Murders in a Time of War

By Jeffrey Sheppard

AN UNCOMPROMISING NOVEL ABOUT WAR, VIOLENCE, LUST AND MURDER
With the British Expeditionary Force in full retreat on the fertile fields of Northern France in May 1940, relentlessly being pushed back by the all conquering Wehrmacht, right to the edge of the English Channel, something needed to be done to slow the German's advance.
The BEF was desperate to buy time to evacuate the beaches. A small group of BEF and French soldiers were ordered behind enemy lines to gather information about the Wehrmacht. When they were attacked, in a cowardly act one of the soldiers, Alfred Spooner, fled and left his mates behind to fend for themselves.
With his self preservation paramount he was evacuated safely back to England, deserted, and carried out murderous attacks on defenceless women in and around London. One of his old army mates, Bluey McConnell, suspected Spooner was a serial killer. Outraged, he became obsessed in finding Spooner and made it his mission to hunt him down. Yet with war raging in Europe discovering this killer was like finding a needle in a haystack.
From England the trail leads to the D-Day landing beaches, Caen, Brussels and eventually Berlin. Which in 1946 was in virtual ruins, compounded by the four governing allied forces, France, USA, Britain and the USSR who were at each other’s throats. Chaos reigned supreme, so once again Spooner found the perfect killing ground in this post war anarchy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Sheppard
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005606862

Jeffrey Sheppard

In my early career I worked at Queensland Newspapers, the publisher of the Courier Mail, Brisbane's daily newspaper. Then I travelled a bit and ended up in Vienna, Austria, where I was lucky enough to get a job in the publication section of the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation, or UNIDO for short.Later on when I returned home I was employed by another daily newspaper, the Queensland Times in Ipswich, a major regional town outside of Brisbane. I followed that with a stint at Queensland Country Life, a weekly newspaper, that services the farmers and pastoralist of the huge state of Queensland.However I wanted to be my own boss, so I bought a small printing business here in Brisbane and ran that, along with my wife, Helen, for around 12 years. Sold it and retired to do what I do now, play some golf, travel, exercise and write.Writing came late to me, it's a passion and a hobby all rolled into one. Yet it can be time consuming, even though I'm retired sometimes my passion does feel like work. But . . . like lots of amateurs on Smashwords when someone, like yourself, downloads one of my books it gives me a thrill. So thanks for taking the time to read my musings.

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY, JUNE 3 1940–DUNKIRK

At 05:58 hours Bluey staggered back to their fortification. Jenkins had been roughly stretchered by four men and taken directly to their medical orderly where Bluey was told he'd survive. The ginger haired Aussie was dirty, thirsty, hungry and exhausted. If he'd thought about it he wouldn't know which one to pick first, wash, drink, eat or sleep. Sergeant Mitchell told him to grab some hot food and a cuppa, decision made. As a throw away line he mentioned to his surprise there was an attack last night. No tanks just Jerrys testing them repulsed by their one heavy machine gun, a few Bren guns and rifle fire. A few Jerry mortar rounds were fired but missed their mark by about ten yards, enough to put the wind up everyone as sandbags split open like melons. The sergeant smiled, only a couple of minor casualties on their side. The Germans however took a bit of a hammering and paid a price for testing their defences, he counted about six down on their side. Bluey wasn't taking any notice of the sergeant, he had a one-track mind. Where the hell was Corporal Spooner as he scanned the area looking for him. The sergeant always flighty up until then he'd been moving around taking a few paces at a time, eventually stood still and moved his weight from one leg to the other. Nervous? Bluey was thankful he'd finally stood motionless and when the sergeant mentioned new orders arrived only an hour ago from the brass he tried to pay attention but found his concentration wasn't up to the challenge. They were to evacuate back to the beach by 12:00 hours tomorrow and wait for more orders.

Bone tired he vaguely took in what he was told and slumped down on a few sandbags, cup of tea in hand wiped his brow thought about his main priority, Spooner. Sarge where the hell is Corporal Spooner, what time did he get back here? A few innocent questions, but his insides twisted and turned.

Mitchell looked surprised, Bluey I hoped he was with you, you know, just around the camp somewhere. Sure he's not here somewhere? He asked impatiently and once more paced around like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Bluey frowned, sighed tried to hold his temper, rubbed his left hand across his brow, exasperated. Jesus sergeant if you don't know where he is, I surely don't either. Stared at the Lancastrian who was keen to give him a serve. Bluey couldn't give a toss what his sergeant thought, he wanted answers to his questions, put his right hand up and carried on, We got separated earlier on, he left us high and dry.

