Such is Life

By Steve Kealy

From the mysterious to the curious, from the bizarre to the macabre, Such is Life is a collection of eight very different short stories and a novella that will have the reader longing for more – if they get out alive….

Ordinary people can achieve remarkable things when their world gets turned upside down and acclaimed writer Steve Kealy's "bunch of shorts" is a break-neck ride aboard his wild imagination.

Such is Life is an anthology of cracking stories about regular people in extraordinary settings – and all of the tales have a real sting in the .... tail!

From a single-voice courtroom drama which is both funny and painful to a wild ride around the world on a nuclear submarine; from a suburban house with a dark secret, a chilling yarn about an everyday hero, to a sad story of love and desperation and even a look at what it's like to be undead, one thing is common to all of them: not everyone survives!

 

"My imagination's worn out, just trying to keep up!"

"Curious, funny, troubling, strange, fast-paced, poignant – Such is Life is all of these."

"I laughed, I cried – but mostly, I held my breath till I turned blue!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maladroit Malcontent
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780987631305

Steve Kealy

About Steve Being born in Libya is a bit of a conversation-stopper. So is having lived in Yemen. Currently home is in Melbourne, Australia, where I’m a volunteer fire-fighter and National Emergency Medal recipient. I spent lots of time as a car and motorcycle journalist, picking up a couple of awards and getting to ride and drive some fabulous machinery in fantastic places. I’ve worked on three continents in places like mines, nuclear power stations, banks, the military, newspapers, magazines, the web, radio and TV – where I was only allowed to appear as a voice. A bit of racing on two and four wheels included one international win, many crashes and lots of injuries including three broken necks, so in the obvious absence of any talent, I’ve temporarily retired. For years my racing licence had a picture of Desmo the family dog and annoyingly, no-one noticed, so perhaps owners do look like our pets after all. In defiance of Apartheid laws and Death Threats in South Africa in the early 1980s, my life-partner Liz and I started the world’s largest motorcycle charity event, The Toy Run. By its 35th anniversary, over three million people had directly benefitted from the Toy Run, but like Spike Milligan, I expect a knighthood is unlikely. In 2017, we rode our motorcycles 40,000km – roughly the distance around the world – through 16 countries on four continents, and from sea level to over five kilometres up. We laughed every day, got cold and wet, hot and muddy, crashed a few times, met beautiful people and saw wonderous things along the way. We dive when it’s hot, ski when it’s not and sometimes I fly a Jabiru, an aircraft about the size of a shopping trolley. See www.stevekealy.com for more about what I write, have written and will soon write!  

Book preview

One of Yours

P uta – whore! said Alfi, as he weaved down the darkened street. He angrily kicked at a rubbish bin, but it was firmly attached to a frame, so he just hurt his foot, eliciting still more ill-will to the world in general.

Reverting to his native Spanish, he grumbled to himself about the English weather (cold and drizzling), his accommodation (rented, small, cold, dingy and expensive) and his walk home (alone). Mostly he grumbled about the way that the lovely English girl with whom he was hoping to spend the night, had laughed gaily at the suggestion and gone to join a group of other locals playing darts in the crowded bar.

What made him especially annoyed was that he had gone to meet the girl with high hopes and the last fifty pounds to his name. Fired from his shelf-packing job by a shop owner who thought Alfi’s time would be better spent packing shelves and not chatting to the girls and women who came to the suburban store, both his wallet and his prospects looked bleak. But his hot Latin temperament made him live for the moment, so he had spent almost all his remaining cash on the green-eyed, dark-haired girl he felt was just about falling into his arms.

When he admitted that Alfi was short for Alfonso, she had laughed shrill peals of laughter and if there’s one thing to get a young Argentine man in a sulk, it’s laughing at his name.

But now he was going home, alone, broke and just a bit worse for wear.  British pubs are heated to thirsty levels and their beer goes down easily. All in all, Alfi wasn’t in a great frame of mind when a scruffy old man shuffled out of a doorway and said Spare some change for an old soldier?

