Richard Mallinson's Fast Fiction: Volume One

By Richard Mallinson

At only a page each in length, Richard Mallinsons elegantly structured short stories are a pithy fast fiction for a modern multi-media age. A rapid succession of carefully worked observations, the stories read like a dynamic anthology of lifes collisions and interactions; its projected plans and unexpected rotations. There is a great joy in the subverted (the interviewer becomes the interviewee; the private detective becomes the conspirator) as well as an interest in the open-ended. Possibility abounds for these are always tales of the present; the past is unclear and the future unwritten.

Adhering to the strict one-page format, the writing is marvelously precise: it is highly disciplined, but infinitely rich, conjuring the most unique and sharply observed characters with remarkably few words. If indeed, we read fiction... in order to meet individuals as the character Tolson declares in Mallinsons, Tolsons Creed, then in this anthology we are introduced to a plethora of distinct personalities, rendered all the more compelling by their relentless unpredictability.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477247297

Richard Mallinson

Richard (Dick) Mallinson was born in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire in 1937 and attended Penistone Grammar school. After serving as an officer in the RAF Regiment, he took up his place at Balliol College, Oxford in 1957 where he studied Modern History. A Man of Letters, Dick was naturally drawn to a career in journalism. Working initially for The City Press and The Guardian Dick rose to become Editor of The Huddersfield Examiner, a post he held until his retirement in 1995. Dick never lost his appreciation for the written word and continued to write throughout his retirement. A collection of these writings follows.

Book preview

Richard Mallinson’s

Fast Fiction

Volume One

RICHARD MALLINSON

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

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© 2012 by Richard Mallinson. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph © Jacqueline Wearing.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/03/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4727-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4728-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4729-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

I have always liked brevity and concision. Words are precious.

I hate to see them wasted.