They stared at each other Mitchell raised his eyebrows, wanted more. He obliged, He ran off and dropped us like a hot turd, he's a coward, just plain and simple. And in a whisper added, Plus he's a murderer to boot..

That comment stopped the sergeant in his tracks, hands on hips, he looked at him incredulous, You mean he pissed off and left you and Jenkins to fend for yourselves? He shook his head indicated disgust at hearing that news, You sure–maybe he was wounded–killed–captured even? And murder, what's all that about hey?

Bluey was so exhausted he spilt his tea over himself, but the clumsy accident brought him back to reality, he jumped to his feet and ignored the last question. Christ how would he start to explain the murder accusations? Looked around at his fellow soldiers, everyone was buggered, strung out, they were all hanging on by a gossamer thread. Now was not the time to talk about murder. Maybe you're right he's been killed or captured but it all started before we got separated. He pissed off right when we needed him, when the bloody Germans were blowing smoke up our arses. He ran off and left us sarge, left me and Jenkins for dead. Poor old Jenkins was badly wounded and Spooner just fucked off, saved himself. Oddly enough the bastard waited at the appointed meeting place and I don't know why he did that? Maybe I'll never know, but as soon as we arrived and I mean as soon as, he was on his bike. Never saw him again, me and Jenkins got lucky, I managed to kill a few Jerrys who were trailing us, but don't get me wrong, Jenkins did his bit too, he chalked up some kills when it was needed. He's brave that one.

Sergeant Mitchell didn't answer, only nodded, his face grim with determination. Both men were exhausted, sick of the bloody war, sick of the Germans kicking them every which way. Bluey hoped Spooner was dead, but people of his ilk seemed to have nine lives. Best to put him out of his mind, all he wanted in the next forty-eight hours was to survive and somehow get back to England. With a headache coming on he slid back down onto the ground, finally his emotions got to him, tears welled in his eyes, grateful no one paid him much attention. He was rambling, We're lucky to be here, we had to fight all the way back, the Frenchies were hopeless, they pissed off too, the fucking Jerrys were everywhere. Christ it was a bun fight. If I see that Spooner again I'll kill him, that's a promise. So much slaughter, it was bloody terrible. He realised he wasn't particularly lucid, didn't care, just wanted the war to end right then.

Mitchell listen in stony silence, grimaced and swallowed, understood he'd been to hell and back. But couldn't bring himself to look this tired, disillusioned soldier in the eye, belatedly and half heartedly asked, So what did you see out there?

Despite being emotionally drained Bluey cottoned on to the sergeant's body language and assessed the situation for himself, It was a waste of time wasn't it, I mean the patrol? Jesus sarge, we risked our lives for that mission, Jenkins lying over there somewhere wounded, for what? For naught, isn't that right?

Mitchell squatted down to the same level as Bluey and looked the Aussie soldier in the eye, spoke solemnly, truthfully, Look son we are up shitters ditch here what seemed important yesterday, isn't so today. It's not just you and Jenkins, there's a whole army of you two, trying their best to slow the pace of these German cunts down. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, pinched it fiercely like he wanted to do harm to himself and carried on, Men are being taken off the beaches, night and day, in a day or two hopefully it will be our turn but someone has to man the barricades to get this thing done. Just be grateful you've had your turn and survived. What you did last night, actually you put a little spanner in the Wehrmacht's large war wheel. Threw them off balance, so to speak. For that you and Jenkins, even the Frenchies, should be bloody proud, it bought us precious time. So finish your tea and get some rest. Tomorrow, he hesitated momentarily, frowned and in a soft voice Bluey had never heard him use before, continued, who knows what tomorrow's going to bring us?

Bluey stared at Mitchell, who was about to say something deep, must have thought better of it. Reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, gave him a forced smile stood up, turned on his heels and walked over to where the captain was sitting. Christ that little speech had him flummoxed, he decided he'd take as many Germans with him as possible if it came to Armageddon. Tiredness forgotten, he stood up ran his right hand through his ginger locks, approached the officer in charge of the small armoury and demanded to be given a Bren gun.