Maybe it was the tone of voice, the Cockney accent, his own dire circumstances or the defeat that his country suffered in the Malvinas, which the British called The Falklands, but Alfi lashed out at the man in the shapeless old overcoat. He threw a punch, shoved and pushed the old man over. Once he was down, Alfi lashed out with his feet, though his split thin shoes did little real damage. Nonetheless, he landed several kicks as the old man huddled helplessly on the ground, his skinny arms trying to protect his head.

Abruptly the hail of kicks stopped and after a few seconds, the old man looked up to see his attacker reeling backwards as a shadowy shape stood, raining blows on the younger man. Whimpering, Alfi tried to turn, but the figure grabbed his jacket and held him up against a lamppost hitting, punching, landing meaty blow after meaty blow. Bit by bit any vague gestures of defence drooped and eventually the man let go of the young man’s jacket and let him slump to the ground. The shadowy figure knelt down by the old man. You okay soldier?

Yeah, I think so. No harm done, thanks gov’nor. Might have a few bruises tomorrow though.

The other man stood up, turned to the now groaning perpetrator and patted the bloodied man’s jacket until he found a phone and dialled 999.  Police and an ambulance please. Assault of a senior citizen. He gave the street address, hung up and dropped the phone onto Alfi’s chest as the young Argentine sat up and started snivelling. As a parting gesture, the shadowy man landed a final resounding open-handed slap across the young man’s face, then slipped away into the darkness without a word.

Within minutes, police and ambulance staff were on the scene, and the old soldier was able to tell them what had happened. The culprit was provided with basic treatment for a string of injuries, including a broken nose, three missing teeth, a broken collar bone and at least three broken ribs, but without any of the compassion shown to his victim, who in contrast, had little more than a black eye. Despite gentle probing, all the old man could say about his unknown saviour was that he thought the mystery man was probably also a serviceman. It was just the way he moved, and spoke – he just seemed to have the air of a solder about him, he said.

His mysterious benefactor remained unknown.

And so it would have stayed, off the public’s radar as newspapers, radio and TV obsessed with the infidelities of overpaid football players and the self-promoting antics of people famous for having more shoes than Africa.

The police became aware of a few more incidents where some old-fashioned street justice was handed out. As they all seemed to involve drunks getting a come-uppance, the overworked police weren’t in a hurry to track down the man some called the Hero to the Homeless. His identity remained a mystery. With most victims naturally reluctant to talk to authorities, and perpetrators humiliated at being given a sound thrashing for their misbehaviour, there were no formal complaints – though hints and rumours did filter through to the local cops.

But then a trio of drunk young women found a lonely old bag-lady trudging along a darkened street, her entire world in a rusty shopping trolley. Like a pack of feral animals, the drunks rounded on the old woman, tipping out her possessions and kicking them across the road before turning on her, slapping and scratching, pulling her lank grey hair and tearing off her threadbare coat. Suddenly the old woman was aware of another person between them. Within seconds, the girls’ shrieks of laughter turned to wails as they became the target of a hail of slaps, twists and shoves. One went sprawling on her face, as a boot in her backside seemingly lifted her inches off the ground. With her knees, palms and chin badly grazed, she sat up with tears streaming through her plaster-thick makeup, blubbering cries of self-pity. Another was effectively tied to a lamppost as her trendy leather cropped jacket was stripped off her shoulders and knotted securely behind her back. The third, minus a shoe, was hog-tied into the upturned shopping trolley with her own belt.

The old lady later reported that the stranger checked she was unhurt, picked up one of her attacker’s handbags and emptied it onto the street, casually kicking the contents aside until he found a phone. He dialled 999, spoke briefly and melted into the shadows; within minutes, the police and an ambulance crew were on scene. This time, the attackers had little more than clear imprints of open-handed slaps on both cheeks, but all three were sobbing uncontrollably – unlike their dignified victim who silently straightened her clothes and picked up her meagre possessions.