Contents

1. Mr Rouge And Tommy

2. Capolton’s Affair

3. The Pools Of Heshbon

4. How Crest Fell

5. An Old Murder

6. Vincent And Us

7. Nothing To Worry About

8. War And Peace

9. Adding Up

10. The Last Waiting Room

11. Come Home, Walt Dougal

12. The Long Climb

13. Partners In Crime

14. Art Of Biography

15. Fraulein Friss

16. The Ken Blake Show

17. Falling For Fleur

18. Creative Process

19. The Caller

20. Will’s Wife

21. Stonebreakers

22. Tolson’s Creed

23. Glances

24. Growing Out Of It

25. Hold All The Pages

26. The New Society

27. Goodnight, Mr Barton

28. Village Scenes

29. Ex-Wives

30. Domus

31. Nurse Allardyce

32. Who Cares Who Wins?

33. A Test Of Nerve

34. The Inspector

35. After The Show

36. Honeymooners

37. The Big One

38. Zann’s Fall

39. The Housekeeper

40. Vic Steyne

41. Emmy

42. The German Girl

43. Poems By Graves

44. Mainly Larkin

45. At The Races

46. Uppity Bitch

47. Survivors

48. The Suspect

49. Peter And The Alien

50. In The Frame

51. A Bit Of Fun

52. After The War

53. At The Cottage

54. Sex In The Jungle

55. None Of My Business

56. Frankly Of The Blare

57. Bully Colne

58. Beaten Up

59. Too Bloody Late

60. The Preacher

61. Mrs Codge

62. The Hiker

63. The Rat-Catcher

64. Memory Man

65. The Private Tutor

66. Across The River

67. A Lesson For Teacher

68. The Wood Carver

69. Tangles

70. The Actor

71. After Gettysburg

72. Trader

73. Edgar Villiers

74. Cult In Culture

75. The Poet

76. Favours

77. Death On The Slopes

78. Freters And Grean

79. Des Res

80. A Visit From Mr Credwell

81. Young Fool

82. Space

83. Wrap Up Warm

84. The Girlfriend

85. Eckford

86. Butter It With Words

87. The Fabricated Dan Tinsley

88. Grist From The Mill

89. Appreciations

90. Inner Vision Thing

91. State Of The Nation

92. New World

93. After The Sermon

94. Gollen And Co

95. Winter In Wanslow

96. The Funny Side

97. In The Night

98. The Geyser Geezer

99. Footprints in The Snow

100. Incident At Ockley

101. All Right

102. Identities

103. The Job Interview

104. Westenders

105. Or Something

106. Guvs 4 And 5

107. Ghost Writer

108. Donations

109. Police File

110. Major Gorringe

111. Home And Away

112. The Warden

113. Old Soldiers

114. The Postcard

115. Along Those Lines

116. Old Joby’s Son

117. The Chair

118. Angelica Takes Over

119. The Missing Dignitary

120. Chance Of A Lifetime

121. Whip Hand

122. The Literary Lecture

123. In A Ministry Cell

124. On Tape

125. Parts Of A Life

126. Snow

127. Making Grey

128. Who Was It?

129. Only A story

130. No Harm Done

131. Don’t Shoot The Messenger

132. Old Acquaintance

133. A Tap On The Shoulder

134. Deftly Does It

135. Trapdoor

136. Can You Imagine?

137. On The Moors

138. Teacher Knows Best

139. When Two Or Three

140. Club Talk, 1937

141. Gregory Stapple

142. Anybodybutyou

143. The Blumire Case

144. Never Let It Be Said

145. Statements

146. Ben’s The Name

147. That Day In Rickley

148. Old Boys

149. Goodly Fruit

150. Her Sort Of Thing

151. Roast Beef And All That

152. Prayers

153. The Kiss

154. Brindle’s Goal

155. Tally’s Day

156. The Section Chief

157. At The Bank

158. Reputations

159. A Russian Story

160. Emergency

161. Delia’s Egg

162. Residoo

163. Two Of A Kind

164. On The Edge

165. Straying

166. In The Countryside

167. Good Old Days

168. Instead Of Poppy Cromer

169. Cornered

170. As Long As It Takes

171. Talking

172. In a Small Hotel

173. Therapy

174. March 20, 2003

175. Kirsty And Christine

176. The Guest

177. And Far Away

178. Codstipple Bay

179. Ray’s Story

180. Rather Unusual

181. The Deal

182. Contraption

183. Problems

184. In Lodgings

185. Going For Gold

186. Assistant To Dr Disley

187. The Reunion

188. There And Back

189. In Town Tonight

190. It’s For You

191. Dan’s Quirk

192. On The Bench

193. Giving It A Try

194. Impressions

195. Theatricals

196. Flat Out

197. Hitting The Trail

198. Pressure Group

199. On Hetton Hill

200. Secret Weapon

201. Dust

202. The Handyman

203. Dropping In

204. Problem Solved

205. Morning After

206. Philosophers

207. Decision Time

208. Truths

209. Flack Allard

210. Somebody Else

211. Algy’s Story

212. Naming

213. A Place Like This

214. Cousin Freda

215. In These Parts

216. About Daphne

217. And You Are?

218. Don’t Stare

219. Gradding

220. Sheds

221. Old Grover

222. Vernon’s Secret

223. Day Out

224. Dream Section

225. Face Value

226. The Agent

227. Night Scene

228. Sandover

229. Head Piece

230. Book Talk

231. Doing The Trick

232. Only Natural

233. Last Ditch

234. Words

235. Hibble Walks In

236. Getting Out

237. Bloody War

238. The Fetch

239. Moving Or Not

240. Asking

241. Suspense

242. Fancy Woman, 1962

243. The Jockey

244. Crusts