Dire warnings of another German attack came to fruition. In the early morning light the ominous rumbling sound of a Panzer II meandering along Dunkirk's cobblestone streets reached their sandbagged fortress. The menacing sound sent shock waves through the men. Behind the Panzer was a platoon strength of Wehrmacht soldiers who used it as an effective shield as it traversed its way around various wrecked and abandoned vehicles and headed in their direction. The British Expeditionary Force's main weapon, a WWI Vickers machine gun began to spit out bullets at a lethal rate of over 500 rounds per minute. It kept the soldiers well and truly behind the Panzer. Many bullets hit it, loud pinging sounds were audible above the racket, yet no real damage done and the Panzer kept coming. Two hundred yards out, it stopped and studied their vulnerable fortress like a bull sizing up a matador in a bullfight before it charged.

Without any real foe to concern itself with the Panzer didn't stand on ceremony. It unleashed a ten round barrage from its 20mm KwK 30 rapid fire cannon on their eight-foot high stack of sandbags. All the soldiers in the fortress had witnessed the power of a Panzer II in previous encounters. When the order was given to hit the ground and protect life and limb most obeyed instantly. Some more slowly than others, and even after a 20mm shell had traversed a sandbag it had sufficient velocity to rip arms, legs and even heads off the slow to react soldiers. It was sheer carnage. A few lucky ones who were only grazed cried out for help, but four laid dead, too slow to get out of the line of fire. Another magazine of ten widow makers was dispatched from the Panzer, more sandbags disintegrated but no more wounded or dead. Lessons learnt very quickly.

Captain Collingwood and Sergeant Mitchell had an impromptu meeting. Meeting over, it was the sergeant who approached the remaining men and asked for two volunteers to go with him and destroy the Panzer. Without any proper anti-tank weapon they needed to get close to the Panzer to disable it. Bluey was on the periphery of the gathering, heard enough and sensed suicide mission but volunteered with eight of his comrades. Mitchell picked two men from the eight, told Bluey he'd done enough already and wanted him to stay and defend the fortress. Ordered him to position his Bren gun on the sandbagged wall, give covering fire and support the Vickers machine gun as his group approached the Panzer.

Sergeant Mitchell led the two outside of their sanctuary towards the Germans. Mitchell had in his possession one Boys ani-tank rifle which fired a 7.45mm shell. Their main problem was they needed to get close to the Panzer II to have a chance of penetrating its 15mm thick armour and disable it. Bluey and all the others on the sandbagged wall watched as the three made rapid progress towards the Germans. A few intrepid Jerry soldiers stepped out and fired at them, the three en masse kissed the cobblestone road hard. Bluey fired off a complete magazine at the Jerrys and reassuringly heard the growl of his neighbour's Vickers machine gun rattle off countless bullets at them too. Two went down and the others scampered behind the Panzer once more. The Panzer II appeared to be completely disinterested in the three, fired its vicious cannon at the wall once again. Bluey was forced to throw himself onto the ground as sandbags close to him once again exploded before his eyes. The Citroen they had used for extra cover was forced back onto the wall as large pieces of it were torn away and flew into the air in all directions. He looked across at others who had manned the wall with him and quickly turned away. Instantly the colour drained from his face and he brought up his breakfast. The sight of one of his mates who also was firing a Bren gun was nothing less than pure horror. One of the 20mm shells had hit the muzzle of the Bren gun head on and ripped it completely apart and travelled into the poor bloke's head. Apart from half his head missing he had the remnants of the barrel in what remained of his mouth and jaw grotesquely protruding outwards. A scene he hoped to never witness again. It was becoming a dangerous place to protect, less a sanctuary more of a mortuary.

Captain Collingwood ordered the remainder of his men to prepare to move out at a moment's notice. Meanwhile the Panzer II commander suddenly got interested in the three who were still partially exposed and loathed to advance. Sergeant Mitchell realised his precarious position as the three neared the entrance of the tenement building. They could easily have taken the sensible option and run into the building to escape the fury of the Panzer. Unselfishly the three brave men set up the Boys anti-tank rifle and commenced firing at the grey monster with a few of its shells penetrating it. This only encouraged one of the Panzer crew to pop his head out of the turret and return fire with a MG-34 machine gun at the prostrate BEF soldiers. Bluey saw him, acted swiftly, returned fire, managed to spray the turret area with .303 shells. He and a few mates cheered when the Jerry gunner slumped forward over the turret. Ominously the Panzer loudly scrapped its tracks on the cobblestones. It swung its heavy chassis around and targeted the three soldiers in the building's entrance with its hideous cannon. Mitchell understood what was about to go down, ordered his men to get under cover inside the building. A few seconds later and the entrance didn't resemble anything like its original form, a gaping hole was in its place.