Perhaps because they were women, or perhaps because someone phoned someone else, the local media picked up the story, posing the question: Who was the shadowy man defending homeless people?

A couple of media outlets called on the authorities to track down and imprison the dangerous man they called the Vagrant’s Vigilante, others praised the mystery-man for taking on thugs and bullies, but everyone wanted to know the have-a-go hero’s name. No one knew him.

Some speculated, a few guessed, others offered rewards for information. Nothing came of it. A couple of people came forward to say they had been victims of attacks and assaults in the area by single people or small groups. A few were reckless copy-cat attacks: others were muggings of society’s poorest and most invisible by callous teens willing to pick on vulnerable people for cheap thrills.

Investigating officers noticed one thing: barring the 999 calls and checking on the victims, the vigilante almost never spoke. He did his work and seldom said anything. By not mentioning this, police weeded out the attention-seeking liars from genuine cases of vigilante justice. Victims looking for five minutes of fame would often claim to have had a conversation with their saviour, though police could say with some certainty who was telling the truth.

Some of the cruel cool kids claimed they were hoping they’d meet up with the shadowy vigilante and put him in his place – but in reality, if and when they did, most went back to their comfortable middleclass homes with crushed egos and embarrassingly light injuries. They’d not easily admit to having been rounded up and given a hiding by a single person who never said a word to them.

But as the more serious thugs usually fled after receiving a thorough belting and the police weren’t always called, and because the victims were old, homeless or shabby non-people, the radio and newspaper reporters didn’t even file their stories.

As is often the way of these things, in the absence of anything of further interest, popular media attention quickly shifted away to something else and bullies, being cowards, largely left the city’s homeless people alone – which suited them just fine.

Until four thugs, annoyed their football team had been beaten and flying high on a cocktail of cheap vodka, a shared joint and a few small yellow pills, came across two teenagers asleep on a bench in a park. Perhaps they missed the last bus, perhaps they had eloped or perhaps they were runaways. Whatever, the four burly skinheads decided that the skinny teenaged boy was a convenient punching bag, and his female companion was available, willing and in fact desperate to have sex with all four of her attackers, right there and right then.

Bravely, they split into two pairs, one shoving the bloodied young man between them, each time landing more punches, the other holding down the struggling young woman, giggling as they ripped at her clothing. The rape was about to begin when the man astride her suddenly slumped back, his head at a bizarre angle, his neck clearly broken. The woman screamed and scrambled away on hands and knees, grabbing at her tattered clothes. The man who had been holding her down didn’t even see the well-aimed boot that smashed into the side of his head, bursting an eardrum, breaking his jaw, cheekbone and an eye socket.  He merely felt a blinding flash of white hot pain and mercifully passed out.

His remaining accomplices didn’t immediately see that half of their little gang was now dead to the world – or simply dead. But one looked over his buddy’s shoulder and tossed the tottering teenager aside, reaching into a pocket and drawing out a flick-knife. Seeing this, the fourth thug spun around and the pair effectively flanked the lone figure. Another knife appeared and both were waved, low and deliberately, as the two formed into a predatory hunting pair, advancing with their eyes fixed on the single slender man in front of them. Expecting him to falter or fall back, one lunged forward, his knife arm extended. His target deftly sidestepped, grabbed his wrist and twisted. The knife fell from his nerveless fingers as both bones in his forearm audibly snapped. He screamed in pain. The wail was cut short as an elbow slammed into his throat, crushing his voice box, then a boot raked down his leg and searing pain erupted as his kneecap was pushed inches down his shin. Barely conscious, unable to breathe and with no further interest in fighting, he slumped to the ground.

But in the second this took, his friend had also stepped up and swung his blade. It was a clumsy, unpractised lunge with no calculation and no science, but it was a lucky one. Almost. Its target kinked sideways, still on one leg from kicking a kneecap several inches from its normal place, and the blade sliced through threadbare cloth and the flesh underneath.