245. Stella

246. Leadership

247. Losing The Plot

248. Something

249. Three Of Us

250. Interview

251. On The Platform

252. Grapple

253. Definitions

254. Farm Yarn

255. Novel Types

256. Compulsive

257. On The Verge

258. The Argument

259. Say-So

260. Something To Say

261. Villagers

262. Offers

263. Vipers

264. England

265. Seaside

266. Manny Barking

267. Why Bloody Why

268. Fair Figure

269. Four Days

270. On The Move

271. Sconce

272. Ramblers

273. The Deal

274. Play For Radio

275. Night Singer

276. Hebble

277. What Else?

278. Well, Now

279. The New Wife

280. On Screen

281. Knowing

282. A Quiet One

283. Factorfiction

284. On The Bridge

285. Magda

286. Memoirs

287. Jobs

288. Methods

289. Ed Groslip

290. Anything But

291. Ms Vark

292. Effects

293. Scarf

294. Tickets

295. Only Yesterday

296. That Woman

297. Way Out

298. Fingers

299. Listen To This

300. Bert Brule

301. Fast Woman, 1955

302. Earth And Sky

303. The Debaters

304. Up Here

305. Vane

306. Old Comrades

307. Dan Trepson

308. Signs

309. Results

310. Making Out

311. Who Was There

312. Making A Stand

313. Coping

314. Tastes

315. On The Bus

316. Talkabout

317. Lela

318. Press Call

319. The Comedian

320. The Manager

321. Rescuing Eva

322. No Vacancies

323. Sense Of Security

324. Behind It All

325. Pipsqueaks

326. Called In

327. Boxer

328. Never Mind

329. Headline

330. Ruined

331. Holiday

332. Investigative

333. Prof Natte

334. Clive

335. No Way

336. Tabs

337. Be A Sport

338. Double Or?

339. Favourite Topic

340. Solo

341. The Question

342. Say It Again

343. In Mind

344. Intruder

345. Wording

346. Sides

347. Generations

348. Discussion

349. Fracas

350. Saved

351. Working Lunch

352. Grudge

353. Charisma

354. As It Was

355. Fiasco

356. Conspiracy

357. Just A Thought

358. Hills

359. Nigel

360. Hypothetical

361. Who’s Arguing?

362. Angst

363. The Dreamer

364. What’s What

365. Taking The Chair

366. Off The Map

367. Compliments

368. Isabel

369. Solutions

370. Forest

371. Going

372. Brandy Talk

373. To The Point

374. Lala

375. Promenade

376. Night Class

377. Matter Of Degree

378. Giving

379. Scene

380. Teasing

381. Early English Gothic

382. Trapped

383. Accident

384. County Scene

385. Due Process

386. This And That

387. Waving

388. Caring

389. Tomorrow

390. Adventure

391. Fair Shares

392. Rosie

393. Swimming

394. Only A Joke

395. Ted’s Wife’s Age

396. Letters To Lucy

397. Off The Premises

398. Radical Changes

399. Meeting Mr Slatter

400. Talk And Talk

401. Contrasts

402. Hacking It

403. Speeches

404. Party

405. Right Words

406. Beenie

407. Chess Talk

408. Scoop

409. Afterwards

410. Whacked

411. Trouble Is

412. Love, I Mean

413. Vernon’s Knee

414. Real Passion

415. Home Games

416. Past Masters

417. Top Secret

418. The Diarist

419. On The Posters

420. Tutorial

421. Intruder

422. A Scraggle

423. Leonard

424. Knowing

425. From The Platform

426. Back To Worthing

427. Said And Done

428. Tonight At Nine

429. Farnley

430. Art Of Fast Fiction

431. Pay Round

432. Seventeen

433. Basics

434. Reception

435. Going For Her

436. Out Of School

437. Touring

438. Mrs Chock

439. Drizzle In April

440. Actually

441. On The Spot

442. Different

443. Role Model

444. Untitled

445. Latest Research

446. The Old Farm

447. Numbers

448. Hassle

449. Mystery

450. Strangers

451. In The Park

452. The Explorer

453. A Proper Wife

454. Screams

455. More To Tell

456. Delivery

457. Reminiscing

458. Office Romance

459. The Protest

460. The Reviewer

461. The Question

462. Greta And Gordon

463. Connections

464. Pauses

465. Hunch

466. About Anthea

467. Flint

468. Nobody Much

469. Finding Out

470. At The Office

471. Dr Crick

472. Eyes And Ears

473. Say Grace

474. Looking

475. How To Think

476. Decision-Making Process

477. Askew

478. Second Chance

479. What’s It About?

480. The Redlaw Case

481. What’s In A Name?

482. Tom Thumb

483. Jake Skellen

484. Etc

485. Poor Cyril

486. Seaside Encounter

487. Session

488. At The Top

489. Making It

490. Letty’s Lover

491. Extra Pair Of hands

492. Tomorrow

493. Nicola

494. The Trainee

495. Grooming

496. Mixing It

497. Dinner Party

498. Mind’s Eye

499. Gone Missing

1. Mr Rouge And Tommy

The ventriloquist was always billed as Reg Rouge but those of us in the younger set doing the south coast summer revues never called him Reg.

‘Yes Mr Rouge, no Mr Rouge,’ we said if he spoke to us.

‘All will be well, all will be well,’ he’d suavely reply, as if doing his routine.

‘No dart abart it,’ said Tommy, his puppet.

One night, having drunk too much after the show, Mr Rouge told us about his years as a circus clown and the high-wire girl he’d loved.