Bluey feared Mitchell and the others were dead and reluctantly prepared to retreat to the relative safety of Dunkirk beach. Suddenly two French soldiers came out onto the balcony of a tenement building directly above the Panzer. One of them lobbed two grenades onto the Panzer but both rolled off and exploded harmlessly onto the cobblestone road. The other soldier who had a French MAS-38 submachine gun sprayed the German soldiers behind the Panzer. Caught the German soldiers off guard and caused a considerable amount of death and havoc amongst them. This was all encouraging stuff when a third one appeared, Bluey's heart beat excitedly, he yelled encouragement to the Frenchies as one had a lit Molotov Cocktail in his right hand. He simply let it slide from his fingers and it travelled the short distance to the Panzer and burst into flames on the side of the turret. An unseen person handed him another one. This time he hit the jackpot as the Molotov Cocktail disappeared behind the slumped dead soldier, through the open turret an into the bowels of the Panzer. Seconds passed before the dead crewman was forcefully propelled out of the Panzer. The remaining two crewmen were in complete panic and screamed in agony from their burns. They scrambled to exit their potential steel coffin, made their fiery escape only to be picked off by the French soldiers above them. No mercy shown in this last chapter of Dunkirk's total war.

Bizarrely the BEF didn't know this platoon of French soldiers existed not more than one hundred and fifty yards from their position. Bluey scratched his head, lamented the lack of communication amongst the Allies. Another sad factor contributing to their heavy defeat that late spring of 1940. However with the Panzer II burning brightly and the German soldiers running back to their hole in the wall it was a small victory won. The BEF boys stood and cheered these brave French soldiers who still understood it was worth risking life and limb to save their Republic.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Sergeant Mitchell and the two others never made it back. One day later the rag tagged soldiers departed from what remained of their fortress to another world. Incredibly with no more fatalities, having been evacuated by a destroyer off one of the last remaining shaky jetties. Rescued from an alien planet called Dunkirk. On arrival in England everyone was given five days off and told to report to Wellington Barracks, London, where new orders would be issued. The train trip to London gave Bluey a chance to think about his future, go back home to Australia, assuming the British Army would let him? Not likely. Stay in the army, no choice really that was a given under the circumstances Great Britain found herself in. With a huge foreign army on the beaches of Northern France chafing at the bit to invade, every man was needed. It would be all hands to the parapet. But maybe a change of direction in the army. Join the Corps of Military Police if they'd take a colonial, use all the skills he learned as a former detective in the Queensland Police Force. He mused surely that was more than enough for him to be transferred to the CMP of the army. And it might just get him closer to Alfred Spooner. The thought of Spooner jarred his mind and gave him what he really wanted at that moment. Time to reflect on the unimaginable sequence of events that had changed his life forever.

CHAPTER TWO

ALFRED

Alfred Spooner was a good looking fifteen-year-old boy. He was average height for his age and his blonde, curly hair needed a haircut. His hands were grubby, his uneven and cracked fingernails needed a good scrubbing. His clothes were old hand me downs bought from the local church opp shop. And they were worn, patched in a couple of places and grimy too. They hadn't been washed for a week or more. At first blush to some outsiders he had the appearance of a street urchin, he didn't know that because his few mates looked very similar to him. And most of the adults he passed on his way to school looked like older versions of himself. Only his teacher, Mr Whitehead wore a clean, white shirt every second day. But he was a teacher, almost God like so it was expected that he dressed the part.

Unlike his mates he loved school. He loved to read, loved poetry, loved learning French and was a daydreamer to boot. He filled exercise books with short stories about life imagined or real. He wrote a number of poems for his mum and read them out aloud as he looked at her photo on the small dresser in his room. She died from tuberculosis three years before when he was twelve. It was a slow, lingering death and made him very sad for her and afraid for himself. He knew she was going to die and the prospect of spending the rest of his childhood living with his dad caused him dread.