Two hands clapped the blade on its downstroke and twisted it out of the hand that held it. The owner of the hand roared and continued his charge, but the still-raised foot tripped him as he blundered past. He sprawled on his hands and knees, but scrambled up, spun around – and still roaring – lunged again at the slender figure now holding his own knife. He came in low, arms spread wide, bent at knees and waist, intent on crash-tackling his opponent and denying him the chance to evade his charge.

But his opponent didn’t evade. Instead, he braced for impact, one arm supporting the other – the one now holding a familiar knife. The young thug’s roar was stilled as his own blade sunk into his neck, right up to the hilt. It slipped through pink skin and the cartilage of his windpipe, sliced his carotid artery and lodged deep into the spinal cord between two vertebrae. With eyes wide and blood gushing from his mouth, the fourth and final bully came to a halt on his haunches, twisting one ankle as he went down. Happily he didn’t feel that, as his severed spinal cord was unable to process the information.

This time, it was one of the teenage victims who dialled 999. The police found a badly beaten young man, a shaken but unhurt woman, one injured skinhead, an unconscious accomplice and two dead thugs. And a single older man, plainly dressed, sitting calmly on a park bench, holding a handkerchief to a deep flesh wound to his upper arm. Once the seven people were triaged and taken to a couple of different hospitals, police officers were tasked with interviewing those capable of speech.

You only got one – there was at least three more. They attacked us for no reason. We was just walking through the park an’ then these killers jus’ jumped out an’ started hitting an’ stabbing us. They was all big buggers. Huge. And they all had guns an’ knives.

The detective sitting beside his hospital bed nodded, writing on his notepad: In fact, he was drawing a picture of a pile of leather-jacketed skinheads lying in an untidy pile on the ground, with crosses for their closed eyes. It was quite a good sketch as these things go. The patient had one arm in plaster, a leg raised pending surgery – and his good arm was handcuffed to his bed.

The young detective had already spoken to the teenagers, though they hadn’t really seen very much. The other surviving skinhead was being kept unconscious as surgeons worked on the broken bones in his skull and decided whether they’d be able to save his voice.

The detective had already determined that the four thugs were the bad guys; the system for Identifying and Notifying was already underway and he reflected that things were going to get much less pleasant for several families before the night was over.

It was the solitary older man who was the mystery. He was polite but utterly unhelpful. All he would do was repeat 1730205A, Mackay M, Sergeant confirming that he was a military man, but wouldn’t answer any questions. Not about his address, age, not even his first name. He had a nondescript accent, was clean shaven and his hair was short. He had no watch or rings, no papers or personal particulars. To look at, he was unremarkable; probably north of forty but not yet sixty; he had an unmemorable face but a quiet, confident and relaxed air. He was completely obscure.

Out of his time-weary and threadbare clothes, he was wiry, lean – skinny almost. He had a fuzzy-edged tattoo on his upper right arm of a set of distinctive wings, but beyond that, he was a mystery. No drivers licence, no address, apparently no family or friends. When asked why he had stayed at the scene and not vanished like he normally did, he looked at the detective directly for a brief moment and said simply, People died.

He was kept at the hospital for a few stitches which he watched in a dispassionate way and then uncomplainingly went to the local police station where he sat upright on a bench in a cell, staring at the wall outside. Although he hadn’t been arrested and the door wasn’t locked, there was a mountain of paperwork to be done and by keeping him at the police station, he was available to answer questions.

Except he never did. Just his name, rank and number.

In contrast, the teenage victims were allowed to go home after a day or two, picked up by their relieved and grateful parents. They asked to see their children’s benefactor to thank him but were told it wasn’t possible. The surviving thugs remained in hospital under police guard and handcuffed to their beds – despite being unable to walk.