‘When she died, my clown’s tears became real tears,’ he said.

Then he surprised us by trying to grab hold of Yvonne, one of our young dancers. She evaded him and he subsided onto the floor.

‘I am so sorry, dear girl,’ he said and Yvonne bent down and kissed him.

Of course, we all applauded.

Back on his feet, Mr Rouge took hold of Tommy and went into his routine, though this time it was different.

‘All will be well, all will be well,’ said Tommy.

‘No dart abart it,’ said Mr Rouge.

As I guided him to his lodgings, I said I preferred the new version.

He gently pushed me away. Clutching Tommy, he slid down onto the pavement and stared into the shadows.

A woman wearing a headscarf hurried out. Seeing us under the street light she stopped and leaned forward.

‘What are you doing down there, Reginald?’ she asked.

‘Gettin up,’ said Tommy.

‘Well,’ said the woman, ‘don’t be too long about it, will you?’

Then she went on her way and, after a few minutes, so did we.

2. Capolton’s Affair

The board meeting had reached the ‘any other business’ stage when Capolton, the elderly finance director, said, ‘Permission to make a personal statement, chairman?’

‘What do I do now?’ the chairman asked the company secretary.

‘I suppose you had better let him speak, chairman.’

‘Go ahead, then,’ said the chairman, benignly.

‘I hereby tender my resignation with immediate effect,’ said Capolton.

All eyes turned on the company secretary, who said, ‘But you are under contract to give at least one year’s notice of, er—’

Capolton ignored this. ‘I urge you to let me go at once,’ he said.

The chairman felt that he had to say something. ‘I wonder, old chap,’ he said, ‘if you could tell us just a little more. I think we are entitled . . . ’

Capolton did not waver. ‘No disrespect, chairman,’ he said, ‘but the reason is confidential and must remain so. And now I will say goodbye.’

He picked up his briefcase and left the room. On the landing he failed to see the cleaners’ ‘wet surface’ warning and crashed down the marble stairs.

Bearing grapes, the chairman visited him in hospital.

‘I still don’t understand,’ he said, ‘why you were in such a hurry to get away. It isn’t as if you’d been fiddling the books—so what was behind the, er, drama?’

Capolton sighed and went into a story about ‘a lovely lady’ and how they were going to go away together and surely he deserved some happiness . . .

The chairman smiled. ‘And what does your wife think about all this, old chap?’ he asked, helping himself to a grape.

3. The Pools Of Heshbon

Admirers from our village and miles around tried their luck with the lovely dark-eyed girl but got nowhere.

I quoted from the Bible and told her she had eyes like the pools of Heshbon.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said—and nor, I suppose, did I.

When she was 17 she shocked us all by marrying a grizzled labourer who drank a lot, worked little and barely spoke.

After the wedding they lived in his near-derelict cottage. It was during their first winter that he began to beat her and I heard her screams.

Once, when I knew he was at the pub, I knocked on her door and shouted, ‘Why do you stay with him?’

The light which had been showing through the curtains went out.

A few nights later I waited for him on the path by the millpond and cracked him on the jaw. He went down. I tipped him into the water.

‘I never realised you did it,’ she says. ‘I always thought he just fell in because he was drunk.’

‘Well, that’s what they found at the inquest,’ I say, ‘so let it be.’

‘You saved my life by killing him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ I say, smugly.

There is a deep, lovely, loving silence between us.

Then, ‘What was it you once said my eyes were like?’

I pause. ‘The pools of Heshbon!’ I exclaim and people on the bus turn round and stare at me.

4. How Crest Fell

Crest looked out of the window of his flat and saw a man and a woman arguing on the pavement. Passers-by ignored them.

The man was tall, with grey hair. The woman was shorter and had glossy dark hair. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties.

Suddenly the woman stabbed the man in the chest with a knife.

Then she turned and saw Crest watching from his window. She slipped the knife into her pocket and hurried away.

The man staggered and fell. A few people stopped and gaped.

Crest went out. ‘Quick, call an ambulance,’ he said and somebody used a mobile. A policeman arrived and said, ‘Did anybody see anyfing?’

The ambulance came and took the man away.

Back in his flat, Crest told himself that the man had threatened the woman and she had acted in self-defence.

On that basis, she would receive a fair trial and he, Crest, would tell the court that she was a person of integrity, as if he knew.