He had survived three years alone with his dad, it was tough. Because he was aggressive and a heavy drinker, he had often been violent towards his mum. Certainly Alfred didn't know any difference, he thought every adult male acted just as viciously to their respective wives. Except for his God like teacher of course. But tonight he was alone with the older Spooner working his one-week in three-night shift. He worked at the docks unloading ships at the huge East End London port. After Alfred's poetry reading to his mum he lay in bed and looked around his room, his refuge. It was a place to idle away the hours, dream about one day becoming a journalist, or perhaps even famous writer. The bed linen was in keeping with his appearance, dirty and grubby, the mattress hard and uncompromising. The walls were once a light grey colour, he knew that because he wrote a little poem to his mum on the wall one time. His dad slapped him and told him to wash it off before he gave him a bigger thrashing. That task done the wall now has a clean, grey area where the poem once was. He thought he was going to get the strap for that too. However his dad was asleep, snoring outside in the lounge with their HMV wireless blaring out from the mantlepiece above the little fireplace. Oblivious to the posh announcer's voice reading the latest news from the BBC and Alfred's latest indiscretion. Alfred remembered something that night about a Wall Street crash in far off New York and hoped not too many people died. He visualised the wall coming tumbling down on top of a whole lot of people as they walked under it, squashing them to death. He never thought seriously about death, that was for old people, but hoped he'd have a better one than that, being squashed by a falling wall.

To finish off the description of his little refuge he had an old chipped, dark timbered, wardrobe where he kept his few other clothes and some old toys his mum gave him when he was little. Realised he should have treasured these toys, but toys weren't his cup of tea. Not now. And there was a dresser made out of the same dark timber as the wardrobe with a mirror. It had large, ugly black spots sprinkled in arbitrary fashion throughout it. But the mirror served its purpose and functioned almost perfectly with or without the black spots. On the other side of his room one small window provided an eye to his outside grey world. It once had a curtain, but his dad ripped it off the curtain rod two years ago. Why? Actually, he can't remember, his dad did stuff like that often. Random acts of stupidity with a violent focus on inanimate objects. Probably had run out of beer and that had sent him on his little rampage throwing household items around their little tenement flat. But that was ideal as long as he didn't slap him around or push him down the stairs, which he succeeded in doing once. Alfred counted himself lucky, he managed to grab hold of the banister, which broke his fall. Only some carpet burns from the threadbare carpet to show for that tantrum.

Alfred thought his appearance, his clothes, his dad's behaviour and the grim appearance of their little flat was how life was. He had enough to eat, enough time to read, enough time to write some poems and he had a couple of mates. Not that many, not as many as other boys in his class, but he didn't lament that fact. Knowing other kids brought a degree of frustration with it. Boys often fought over little things like marbles or who had the best lunch on any given day, who could run the fastest or whose football team was the best. Yelling at each other during lunchtime or occasionally one of the bigger boys would poke a smaller boy in the chest was the norm. And sometimes the odd punch, although any kids caught, it was six of the best from Mr Beam, the school's principal. Despite Mr Beam's iron clad rule that sort of stupid nonsense was a daily occurrence, it was how life was. No, friends were a pain in the fucking arse as his dad often told him when he decided to talk to him and usually that was only after a couple of bottles of bitter. For once Alfred agreed with his dad.

Yet sometimes mates were entertaining. Alfred's best mate Shaun McCarthy told him about what he saw one time between his mum and dad. Shaun saw they were naked and wrestling on the bed. He thought that was a little odd, then to Shaun's alarm his dad got off his mum and his dick was about three times its normal length. Shaun said it was huge as he gasped in fear and swallowed with embarrassment. Then explained to Alfred how his dad pulled his dick a couple of times, pushed his mum's legs apart and proceeded to push his dick inside her hairy twat. Alfred not normally taken to laughing out loud did so and laughed so much his stomach ached. Shaun was sheepish, self conscious and wanted to know what his dad was doing to his mum? And why was Alfred laughing so much at this story? Like Shaun, when he was six, he once witnessed a similar event at home. His mum and dad having sex, although at the time he didn't know what they were doing either. A few years later Alfred had read about sex from a book he found at the library. Too afraid and embarrassed to take it out, he found a quiet part of the library and absorbed all he could about adults and sex. He looked at the diagrams of female genitalia with eagerness and often touched his penis, felt it growing larger, trying to burst out of his trousers. There were also diagrams of couples in different sexual positions. Armed with knowledge garnered from the library, and the image of his parents intertwined in what the book call the missionary position, he put two and two together and the penny dropped. His parents were having sex. He felt superior to his mate Shaun and in a condescending manner explained what they were doing. Hence his outburst of laughter. Shaun asked him why they did it, Alfred wasn't sure but guessed anyway and told him they were making babies.

