound, even the rain hung motionless in the air. Endlessly they kissed.

For the following week Alice had talked the ears off her roommate about that kiss. Was it a drunken one? Would there be any more? It didn’t ‘feel’ like a drunken one. I wasn’t that drunk!! Was I? It had taken 7 full days of texting different people to get Daniel’s number. Thanks to Geoff she now had it.

‘Hi Daniel, got ur num off Geoff, hope u don’t mind. wanted to let u know i really enjoyed that kiss last week.. Alice J’

Ding-ding...ding-ding.

Alice’s mobile vibrated on the table dragging her back to the present. Her heart skipped a beat. The little envelope sign flashed like a beacon and nervously she clicked to open it.

‘Hi Alice, no i don’t mind. i enjoyed that kiss too, thought about nothing else J Daniel x’

Happily relieved Alice clicked reply.

©Mills Laine

Mistaken Identiy

Mistaken Identity.

Sitting on the kerb we watched as the police went in and out of number 22 Albert Road. A large black van had arrived earlier and something wrapped in black plastic was removed. We had a feeling it was a body but realistically had no idea. We just knew our mate Jack was missing and so was the woman from number 22.  It was after the pub on Monday night we lost Jack in the crowd at kicking out time. This wasn’t unusual so we expected to hear from him later with tales of his latest conquest. But that was three days back; it was unlike Jack to bugger off without a bye or leave. And there was no way he wouldn’t have got in touch.   

            The officer at the station said that we were right to be concerned as a nutter was loose preying on young men. For four or five weeks the newspapers had carried the headlines:

‘HALF EATEN BODIES FOUND, POLICE ENQUIRE ABOUT MISSING LOCAL MEN’

            Rumours had started straight after the word got out that all the missing men had drunk in The Dogs Kennel, the local pub on the corner. That’s where we lost sight of Jack on Monday. An incident room had been set up in the pub car park.  The landlord wasn’t chuffed about it as it meant he could no longer have his lock-ins after hours. We weren’t best pleased either, no more sneaky joints out back for the time being. The police had called at all the houses on our street and we were interviewed in turn. None of us knew any of the missing men so that was that...until now!

            Like most places our town was bursting at the seams. Nearly all the kids from our school had either moved away to somewhere better or like us stayed and signed on. Unemployment was rife and finding any kind of work - even cash in hand odd jobs - was a daily grind. Grass cutting, hedge clipping and window washing all helped stretch the pennies into pounds.

            Albert Road was a dead end. It ended abruptly at a large brick wall. Tall Victorian terraced houses lined both sides. Wheelie bin sized gardens allowed some privacy with their low walls and neatly trimmed hedges. Wide pavements filled the space to the cobbled road. It was quiet, respectable, some what serene...until now!

            The occupant of number 22, Octavia Mulgrove was in her late fifties. We thought more like 45. A glamorous granny, who made an effort in the way she looked and the wolf whistles, proved she was doing something right.  We didn’t really know that much about her. It had been said that she came from a small town somewhere down south. Had been married but husband died couple of years back. Had three grown up kids - that never visited- and some grandkids. That’s all we knew.

            We’d see Octavia most days walking up the street, sometimes alone and sometimes with company.  It’s those times that were most interesting. If we’d seen her going out earlier in the day we would glue ourselves to an upstairs window watching, waiting, ready to guess the age of the latest visitor. Usually this would be just a few years older than us. We’d seen loads of young guys going in and out of number 22 ever since Octavia moved in. They call them cougars these days, older women going after younger men. We thought this was super funny but the local gossips didn’t. They’d been surmising all sorts of goings on inside. Words like disgraceful and disgusting were banded over the back fences. Usually by women whose faces hadn’t been touched by glamour. We thought jealously more like. 

            It was odd jobs that led us to number 22. One Monday morning, we spent a couple of hours cleaning all the windows and tidying up the garden out the back. When Octavia offered us coffee and cake, we jumped at the chance to get warm inside by the fire. It also gave us the opportunity to have a nosey inside cougar mansion.

            Pushing open the back door we were faced by the strong smell of fresh made coffee. The kitchen was clean and very modern, designer spec. Not at all like other grannies kitchens. No home made cakes. No cupboards full of tinned food. And no cosy on a teapot, in fact there was no teapot, just a high-tech cappuccino machine. Number 22, wasn’t so much stepping into the past, more like a leaping into the future. We didn’t have a cappa-what-you-ma-call-it machine. Ours was just a kettle with one-cup teabags and coffee from a jar. But if Octavia’s kitchen took us by surprise the rest of the house left us gob-smacked! It was a minimalist, spotless space with wooden floors throughout. A number of selective pieces of designer furniture were precisely placed around the lounge. Lounge! We had living rooms in our houses.

