Short Stories

By Peter Roberts

When an elderly gentleman is returning from a visit to his wife’s graveside, he is shocked to find himself the victim of a young thug. What the thug doesn’t realise is that this particular gentleman has nothing to lose and will make the young man regret ever having crossed him. (Bringing the House Down)

When a lady refuses to leave her bungalow for an easier life in a care home, nobody suspects the real reason behind her reluctance to go. (An Accident)

Three friends risk their liberty for great financial gain, but do they reap the rewards of such daring behaviour? (Happy New Year)

An SAS soldier returning from Egypt, still suffering after the kidnap and murder of his daughter, steps in with drastic action, to punish the would-be perpetrators of a similar crime. (Just Another Day)

When a recently unemployed man, witnesses, and assists at a road traffic collision, he is rewarded for his bravery in a very satisfactory way. (Right Time, Right Place)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398491878

Peter Roberts

Patrick Ronald Roberts was born on July 4th 1931 in London. The second of four children. The family moved to Liverpool in 1943 to escape the constant bombing of the city by the Germans, and the terrible poverty in which they were living. Patrick and his elder brother Evan, 95, are the only remaining siblings. He lost his sister Betty to suicide aged 28, and his brother George died aged just 21 in an army accident in Egypt. He is buried in a military cemetery in Cyprus. Patrick, almost 91, enjoys bowling, playing chess, and writing short stories, and has only recently stopped playing golf.

Book preview

About the Author

Patrick Ronald Roberts was born on July 4th 1931 in London. The second of four children.

The family moved to Liverpool in 1943 to escape the constant bombing of the city by the Germans, and the terrible poverty in which they were living.

Patrick and his elder brother Evan, 95, are the only remaining siblings. He lost his sister Betty to suicide aged 28, and his brother George died aged just 21 in an army accident in Egypt. He is buried in a military cemetery in Cyprus.

Patrick, almost 91, enjoys bowling, playing chess, and writing short stories, and has only recently stopped playing golf.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to the memory of my late siblings George and Betty. For them, I was inspired to create stories as an escape from our harsh childhood environment. You have both been sadly missed.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Roberts 2023

The right of Peter Roberts to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398491861 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398491878 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my daughter Julie, and new friend Dawn for the relentless typing of my manuscript. I would also like to thank Barbara, my lovely wife of 59 years, for being so patient during my absences from her company whilst working on my stories.

The Gift

It was as they were engrossed in forcing the safe that everything began to go wrong. The security man on an unscheduled patrol unwittingly walked in on them. His reactions had been quicker than theirs. He’d dived on to a foot alarm and pressed it, before they were on him. Gary had panicked and viciously struck him repeatedly on the head with the crowbar. Shock and anger had combined to lend strength to the blows.

John had forcibly dragged him off and they had fled from the building. It was too late. The alarm had triggered in the nearby police station, and the police had arrived outside.

The security officer had died on the way to the hospital.

Afterwards, Sylvia didn’t want to know him of course. After a short trial, they were sentenced to twenty years each. Sylvia moved away and he never saw or heard from her again. He guessed she had invented some kind of death for him to explain him away to Jenny. After he’d been in prison for nine years, he heard that Sylvia had been killed in a car accident.

Now, after twenty years, he had been released from prison and had traced his daughter. But he was dying of cancer, there was nothing they could do.

The doctors had given him less than a month. And he wanted to see his daughter before he died. He wished longingly there was some kind of gift he could leave her. But there was nothing. He had only a few pounds, and was down and out and sleeping in a hostel. All his possessions were in his plastic bag.

As his daughter’s car drove off down the road, he moved out from his hiding place.

Suddenly, the pain struck again, bringing him to his knees amongst the dead leaves. Presently, the crippling stomach pain eased and the sweat on his forehead cooled. He reached for his pain-killing tablets.

The pains were coming more frequently now, and lasting longer. Come back to me, the Dr had said, when the pain becomes unbearable. When he had recovered sufficiently, he moved off slowly in the direction of the hostel.

The following afternoon, he was again stationed in the doorway when his daughter’s front door opened and Paul came flying out with Jasper on a lead. "Now don’t go near the water love," a voice called as the door closed. The boy and the dog made their erratic way up the road. One minute the dog straining ahead, the next Paul pulling the lead as Jasper investigated every driveway. John, longing to be near his grandson, moved out behind him.