A week later his doorbell rang and there she was.

‘Please come in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

He began to talk and went on talking.

‘Finally,’ he said, ‘we come to the episode on the pavement which, in my view, did not constitute murd –’ but that was as far as he got because the woman knifed him in the chest.

As he fell, the woman slipped the knife into her pocket and hurried away.

‘Quick, call an ambulance,’ Crest heard himself saying.

5. An Old Murder

Rick Frankly drove to Birton Biltmore.

‘Hullo, Rick,’ a white-bearded old man with a walking stick called to him from across the only street.

Frankly twitched. Who the hell would be likely to greet him by name in this creepy little place miles from anywhere?

The man walked unsteadily across and said,’You are Rick Frankly of the Daily Blare in London, aren’t you? And I am Ted Ocking, resident of this village. I believe that you are here about a murder of long ago.’

‘That’s right,’ said Frankly, ‘but how did you—?’

‘Ah, never you mind, we have our sources.’

They walked on towards the Weepy Cow.

The man said, ‘Let me buy you a drink and introduce you to some of the others. Then we can put you right on certain matters, I’m sure.’

It was dark inside the Weepy Cow and gnarled hands reached out and gripped Frankly, who was soon on his way back to London.

*

TV REPORTER: With me in this quiet village of Birton Biltmore is Mr Ted Ocking, who has lived here for many years. I understand, Mr Ocking, that very little disturbs the peace of this remote place and you receive few visitors, if any. Is that, broadly speaking, an accurate –

TED OCKING: Chap fro Lunnon cum larst yer an sed ee ad eard moider tuk pliss forwarty yer ugo an ee wontd te writ bar tit fer newspap cud us tell im ditals o moider an wi sed bug of afor wi moider yee an yo shud a sin im scarup . . .

TV REPORTER: And now back to Marjorie in the studio.

6. Vincent And Us

One day Vincent said that we should go to the old quarry and we did. It never occurred to us not to. Nor to tell anyone where we were going.

At the quarry we peered over the rim and saw the water at the bottom, shining in the sun.

‘Let’s go down,’ said Vincent and we began to do so, cautiously.

There were few handholds or footholds.

Tim said, ‘I’m going back.’

‘Don’t be a coward,’ Vincent shouted but Tim went all the same.

I continued to go down. Then I saw that there was a sheer drop near the bottom and the water now looked cold, dark and deep.

Vincent had stopped and was staring down. I called to him that we ought to go back but there was no reply.

I began to scramble up and then I heard a shout and a splash. I didn’t look down until I reached the top.

‘He’s fallen in,’ said Tim calmly, ‘but I think he can swim.’

We went back to the village.

‘Where is he?’ cried Vincent’s mother. She had the kind of figure boys gape at and it seemed to be a long time before we told her.

*

‘When I got there, he was at the top, covered in wet clay,’ Vincent’s mother said to anyone who cared to listen, including my mum and dad and Tim’s.

Then she added with a smile, ‘The other two boys had rushed back to me to raise the alarm as fast as they could—and you should have seen their faces.’

The darling woman then told my mum and dad and Tim’s, standing there in the street, that they ought to be very proud of us.

As, of course, they were.

7. Nothing To Worry About

A man called Herbert Goodish hired me to trail his wife, whose name was Jen.

She turned out to be the Jen I’d known and loved more than 20 years ago.

Now I sat in my car and watched as she played tennis with a tall young man.

‘Is there anything to report?’ asked Herbert Goodish on my mobile.

‘Not yet,’ I snapped.

Later Jen got into her car and drove off. I followed. After driving for a couple of miles she parked at a pub by the river and sat at one of the outdoor tables.

I parked and stood where she could see me.

‘Hullo, Bill,’ she called. I went to her and kissed her on the cheek. I told her I was now a private detective and she merely smiled.

A car drew up and the tall young man got out. I looked at him closely, noting the structure of the jaw and colour of the eyes.

Jen said, ‘Bill this is Tony, Tony this is Bill, a friend from years back.’

I shook hands with him and we sat down. I asked him about his job, which was in the City.

‘When the adrenalin starts to pump,’ he said, ‘it can be magic.’

Eventually he said, ‘And what’s your line of work, Bill?’

I described it, or some of it, with a fluency that surprised me.

‘And are you working on a case at the moment?’ he asked.

‘No, not at the moment,’ I said and Jen smiled at me as she used to.