            The fire in the longue was a hole in the wall full of stones. Some fancy designer thing. That only felt warm if you stood right in front of it. Octavia entered with mugs of coffee, some Columbian brand. Though we didn’t care: it was coffee...

            We sat chatting about the garden and other jobs she wanted doing. Our minds were curious about the younger men. To be honest Octavia was a stunner for a woman older than our mams. But none of us could bring ourselves to see her in any other light except the old woman from across the road. At least that’s what we thought. It seemed however that Jack had a bit of a thing for older women. It was easy to assume that at some point they had become...close! But run away together...Nah...we didn’t think so. Even-though it would explain where they both were.

            The police are still filing in and out of number 22. We’re still sitting in the street watching. The rest of the street has joined us. The gossips are adding their two bits to the proceedings. And for a moment Albert Street seems exciting for a dull grey Thursday lunchtime. The black van has gone and been replaced by two police cars and a smaller white van. Out of which had come a bunch of blokes dressed in white plastic all-in-ones.

            A heavy built officer came over and informed us that there was ‘nothing more to see’ and that we should all go back home. This wasn’t going to happen until we knew the whereabouts of Jack. Had they gone off together? Or was that glamorous granny really a cold sadistic killer and our mate Jack the latest victim.

            The whole street was now standing opposite number 22. The talk of Octavia being the killer heightened the anticipation and had the gossips on overdrive. We listened puzzled at the bits of tittle-tattle.

            ‘I heard she had more than one at a time’

            ‘Never!’

            ‘Oh yes, played the field she did!’

            ‘Don’t believe it, she always looked so respectable’

            ‘Well I knew as soon as those lace curtains went up’

            ‘You never said anything to me’

            ‘Oh yes- lace curtains with all that designer furniture, not a chance’

            ‘And then there were those young men’

            ‘Come to clean the windows indeed’

            ‘Did she drink in the Kennel?’

            ‘No idea but the missing men all did at some point, so I’ve heard’

            ‘And were any of the men that were murdered ever at Octavia’s?’

            ‘Ahh well, who knows!’

            Obviously that, was some sort of secret code between the gossips, one that only they would understand. To us it was just a stream of voices. All sounding the same, with a know-it-all whine attached. At one point we couldn’t even tell who it was talking. Becoming bored we left the gossips yapping and went inside.

            We’d not been indoors long when there was an almighty crack of thunder. Outside went a darker shade of dull. And the heavens opened. We laughed as one by one everyone disappeared into their homes. Alone one solitary policeman stood at the gate to number 22. We watched as the wetness travelled up his legs and down his face. Within minutes he was soaked through just in time for another officer to bring him a waterproof coat. We couldn’t quite make out what was said, but the wet one wasn’t happy. We were still laughing minutes later.

            The rain continued for most of the day. As night set in we still waited for news of Jack. The police kept arriving and going but none came over to tell us anything. The wet officer had been changed to a temporary dry one and was standing at the gate. We considered taking him a cuppa, but it was still chucking it down so we thought ...sod it!

            We retraced our steps from Monday night. We'd all been in the Kennel. It was a good night. A group of lasses kept giving us the eye. As the night went on the 2 groups merged. Jack was chatting with this blonde woman. A bit later he came over alone saying he was going for a piss. We finished our drinks and invited the gals back here. We left the pub at kicking out time. Saw Jack outside, thought he'd followed us till next morning when he wasn't there. So assumed he shacked up with the blonde woman. But it wasn't Octavia.

            Jack always kept stuff like that close to his chest. But if he was having a thing with the woman over the road, we'd know about it, this street never misses anything. We saw him every day even though he lived on the other side of town. Rarely for a whole day as he always had other things going on. We thought it would be possible for them to meet somewhere else judging on the nosiness of Albert road. Jacks flat wouldn’t have done, he wasn’t the tidiest of people. No way would a posh bird like Octavia be entertained in there. Slowly the thoughts that they had buggered off together disappeared. We were really thinking about the ‘item’ that was removed was it really Jack!

The police always have a way of knocking on a door as if removing it from its hinges is the intention. The officers on the other side flashed badges in our faces and requested entry.  They informed us that a formal identity had been made on the human remains found early in the day and that they wished to speak to Jack...

