Twin Cheats

By James Field

When twins bicker about stolen loot, one of them must die.

Olive, tired of living a pauper’s life, steals a fortune from her wealthy employer. Soon after, her pious twin sister rings on her doorbell, demanding she repent and give the money back. Or else!

‘Twin Cheats’ is book number five in the ‘Life in The Clouds’ series. Each is a stand-alone story, but with a common setting. The Stables is an exclusive hamlet on London’s outskirts. If you visited, you would think you’d stepped back in time one hundred years. If you are rich enough, they might even let you stay. Those employed there, however, are a bunch of oddballs, so best to avoid them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Field
• Release date: May 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9788293174806

James Field

I was born in Essex, England, in 1951.My early days of work as an engineer led me to Norway where I met my future wife Kari. She moved to England where we married and raised our two daughters. We moved back to Norway in 1985.My wife and I now live far in the north, well within the Arctic Circle, in the land of the midnight sun. Life here is slow and comfortable, blessed by unspoilt nature and its magnificent moods.Being creative in the written form gives me vast pleasure. I hope, dear reader, you will take a break from your world and lose yourself in one of mine.

Book preview

Twin Cheats

Life in the Clouds series

James Field

Published by Smashwords

Copyright 2022 James Field

License Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles of review.

CHAPTER ONE

If you ever visit The Stables, in London's suburbs, you'll find it's like stepping back in time one hundred years. Horse-drawn carts, dirt track lanes, thatched roofs, black-beamed houses. The Stables is a quaint village for the rich, a club for snobs, a den where cash rules. This is where Olive lives and works: a low-paid bookkeeper.

She sat at her dressing table, studying her image, and sighted a curvy, somewhat podgy, blonde woman at the moment, past her heyday, wearing a fluffy pink pullover. Her hands were compact and nimble, with blood-red fingernails. The rest of her make-up was as brightly coloured as her bedroom, which, with its frilled curtains and deep luxurious bed, was the best room in her house at number two, Flintstone Terrace.

I look like a vintage film star, she said, and stuck her tongue out at herself. Large, glistening tears expanded in the corner of each eye, then dribbled down her cheeks, ruining her make-up. But you're a penniless slob.

From her purse she extracted a bright-gold credit card, opened a small drawer in her dressing table, and tossed the useless piece of plastic onto a pile of other cards, all drawn to their limit.

What am I going to do now? she asked her reflection.

When no answer came, she plonked down the narrow stairs and slumped into a chair at her kitchen table.

What's the matter with you? said her fiancé, Bert, looking up from his Hulk comic. Looks like you're ready to drown yourself. Fancy a cup of tea? He swung his massive bulk in his chair, reached across to a worktop behind his back, and flicked the kettle on.

You better go home, said Olive. I'm not in the mood for making dinner. Bert lived next door, at number one, Flintstone Terrace, so he didn't have far to go.

Oh, said Bert. Ain't you going to tell me what's wrong?

Despite his gross appearance, Bert was a good listener: affectionate and always ready with a shoulder to cry on. The advice he gave, however, was constantly pathetic. I was in town, buying some perfume, and when my credit card wouldn't pay, the stuck-up attendant snatched the bottle out of my hand. People laughed at me. I've never felt so embarrassed.

Perhaps you should've bought something cheaper. Some of those roll-on deodorants smell nice.

It didn't help when I told the snotty-nosed bitch to fuck off. She called security, and they threw me out onto the street. Just think, someone might have recognised me.

Can't say I haven't warned you, Olive.

Warned me. About what? She often swore; so what? Anyone who resided in a village crammed with rich snobs and went around like a pauper would swear.

Just don't you go back to your old tricks again. That's all. Bert drew a ten-pound note from his wallet and thrust it across the table. Here, buy some of that Cola flavoured lipstick we both like. He winked at her, his eyes bright and glossy.

I told you. I'm not in the mood. Go home! She rose to her feet and opened the kitchen door. Outside, dusk had fallen, and a cold, damp breeze made her shiver.

Bert broke eye contact and let his head fall forward. Alright. He ducked as he squeezed through the door. Love you, Olive.

I know you do. Now be off with you. She watched as he slouched along the back lane and disappeared inside his house.

A muffled silence followed, broken by the soft sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. The mist twined itself around trees and lamp posts, and drops of dew glistened on telegraph wires like a string of pearls in the light.

Pearls. Olive wrapped her arm around her waist and took slow steps towards number three, the residence on the other side of her house. Number three terrified her because people had died in there and all sorts of weirdoes had hired it. Midget aliens were the last to live there. That's what Bert called them, anyhow.

Now, the house was vacant, and Olive thought she might find something of value. A pickpocket hired it once and left in a hurry, maybe leaving a trinket or two somewhere.

A simple latch held the back door closed. The house's layout was exactly like Bert's and hers. Kitchen, dining room and lounge all in a row, and three bedrooms upstairs. No bathroom, and an outside toilet in the yard.

Olive found herself in the main bedroom.