After they’d gone I sat brooding in the car and when Herbert Goodish rang again I told him he had nothing to worry about.

‘And what the bloody hell do you mean by that?’ he yelled.

8. War And Peace

One day in the first world war the men sang ‘Rainin, rainin, rainin, always bloody rainin’ to the tune of ‘Holy, holy, holy, lord god almighty’.

It was a stupendous sound and Captain Tom Harling felt sheer emotional delight.

He began to think about his wife, Elise, back in England. She would be in their cottage, with its piano, prints and books.

Perhaps at this very moment she would be re-reading his poems, as he knew she often did.

The light from her lamp would reveal a dark-eyed beauty that no portrait painter could capture—though some had tried.

*The marriage of Tom and Elise survived the war but not the peace and now Tom is in London—on a pavement in the rain.

Eyes closed, head on arm, he hears again the resonant voices, hundreds and then thousands of them . . .

‘Rainin, rainin, rainin, always bloody rainin . . .’

Nobody pays any attention to him. Passers-by sway in the gusts and clutch their umbrellas. Taxi cabs splash him and roar away.

Tom tries to stand up, then collapses.

*

‘Did he say anything after he ‘ad fallen?’ asks the plump policeman.

‘Yiss,’ says a dripping flower girl, ‘somethin’ loik, please let me ‘ear them vices agin.’

‘And what d’you think he meant by that, young lady?’

‘I dunno,’ says the flower girl, ‘don’t arsk me.’

9. Adding Up

Edgar Parsley, who’d made a fortune in the City during the money-mad 1980s, now worked part-time.

Of course he had no need to work at all but he had no wish to vegetate and, anyway, he liked giving advice.

His other interest these days was writing poetry. He wrote out his poems neatly in a little black notebook.

At first he’d hoped that a few of them might be published. Then, as time went by, he began to think differently.

In fact he decided that the poems weren’t meant for others to see and perhaps misinterpret. They were for him alone.

Soon they constituted his favourite book. There was no other that he dipped into as often as this, his own notebook.

One day he left it behind in the office where he worked two days a week as a consultant.

A trainee, young Vickery, flicked through it and was amazed at the explicit religious content of the poems.

It doesn’t add up, mused Vickery.

Parsley came hurrying back. ‘I must have mislaid—’ he said.

Vickery handed the notebook to him.

No, it doesn’t add up, Vickery mused again. After all, Parsley, was still regarded as one of the most ruthless financiers of his time.

‘Thank you,’ said Parsley. ‘You didn’t look inside, did you? It’s all very confidential, you know.’

‘No, sir,’ said Vickery, ‘I didn’t look inside.’

‘Bloody liar,’ said Parsley, not unkindly.

10. The Last Waiting Room

‘Yes, this must be it,’ says Ron, ‘the last waiting room, so in we go.’

There are three of them, all in their eighties.They go into the room and the door closes silently behind them.

The room is white—whiter than the smocks they are wearing and any hair they still have left. The strip-lighting is white, as are the chairs.

There are no windows but there is a door opposite the one they have come through. They sit down on the chairs facing this second door.

‘What do we do now?’ asks Ted.

‘Well,’ says Bert, ‘they told us to wait here until it was time to go, one at a time—and we always obey orders, don’t we?’

‘You must be bleedin jokin,’ says Ted.

‘But do we just sit here and twiddle our thumbs?’ Bert goes on.

‘I don’t think there’ll be much time for twiddlin thumbs,’ says Ron, looking at the door in front of them as it slowly opens.

‘I’ll go first,’ he says—and the other two smile. Typical of Ron, they think . . . always wants to be first, even on that Normandy beach.

‘Good luck, Ron,’ they call as they watch him float out into the void, his smock fluttering. The door closes.

‘Now what was the code-name we used in Normandy?’ Ted asks.

‘I think it was Sword,’ says Bert, ‘yes, that’s it, Sword . . . I wouldn’t like to do it all again, though, not at my bleedin age . . . would you, Ted?’

The door opens again and Ted goes through.

Bert sits waiting his turn.

‘I wonder where it is we’re going,’ he muses. ‘It’s always the bleedin same . . . they never tell us anyfink, do they?’

11. Come Home, Walt Dougal

‘I am looking for Walt Dougal,’ I say, ‘is he around?’

‘Oo wants te know?’