Presently, they arrived at a field where Paul slipped the lead off and watched the dog hurtle away. John, clutching his bag, moved closer to the duffle coated little figure. Suddenly, a Doberman came bounding across the grass and made straight for Jasper, who promptly legged it off into the distance. Paul snatched up a stick and bolted after them. Jasper, here Jasper, he yelled. By the time he had breathlessly caught up, they were dangerously close to the river.

Days of torrential rain had swollen it until it had burst its banks. Fierce and muddy, it swept along.

Here Jasper! shouted Paul throwing the stick. Fetch it, boy!

The Doberman had been whistled away and Jasper pounced on the stick and brought it to Paul’s feet. He crouched expectantly, wagging his tail. Paul gave a twirl and threw it as hard as he could. Staring in horror as it landed in the water. Jasper chased after it and teetered on the edge. He was too close to the water, and as the river surged past, he was washed away. Jasper! shrieked Paul and rushed up as close to the water as he dared. But the soft earth gave way, and as he went in, his head struck the bank.

John dropped his bag and tore off his old coat. Racing to the edge he dived in ahead of where Paul had gone in. The force of the water shocked him and he was dragged under. By a miracle his outstretched hand touched something. He seized hold. It was Paul’s duffle coat, and with his lungs bursting he surged upwards. He surfaced and gulped at the life-saving air. He realised that in his weak condition it could only be seconds before they both drowned.

As the water swirled them recklessly along, he glimpsed sight of an overhanging branch and frantically snatched at it. The force of them stopping swung them heavily into the bank. He took a great breath and with every ounce of strength left in his body, he heaved the boy onto the bank.

As the effort pushed him down, the pain struck again and the current sucked him down and away.

Coughing and dazed, Paul struggled to his feet. Shivering and sobbing, he staggered home.

Shortly after, a passing schoolboy kicked a plastic bag in the grass. Glancing around to see if he was being observed, he investigated the contents. Two pairs of old socks, a shirt with a worn-out collar and a faded photo of a pretty girl. His arm went back and he hurled the bag into the river. That’s where you belong, he muttered, and ambled away.

A Fitting Reward

The richly polished oak door of the boardroom opened, and the murmur of voices became clearer as the meeting ended. As the department heads and staff of Clarkson’s Remedies emerged, Arthur Benson hurried away trying not to show his bitter disappointment. As he reached the red carpeted corner and turned left towards the development laboratory, Ian Carruthers, the assistant packing manager, slid alongside him.

Never mind, old chap, he patted him consolingly on the back. The best man won, even if I do say so myself. Maybe they think you’re past it? and with an artificial laugh sidled off towards his own department.

As Arthur slowly removed his rumpled jacket and replaced it with his equally rumpled white coat, he wondered if Ian might just be right.

He was vaguely aware of the slight change in the conversation amongst his dozen or so laboratory assistants as he had entered. Funny just how fast news travelled around this factory. Everyone must know by now that he hadn’t gotten the packing manager’s job of this department. Carruthers from packaging had been promoted over his head.

Ian had accomplished that by playing golf with Brian Goldsmith every Sunday, and letting him win. Arthur picked up a clipboard and pushed his glasses up on his nose. God, it was so utterly unfair. After all these dedicated years, the best years of his life. Especially after his tremendously promising discovery. His new genetically engineered drug tissue plasminogen activator (Supradrug). This would put the small factory amongst the top pharmaceutical companies in the world. It was a formula for slowing the ageing process and had fantastic potential. Fierce competition from the big firms had hit them badly. It was rumoured that they might not survive another year.

A verbal pat on the back was all he had received, then Goldsmith had hurried on to other matters.

Finally, they had nominated that creep Carruthers for the newly vacated project managers job. Which everyone had presumed would automatically come to him. Afterwards, he had noticed how they had all studiously avoided catching his eye.

Five o’clock finally arrived and Arthur made his way quickly amongst the hundreds of factory workers to his old Skoda. Driving carefully at the regulation 30 miles per hour, he headed towards his modest semi. Parking the car, he tramped into the house with his usual bulging briefcase, with hardly a glance at the welcoming dog.

Well, how did it go? Margaret was waiting nervously in the hall as he hung up his coat and ran a hand through his greying hair.