‘JACK?’

‘He’s been missing for days, we haven’t seen him, was it not him in the black plastic?’

‘No sir, the human remains are female, and believed to be that of Ms Mulgrove.

‘Octavia dead! But how?’

‘We believe that she had known her killer there was no sign of a break in...She was last seen on Monday evening with a young man. Witnesses say she was wearing a blonde wig’

Ahh the blonde woman...maybe we were a little over lubricated than we thought. It must have been Octavia.

‘Yes, we have evidence to prove he was responsible for the murder of the local men and believe Ms Mulgrove had confronted him in her home on Monday evening.

‘Hang on, you think our mate Jack has been killing men and eating them!!’

‘That’s right sir. You and your friends are lucky to be alive’

©Mills Laine

The Weekend Post

The Weekend Post

3^rd April 1985.

Dear dad.

That’s you just gone. Wish I’d had the chance to say goodbye properly. I know yesterday you hinted that you’d be gone before I got there...but I wished you’d stayed awhile longer. I so wanted to have one more conversation with you, to reminisce over good times.

Like weekends; Saturday morning spent watching Swap Shop on TV, while you shaved in the kitchen wearing your white vest. Watching as you cleaned and put your teeth in. I thought all men had false teeth as I only ever knew you with yours.  Both of us lying on the living room floor picking horses from the paper, you’d give me a spare betting slip so I could pick my own. I always like the pretty colours the jockeys wore but you said that wasn’t the way to pick a good bet.

The betting shop was on route to your works social club, where you spent many Saturday afternoon. Once we reached there I had to stand outside, as under 18’s weren’t allowed in. I’d peek through the letterbox unable to see anything, my ears straining to hear a TV’s rendition of the 12.30 at Newmarket. Once the bets were placed we walked to the club, my two steps to your one stride.

The club was smoky. It smelled of beer. I stood by the TV room door waiting for my bottle of coke and crisps. Once you let me stand beside you at the fruit machine until I pressed the spin button just before you held the two bars, the third bar dropped and you lost a fiver. The TV room with Grandstand is where I was sent.

If I was lucky you’d let me to go upstairs to the snooker room. The large green table dominated the dusty space.  You taught me how to play and dismissed the rule about a foot always touching the floor. However you did insist I had to keep one on my beer crate step.

On the way home, I thought it was great how you’d open the sliding door to your workmate Don’s campervan and ring the old school bell he had in there, while tootling around town with YMCA playing on tape.

You brought cockles from the fish market for me to eat from the bag. Crab sarnies at home and eating the meat from the claw with a cocktail stick. All washed down with eggymilk. We were the only ones in the family that like it. I’d hear the buzzing of the hand mixer from in the kitchen knowing that our special drink was on its way. It was the very same hand mixer that you used to show how not having respect for machines could end up in accidents. I had been scared of the machinery in the metalwork room at school. We’d been shown photographs of pupils who had had chunks of hair caught up in drills and lathes and had to have it cut off. Scarred heads stuck in my mind and I was scared to go back. Using strips of newspaper you showed me how it got tangled up in the turning blades. I always wore my hair fastened back after that. You were proud of my CSE in metalwork.  

It makes me laugh that you would make me eggymilk and I always mashed your tea. The theme tune from the program M.A.S.H echoing from the telly and you shaking your mug, called to arms your daughter, your personal tea masher, to provide you with that much loved mug o tea.  Only I knew just how you liked it and had been doing the honour since I could reach the kettle.

With you in your favourite chair and me curled up on the settee we’d watch the football results, ticking off boxes on the pools coupon. Wearing your green knitted cardie that mum made you. Your smoking cardie! You always wore it when you were in the house. That fusty smoky smell would be a comfort to me when bullies stole my 10 pence and my teacher sent you a letter. You cradled me in your arms and told me everything would be ok.

At bedtime I’d lie silently in bed, pretending to be asleep. Knowing that at 11 o’clock after mum went to bed you’d come get me, carry me downstairs and we’d curl up on your chair watching the detective Ellery Queen. I’m sure my love of detective programs came from this and Basil Rathbones version of Sherlock Holmes.

And then on Sunday morning be awakened by the big band sound vibrating the blankets off my sleepy head. You loved Glen Miller and as a result of having it penetrate through the ceiling, my bed and my sleep...so do I. Then you treated me to the sponge awakening. The cruel trick of lifting the blanket and placing a wet sponge on me, covering me again and then waiting! Minutes later laughing as I leapt out of bed soaked.