‘Bill Selsey, private detective,’ I reply.

The man points to a door and says, ‘Theres someun in there.’

I go in. There are beer cans on the floor and table. The place stinks of cigarette smoke.

A man in a dirty singlet is lying on a mattress.

‘Are you Walt Dougal?’ I ask.

He is pouring beer into his mouth, then stops.

‘Brought any beer?’ he asks.

He is straggly-haired, unshaven, grubby.

‘No,’ I say, ‘and I don’t want any of yours either.’

This annoys him. He flings his can against the wall and it spurts.

‘What d’you want?’ he grunts.

‘I’ve come to take you back to your family.’

‘Are you mad?’ he says.

I get him sobered up, fully dressed and out of that place. A minute later we reach a badly-lit square. I hear the sound of breaking glass and raised voices from fights.

In front of me, two women lunge and scream at each other.

*

Now it is midnight. I’ve been robbed and beaten up by Walt Dougal—or the man I’d assumed was Walt Dougal.

In this gutter, I’ve become an object to be kicked and spat on by every passing yob, addict, dealer and pimp.

Vaguely I wonder if this is how it is all going to end.

12. The Long Climb

He has chosen the highest building in town and is now halfway up.

The surface is smooth and his only grips come from the suction pads on his hands and feet.

Each pad has to be eased off the surface and then placed in a new position slightly higher up.

Naturally, progress is slow.

A crowd has gathered on the pavement, among them some of his office colleagues.

‘He looks like a crab,’ one of them says.

The rescue services are present but can’t do anything because he is out of range. Now their chief is yelling at him through a hailer.

Some of the language is abusive.

After a while the tirade stops. He will insist on an inquiry when –

Now it is dark and they have put the spotlight on him. People in the crowd are pointing up, as they do on these occasions.

New arrivals drink, sing, dance and blow trumpets. They will be glimpsed on a regional tv news bulletin.

He begins to have doubts. Why does he need to continue? He knows that he has a point to prove—but what is it?

Now he feels tired and cold and begins to shiver. What should he do? Carry on all the way to the top? Or make for one of the windows, which somebody will surely open for him?

Then there will be warmth, food and drink.

‘What’s your opinion, Teddy,’ he asks over his shoulder, ‘should we go on or not?’

13. Partners In Crime

I looked out through the peephole of my rented flat and there they were, the three of them, dark-suited, looming, threatening.

They shouted to be let in or they’d break the door down. I opened the door and they came in and pushed me aside.

They ransacked the place, all because of the missing money.

Yes, I’d had it—at least until a few weeks ago when it had gone, along with Greta, my partner in crime.

Now they asked me where it was. I said I didn’t know. They asked again, louder, fiercer. Again I said I didn’t know.

‘What can I say to convince you?’ I asked.

‘Drop the bullshit,’ said the one with the lined face.

‘Or we’ll drop you,’ said the big-eared one.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘if I had it I would certainly hand it over.’

‘Lah-di-bloody-dah,’ the third one (plump, hairless) said. ‘You can tell he used to be a vicar, can’t you?’

‘And a very good one, too,’ I said, under my breath.

‘Now,’ said the big-eared one, producing a machete, ‘the time has come for some real action, not like your vicarage tea parties.’

‘There is no need to be sarcastic,’ I said.

‘There is no need to be sarcastic,’ he mimicked. ‘Did you hear that? He thinks he’s still in the bloody pulpit, wearing his—’

He chopped savagely at my collar bone and I cried out with pain.

Horrible, sickening pain.

Well, I’d been warned what to expect from this particular (or not so particular) crime squad but it still came as a shock.

14. Art Of Biography

‘You really must meet her,’ said Jimmy Pule over lunch at the club.

Jimmy was in publishing and absurdly prosperous.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘and what’s her name?’

‘Rose,’ he said, ‘Rose Green.’

Ah, Rose Green. I didn’t mention that ten years ago I’d been in love with her and we’d lived together until she –

I merely said, ‘Tell me more.’

‘She’s written a book, due out next month.’

‘Written a book?’

‘Yes, about a villain named Brig Slant. He was killed last year in that drugs affair. Rose has done a biography of him.’

‘She’s done a what?’ I yelled into my wine.

*

A few weeks later an old friend of mine, Alek Rudd, said, ‘There’s no way I can earn a living writing poetry. That’s why I work as a hospital porter—it pays the rent.’