They gave the job to Carruthers.

Wearily, he shuffled into the kitchen and washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Margaret’s usual homely face was suffused with surprise and anger. Carruthers, that creepy little man? Why, he’s 15 years younger than you, and he’s only been there half as long. How could they do such a thing to you? Have they forgotten that due to all your hard work the company could be saved from bankruptcy?

Angrily, she started serving out the evening meal. Well, she demanded, banging pans around, what do you intend to do about it? You’re not going to let them walk all over you like that, are you?

He slumped into his chair and half-heartedly started picking at a roast potato. What can I do? I’m fifty years old, dammit. I’ll never get another position at my age.

Just wait ’til I see Elizabeth Goldsmith on Wednesday, fumed Margaret, and all the others. And I thought they were good friends of ours. We really needed that raise in salary. I don’t know how we’ll manage John and Paul’s university fees next term, I really don’t. They finished their meal in silence, each buried in their own thoughts.

Feelings of resentment and hurt pride were building up in Arthur at an alarming rate.

As they washed up, Arthur said, I’ve over £7000 in my retirement scheme at work, with that, and cashing in some good investments I have, I think we could manage. You know those bungalows at Whitchurch you’re always going on about, he continued, well, maybe we could move up there? We should get a fair price for this house too. What do you think?

Margaret cheered up considerably. We’d need new carpets and some furniture. Also, I’d need a car for all my social work. I’ll just start making a list. She bustled off with enthusiasm for a pen and paper.

Arthur looked thoughtful…he hadn’t mentioned what one of the investments might be. Better if Margaret didn’t know really. He had never felt so bitter and let down before…it would just serve them right.

Later that evening, he made a quiet phone call and arranged to meet Des Wainwright at an out of town pub.

Entering the Grapes at 9.30 prompt, he found Des had already confiscated a secluded cubicle. Sitting down, he carefully placed his briefcase at his feet, and picked up the half glass of bitter that Des had waiting for him.

Des and Arthur had been at college together and had remained friends ever since. Des now had a managerial position at Meacham’s Pharmaceuticals, one of the biggest in the world.

They chatted about their families, holidays and mutual friends. Presently Des asked with feigned casualness, How’s the secret new wonder drug coming along? You know how rumours abound in our industry, and we hear interesting things.

He had observed the briefcase and was consumed with curiosity and hope. Well, the tests are completed and they’re exceeding our highest expectations. We should be starting full production in about six months. We’re dropping all our other lines to specialise on this, and it’ll take all our resources. We expect it to be a bestseller.

Des shook his head. What Meacham’s wouldn’t give for that formula, he mused. With the capital at our disposal, we could probably put it on the world market in about two months.

Yes…well… Arthur cleared his throat nervously and glanced around. You remember you once jokingly offered to buy the secret formula? Well, what sort of figure were you thinking of offering?

Des leaned back and whistled softly with suppressed excitement. Arthur, if I could lay my hands on that formula, it would be up to the board to decide its value. But if it’s anything like as effective as rumours have it, I can assure you, you would never want for anything ever again. But, I must be honest and say this, if we mass produce this product, then Clarkson’s would be finished.

Arthur gave a hollow laugh and replied bitterly, Don’t think I haven’t considered that. Clarkson’s had their chance, and blew it.

He dipped into his briefcase and passed across some documents. So your people know what’s on offer, here are some research figures and test results. You understand, of course, that at this stage, I can’t disclose much more than that?

All the following week, Arthur wrestled with his conscience and avoided as many people at work as possible, retreating into himself.

On the following Monday, he again met with Des. A figure was offered and accepted. The deal was done.

The following Friday, a special meeting had been called in the boardroom.

Everybody of importance was to attend. Arthur tried twice, unsuccessfully, to be excused. At 3.50 he donned his suit jacket, made an attempt to brush his hair and dragged himself to the boardroom.

The large oak panelled room was packed. He had never seen so many people at a meeting before. Something of great importance must have happened. There were drinks laid out ready on one side, and even the local press reporter and photographer were present.

Arthur sat and studiously studied his nails as the voices wafted around him. He thought he caught a few knowing glances cast his way, but he kept his head down.

Ladies and gentlemen, Goldsmiths dominating voice quickly brought a hushed silence