Downstairs, you were in your favourite chair, the Sunday Mirror in one hand, cigarette in the other listening to Terry Wogan on radio Two. Mum hoovering in the front room and the smell of Sunday dinner wafting from the kitchen. 

At 1o’clock we’d sit in front of the telly to watch Space 1999 and Road Runner. Dinner was served plate-on-tray style with gravy poured from a plastic jug. You were a meat and veg man, a traditional Sunday roast. We’d share the skin off mums’ rice pudding and always go back for more. The choice of two films greeted us after dinner, John Wayne one BBC1, James Bond on ITV.  Sunday telly was always boring till Dr Who or Star trek came on at teatime. But I loved sitting watching old movies with you.

If the weather was nice we’d be in the garden. Not a particular talented gardener, grass and hedge cutting your speciality. Except of course your tomatoes, grown in the greenhouse you made from old window frames and plastic. With a mirrored wardrobe door as entry, you even left the mirror in it. Making things from odd items is where I think your talent lay. My favourite would be the shower you made. An L shaped bit of wood screwed to the wall, a hosepipe attached to it, with sucky things for the taps on one end and a watering-can rose on the other. It was great and worked well, even if we did have to put the water heater on for ages before hand.  I think that’s where my creativity came from.

I still have the photo of you hanging upside down out of the large cherry tree at the top of the garden. You’d climbed up to trim some branches but as usual you monkeyed around. Kath next door got the snapshot. It reminds of how un-serious you could take the world. On those rare occasions the world allowed you to.

Back indoors, the TV off button was pressed just before Songs of Praise came on. Cheese or beans on toast was the staple Sunday night tea, except in the summer when salad was the food of choice. We sit trays on knees eating while you complained about the ‘noise’ that was the top 40, counting down to number one before bath-time. Afterwards all washed and dry, I’d sit in your chair and watch That’s Life with you.  A gentle kiss sent me to bed with warmth of a fathers love.

And so back to today...

Two weeks before my seventeenth birthday, you’ve gone. Ten weeks ago we were both laughing about how I’d broken my arm while sledging and you’d put your back out at work, sneezing whilst carrying a wardrobe upstairs. That resulted in three separate stays in hospital for you and the knowledge that Cancer was eating at your bones. I watched as you slowly were reduced from the strong man who cradled me in your arms to a man who cried in pain whenever he was touched.

You saw me leave school with good grades and get my first job. But you’ll never see the adult you had a hand in raising, and you won’t be there to walk me down the aisle or cradle any future grandchildren you may have. I will never get the chance to buy you a drink and you’ll never see my eighteenth or twenty-first birthdays.

You always were a great believer in fate, the what-ever will be, will be, philosophy.  I have that too. There is a reason you’ve been taken from us so young in life. The answer will greet me when we meet again and walk painlessly side by side my two steps to your one stride.

I’m going to miss you

Puddin x

©Mills Laine

Misplaced Hero

Wrong way along the Tays,

winding, wandering, worried daze.

newflash! headline! today at four

police surround a battered war.

blue striped tape. stops the enter.

visions of the nights storm centre.

cardboard window, weathered door.

silver-fish on a bathroom floor.

oil-stained carpet hides the hall.

crimson face-paint moistened wall.

worried faces, stare not care.

solemn silence, full aware.

concerned neighbour say a word!

future lessons will be learned.

screaming cries broke through the sound,

heard by fresh ears, next door bound.

frightening fear of horror noise,

seen by tears of innocent toys.

multi-coloured hue of pain,

non kept promise, yet again.

summer shades hide blood-shot eyes.

falling tears from a million tries.

broken sprit, loss of mind,

no more times, abandoned kind.

beautiful, shy, bride mum, teen.

who fell in hell, substitute dream.

washed daily in fist shaped showers,

returning seasons, blood soak hours.

glistening razor stopped the breath

one that dragged  life to near death.

black or white, right or wrong.

shining bangles, prison song.

an anguished heart to keep the vow!

front page headline she is now.

ended a life to win that fight.

the history here don’t lose sight,

 internal innocent, face life alone,

a debt unpaid, a future owed,

a misplaced hero, mum or dad

the wrong way along the tay ...sad!

©Mills Laine

unspoken

A secret smile from

 a hidden gaze.

he sees her

she sees him

she plays the scene in

her head

would it play different

if a word had been said

 the spark of conversation

took its time

fleeting hi’s

led to a dream of

long goodbyes

at the garden gate where

once he stood and smiled

©Mills Laine