All this talk about parents and sex only bought back another painful memory for him, one that had never left him. Alfred had been struggling with a bad case of influenza all week and eventually succumbed to it. He was sent home from school early one wet and dreary day. Unluckily for Alfred his dad was working night shift on that occasion and Alfred hoped he hadn't been at the pub drinking heavily during the morning because he understood if his dad was drunk he could be an unwelcome target for his attention. Silently he opened the door hoped to see him sleeping on the lounge and breathed a sigh of anguish when he wasn't in his favourite sleep it off position. Guardedly Alfred walked into the tiny kitchen and was stopped in his tracks at the scene before him. Totally naked and on her knees was Mrs Hardgrave. Her long, blonde hair flowed past her shoulders. Her huge, flabby tits almost came down to her navel, only inches away from her wild, sand coloured, pubic bush. Alfred learnt the pubic word from the library books. Now that sight was beyond belief but it only told half the story. To his utter horror his dad minus his trousers had his dick in Mrs Hardgrave's mouth. She was attractive enough, but old at least twenty. His dad had his hands grasping her blonde hair on each side of her head. His lower body was gyrating back and forth forcing himself into her mouth.

Alfred realised instantly he was in serious trouble but the surprises kept coming that day. He wanted to run but was frozen to the spot, hypnotised by the scene in the kitchen. Mrs Hardgrave after seeing Alfred, frantically pushed Thomas Spooner away, rose up and in a heartbeat rushed over and grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him violently. After the shaking she slapped him across his face three times. Her pretty, chubby face turned crimson, her blonde hair was dishevelled, when she threatened to kill Alfred if he ever told anyone what he saw. Especially her husband. Nervously Alfred took his medicine assured her he would never tell a soul. Yet utterly fixated on her enormous tits hanging almost to her stomach he put the pain of the assault to one side before his dad's wrath was focused on him. He pulled up his trousers, casually walked over to the fighting pair and slapped Mrs Hardgrave on the back of her head. That action stopped her in her tracks and she turned to her sexual partner with complete astonishment evident on her face. Thomas Spooner followed up the slap with two well placed punches into her solar plexus. She reeled back and doubled over in agony. The poor woman pissed herself as the pungent smelling, golden coloured liquid ran down the inside of her legs and onto the floor. Not content with that punishment he squatted down, grabbed hold of her throat and squeezed it tightly for what seemed an eternity. Alfred thought his father was going to strangle her, as her eyes almost bulged out of her head. Eventually he released his grip, stood up and let out a demonic laugh at her complete humiliation. Picked her clothes up off the flood, threw them at her and told her to fuck off back to her halfwit husband. His final order, never talk to or touch his son again.

Alfred cringed, wanted to leave this nightmare but somehow stood nailed to the kitchen floor. His nerves deserted him as his dad approached him and expected the worst. Thomas Spooner raised his right hand, hesitated and stared at his son. Alfred cringed, waited for the first blow, but only his long curly, blonde hair was ruffled. With a chuckle and a grin on his face his dad said this was his first lesson in sex and handling women. He told Alfred they were meant to pleasure men and even sluts like Mrs Hardgrave had their place. He further elaborated that women admired men who were dominant and forceful. Continuing with his diatribe he explained that Alfred would understand all this in three-or four-year's time, everything would fall in place for him. From that day forward Alfred had a different perspective towards his dad and women. At that moment his thoughts and feelings were conflicted. Was it possible to hate and loathe his father, yet at the same time want to emulate him?

CHAPTER THREE

After he finished school Alfred had a few menial jobs. Nothing special, cleaning at a local electrical appliance manufacturing plant. Yet it had its moments, nicking some scrap copper wire he could resell for a bit of money on the side, but the rest of the job was mundane and boring. That useless career path was followed by delivering telegrams for The Royal Mail. It was hard work, peddling his bike in rain, sleet and snow, then in the summer heat, it was shit. He hated both jobs, but it made his dad happy. Happy because his son was finally contributing to his own upbringing. Paying some board towards food and rent so his old man could spend more money on beer and women. A few years went by and Alfred understood riding a bike around the city or pushing a broom cleaning factory floors and toilets was not what he was cut out to be. Then a drinking mate of his dad's, told him he was after a young lad to train as an apprentice painter. Would his son be interested? He never thought of himself as choosy, yet painting wasn't high on Alfred's agenda either. But his dad told him if he didn't take the job there would be big trouble at home. For days he was consumed with thoughts of how to get out of this conundrum. His dad was no fool, he could see his son was procrastinating and took matters into his own hands. He beat the living daylight out of Alfred and said this was just the start if he didn't get off his arse and get some paint on his hands and under his fingernails. And fast.