We were in a London pub, drinking lager.

‘You should do what C Day-Lewis did,’ I said.

‘Why, what did he do?’ asked Alek, petulantly.

‘He wrote crime fiction in order to earn money so that he could give up teaching and write poetry.’

‘Actually, I’m more interested in true-life crime,’ said Alek.

He looked around, sipped his lager and went on, ‘Did you see my piece about Brig Slant in the Guardian the other day? I’m going to do a biography of him.’

Damn it. What could I say?

15. Fraulein Friss

‘Carm inside, carm inside, ave your fortune told by the greatest of em all, Fraulein Friss, the Maiden from Munich.’

The speaker outside the tent in the corner of the fairground was a squat fellow with a cap and an off-white muffler.

There was something about his half-crushed face that made me think of a failed minor criminal.

He began again, in raucous cockney tones, ‘Carm inside—’

‘Yes, please,’ I said and gave him the necessary coin.

I pushed my way through the flap. The only light inside came from the green-glowing glass ball on the table.

I sat down. There was silence. Then a female voice said, ‘Good heavens, it’s you.’

I leaned forward. ‘Amazing,’ I said, ‘it’s you, too.’

She removed a veil from the lower half of her face.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and of all the tents in all the fairgrounds in all the . . . let’s meet for a drink tonight . . . I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘The last time we met, in the fullest sense of the word,’ I said, ‘was five years ago in St Ives.’

She ignored this. ‘I hope you won’t mind if I bring my husband along tonight,’ she said.

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes, you’ve just met him outside, doing the spiel, taking the money . . . he’s extremely versatile.’

‘I bet he is,’ I said. And as I ran through the crowds I could still hear his voice yelling above the noise, ‘Carm inside, carm inside, ave your fortune told by the greatest—’

16. The Ken Blake Show

The first guest on Ken Blake’s first chat show was Lelia Appleton, star of a popular tv soap.

The first question Ken asked Lelia was, ‘How many men have you slept with?’

Lelia looked straight at Ken and retorted, ‘How many men have you slept with?’

This seemed to stun Ken. He opened his mouth but no words came. He slumped in his seat.

Lelia took charge. She became, in effect, the hostess of the show. She asked Ken about his ‘tendencies’.

Playing the guest’s role, Ken spoke movingly, if vaguely.

In his earpiece he could hear the director’s vile expletives.

Next morning the tabloids splashed the story of the gay presenter who’d ended up as a guest on his own show.

The following week millions switched on to see Ken being role-reversed by another guest.

The pattern was repeated and before long the show was going out twice a week, to much acclaim.

The director glowed and spoke to the Guardian of ‘a triumph of conceptual thinking’ and to the Sun of ‘a hunch that works.’

He felt sure that he was in line for an award.

As for Ken, he was now both a celebrity (mobbed in the streets) and a cult figure (invited to address student unions).

However he did have one fear.

It was that the tabloids would find out that he wasn’t in the least gay and often had sex with full-bodied women such as Lelia Appleton.

17. Falling For Fleur

‘Who is speaking, please, do I know you?’

‘Just be careful, that’s all, just keep your eyes open.’

‘What do you mean be care—’ but the line had gone dead.

Herbert Raustone put the receiver down. He was shaking.

It had been a man’s voice, deep, rather like his own. But what had it all been about? Was he being threatened?

He would ask his young friend Fleur, who lived in the flat below.

‘Drinks this evening, Fleur?’ he said on the phone.

*

They settled down—gin and tonic for her, whisky for him.

‘I’ve had a bizarre call,’ he said and gave her the details.

‘Oh God,’ said Fleur, ‘he’s at it again.’

‘At it again?’

‘Yes, my brother, he must have found out about you and is trying to warn you about me.’

‘Why the devil should he do that?’

She sipped her drink and looked at him with her frank blue eyes.

‘My father died mysteriously,’ she said, ‘and my brother believes that I was responsible and that I am a threat to older men.’

She laughed and sipped her drink.

‘He really is quite mad,’ she said, flushed, beautiful, and at that moment Herbert Raustone fell in love with her, as she knew he would.

*

A few weeks later Herbert changed his will in Fleur’s favour and died soon afterwards of natural causes.

‘I couldn’t have timed it better myself,’ said Fleur’s ‘brother’.

18. Creative Process

Barton took up painting late in