A couple of pictures were put up on the police station wall, with a list of what he said and who he’d faced down; all were known to police and there wasn’t a cop in the station who wasn’t quietly pleased to see the backs of these nasty individuals. Several local folk were openly supportive of him; various people would turn up unbidden with creature comforts like home-cooked meals, some new clothes or a better pillow and bedding than what was provided by Her Majesty. Each time Mackay was politely, distantly appreciative, but not forthcoming.

A couple of days after the fatal fight, an older cop, visiting from another district for an unrelated meeting, stopped at the picture-wall, stared at them and called out for the investigating officer. Pointing to Mackay’s tattoo, he just said Hard men, those SAS types, before moving on.

The Special Air Service is a shadowy British army regiment of highly trained but somewhat unorthodox soldiers, very adept at observing, staging lightning-fast shoot-and-scoot raids – and unarmed combat. Just to be invited to join the regiment is a rare honour, the selection process is brutal and the training relentless. Men from the Regiment prefer the shadows, use their initiative and seemingly vanish when the job is done.

So the profile certainly fitted the man accommodated in the cell downstairs. It was a breakthrough of sorts.

Only it wasn’t much of a breakthrough after all. A call to the SAS barracks revealed that no-one bearing Mackay’s name and number had ever served in the crack regiment. His service number didn’t have enough digits, for a start. One step forward, two steps back.

But a chance mention revealed that there were SAS regiments in other Commonwealth countries too. A couple more calls turned up an Australian who had served and was now a military attaché at the embassy in London. He agreed to come along and meet the mysterious Sergeant Mackay.

When he arrived, he was shown into an interview room and the vigilante was brought in too. They sat for over an hour, but few words were spoken. The diplomat assured Mackay they were countrymen, compatriots and comrades-in-arms and he was here to help, in whatever way he could. Mackay nodded and said, Thank you. And the soldier-turned-diplomat meant it – here was a fellow Australian, a comrade, in pretty deep strife. The Crown takes a dim view of anyone killing Her Majesty’s subjects on British soil, no matter how desperately they deserved it.

Trying to break the ice, the younger man mentioned a few legendary Regimental names – names that would only mean anything to a fellow operative who’d trained and fought from the secluded army base near Perth in Western Australia. Listen up bloke, the RSM is going to want your balls on a barbie-fork for this lot!

For the first time, Mackay smiled a little, and nodded. G’day, he said.

Mate...

Sir?

Not an officer – not any more. Just an old soldier, like you.

No worries.

What’s going on?

Just doing me job.

You killed a bloke. Two.

Yep.

Not the first. It was a statement, not a question.

Nope.

What they call ya? Back in Perth?

Sarge. A pause. Or Macca.

When didja get out? When had he left the Regiment, or the army?

Never got out.

Ah, right. What’s the op? The operation or task he was ordered to undertake.

Eyes only. Macca’s face went still and his stare refocussed a thousand miles away. The conversation, such as it was – and in so far as he was concerned – was over. The younger man’s eyes narrowed. What Mackay had just said implied that despite his age, he still considered himself to be a serving soldier and that whatever operation he was last ordered to, was designated very Secret. He needed to find out more.

Back in his office and to his intense annoyance, he soon realised that despite being a Government military liaison officer, he couldn’t find out any more without phoning Australia on the secure Embassy line. So he did. A few times, over several days. What he found out astounded him – and annoyed him even more.

Sgt Mackay was a veteran of Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam war and despite his physical appearance, was now over 70 years old. He had indeed been sent on an extended multi-nation mission which was beyond Secret. Not even the current Officer Commanding the Regiment knew what it was – Mackay’s time with the crack Regiment predated his own by years.

But in Mackay’s file was a single-page medical report that made it clear that the old soldier was suffering from what we now know as PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Back then, he was marked as being PURTU – Potentially Unreliable: Return to Unit. As all the soldiers who make the grade for the SAS come from somewhere else, they are only ever on loan to the SAS and when their time in the Regiment is over, they are returned to their original unit. Yet Mackay had seemingly slipped through the cracks – he was sent off on a lengthy mission,