Predictably he hated painting but reserved intense loathing for his fat, lazy, uncouth boss. Fate intervened two years into his unwanted painting apprenticeship. It started to rain around lunch time, not much, a light drizzle, enough to make life difficult for anyone working outside. His boss had returned from his normal four pint lunch at the pub they were painting when it all went tits up. Norman his boss was a big bloke, overweight and unfit. Returning to the platform carrying an open one gallon tin of paint he slipped on the wet boards. As he fell on the scaffolding floorboards simultaneously the paint spilt onto the platform compounding his dilemma. His feet slid on the slippery wooden planks and made for a friction free ride over the scaffold's edge as his useless alcohol numbed legs went from under him. Despite this he managed to grab hold of a piece of scaffold with one hand as he dangled over the edge, three storeys above the street. For Alfred it was all a blur. One moment he was squatting down painting some windowsills. The next moment his boss slid right past him and underneath the barrier. Instinctively Alfred dove across the boards and grabbed hold of Norman's other flailing arm and did his best to save him. Norman was a large man, weighing in excess of eighteen stone, thanks to a constant diet of beer, pork pies and chips. His hand slipped off the bar and screamed for Alfred to pull him back up so he could grab one of the scaffolding bars for a bit of purchase. Despite using all his strength Alfred realised he was being dragged over the edge and potentially faced the same fate as his boss. In a monumental effort to stop eighteen stone of human flesh falling three storeys onto the roadway Alfred managed to brace his legs against some scaffold supports. With both feet on the steel bar he used his thigh muscles to do the impossible. Drag this overweight fat slug of a man back to safety.

In a heartbeat he understood his situation and it wasn't pretty. Every muscle in his body ached. His efforts were never going to work. With such a huge weight hanging off him, his legs were buckling and his grip was weakening. Alfred had never experienced such pain before. He was in agony and inevitability panic set in for the two reluctant participants. Alfred's left leg slipped loose and it dangled over the edge of the scaffolding. In his frenzied state Norman made the decision to grab hold of his leg, at first with his right hand, then with both. At this unexpected occurrence Alfred was in real trouble as his other leg also slipped off the pole. Now both legs were dangling over the edge and the only thing stopping him falling over was a vertical steel support pole positioned between his legs. Excruciatingly his testicles were hard up against the pole. Aching muscles were the least of his trouble as the pain in his testicles was beyond comprehension. It was killing him and with such a weight hanging off his legs, and his balls about to explode only one of them could survive. And it was going to be him, not this big fat goose swinging in the air below. Ferociously he kicked hard against his bosses' face with his right leg without the result he was seeking. He needed Norman to accept his fate and not drag him over the edge too. So he leaned over the side and grabbed a big, fat, hairy, finger and ruthlessly broke it. And broke another one, and finally a third, all the time screaming for him to let go. Norman's survival instincts had kicked in, he yelled at Alfred to stop, to no avail. He pleaded with him and finally whimpered like a baby to be saved. All his pleadings were ignored. The distinctive finger bone cracking sound heard above his cries and obscenities were music to Alfred's ears. Despite all the noise and commotion three storeys above the footpath oddly enough, not one person in the street below was paying them any attention. It was a life and death struggle, virtually played out in a vacuum. Lunch time and a constant drizzle had most of the punters indoors listening to their wirelesses and having a sandwich or soup for their midday nourishment.

In pain and panic Norman continued screaming. However he finally let go of Alfred's leg with his all but useless hand. A small victory for Alfred as he kept kicking and targeted his fat, unshaven, ruddy face, with a few hefty kicks. But he seemed impervious to the pain. Suddenly like a miracle his boss stopped struggling, stared up at his apprentice with anger in his eyes, yelled out, You low life cunt, you've killed me. I hope you die in hell. Exhausted by his now useless struggle, his grip weakened. After what seemed a lifetime lost his ability to cling on with his good hand and slipped down Alfred's leg. His terrified face and screams told the tale as he fell to a painful death on the concrete footpath below. Alfred was naturally enough dazed and confused by this accident. But also couldn't believe

Reviews for Murders in a Time of War

[Cyril Albar · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The author did a great job. If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star, just submit your story to [e-mail] or [e-mail]