Midwinter Mystery - " The Town of No Return " - Chapter Nine

_{Midwinter Mystery – Chapter Nine}

_{"Wayward Souls"}

"Wheee ..” George whistled in astonishment, 

_{“.. no wonder he's barmy !” he leant over the small table and gently dropped the book back down. John's brow furrowed as he considered the more somewhat fanciful facets of the strange ecclesiastical tale. Struggling to see the relevance, if any, this had with the curious disappearance of Sergeant Keel and the lost time with the 'outside world'. He ran his fingers slowly over the surface of the books, occasionally moving one aside to view the ones beneath, taking stock of their titles along the way, ' Folklore, Myths and Legends', ' Mysticism in Mistry' and ' Tales of Mystery and Imagination' were ones that stood out as being of particular interest. “ It appears that your Sergerant is quite the prolific reader, but these are all fairytales and superstitions without any basis in truth or reality.” he announced reassuringly. John was concerned that this morbid little library might be more an indication of a unstable mind, than an interest in the supernatural. His thoughts drifted back to the room as he caught sight of an old suitcase pushed far back under the bed and then became aware of the wall with it's faded photographs, obviously of a young Sergeant Keel, accompanied by family, friends and other such acquaintances. With all this he added the recent discoveries of the wardrobe with it's collection of clothes still occupying hanging spaces, and the chest of drawers which had given up it's hidden treasures: a silver plated, full hunter pocket watch, with the engraving inside that read 'To David, Happy 21st Birthday ! May you always find time to enjoy life, love Mum and Dad', and a WW2 medal. John felt compelled to mention it to others, with a growing sense of admiration for the unaccounted sergant, “I found a medal in the drawer,” he explained pointing towards the chest, “ it was presented to 'Petty Officer David Keel' for 'Conspicuous Gallantry in 1942. Looks like he was quite the war hero, did you know that ?”}

_{"Yeah, he was in the navy during the war, saw quite a bit of action by all accounts,” volunteered Buster. “He seems like a good man, someone you could rely on, someone I'd like to have around,” John said, with a growing sense of respect for his absent Sergeant, making a conscious effort not be too obvious about his feelings about the rest of 'team'. “Well we now have a full name and confirmation of a war record, I'm starting to build quite a picture of the man, all that's left to do... is find him !”}

_{Taking everything into consideration, the personal effects - the man may have left but his life was still very much present - and the condition of the room, beyond it's general state of disorder, convinced John that there was no evidence of any struggle taking place, Indeed, he surmised that whatever happened to Sgt.Keel he had probably departed of his own volition, and in all likelihood had expected to return the same way. The fact that he hadn't suggested that he had been prevented from doing so by someone... or something. The preliminary search of the room gave rise to his belief that there may be more to be gained from within it's old walls, that missing lives and hidden secrets were still lurking, waiting to tell their own story.}

_{John gave the situation his deepest consideration, before reaching an inescapable conclusion, “ I think it's best if I move in here, in this room..” he announced, not that he was seeking their approval more as if he was justifying the action to himself, “.. until we find the Sergeant, that is.” John looked at one and then at the other to gauge their reactions at this unexpected revelation, but they seemed only mildly uncomfortable with the prospect of having to share a 'full house' with him.}

_{"As the highest ranking officer present I should be here at the center of things, offering my guidance and support to you both and indeed to anyone in need of help in a time of emergency,” stated John with a congenial smile to lighten the move.} 

_{“Wot about all the sergeants clobber, then ?” George asked boldly.”} 

_{“Leave that to me, I'll make sure everything's stored away safely, AND take full responsibility for it until he comes back, fair enough ?”} 

_{“ 'Ere if you're gonna stay with us yer gonna have to pay yer way, you know !” Buster chimed already grappling with the complex fiscal practicalities of it all. “ Don't worry about me, I'd rather take care of care of myself anyway, if that's all right with everyone ?” John confirmed as he commenced tidying the books into some sort of order.}

_{"If that's how you want it, but it were always good enough fer the Sergeant,” Buster excepted.} 

 _{“Well, I'm not the Sergeant, and I prefer to do things my own way, thank you very much,” John leaned down with both hands on a small stack of books as he pressed home his intention. “ Actually, all this talk of belongings reminds me that I still have some luggage of my own at the train station that requires picking up.” He thought for a moment and then looked at George, “ As the owner of the only vehicle around here, I'd appreciate it if you'd drive over there and collect it for me,”} 

_{“Yeah, course I will, I was heading over that way this aft'rnoon, anyway,” agreed George. “Good ! that's settled then, I'll make a start on clearing things up in here, you'll run out to the station and you..” John's train of thought derailed slightly as he looked at Buster, “ ..you, just go somewhere, ANYWHERE, PLEASE !” “ He can come with me, if you like, I could do with another body to move some stuff,” offered George.} 

_{“ A BODY, HIM ! I'm not sure if he qualifies for that position. I mean look at him, he can barely move himself let alone anything else !” John shook his head slightly at the situation.} 

_{“ Just what do you expect of him ?”} 

_{“ Well, Ballast you could say !” replied George. “Ballast ?”} 

_{“ Yeah, y'know like weighing me down,”} 

_{“ Well, that I CAN believe,”} 

_{“ No, it's the car's suspension see, it's shot on the driver's side, probably 'cos of that near run in I 'ad the other night, anyway I need something to balance things out,”} 

_{“Oh, you mean like a - dead-weight,” followed John.} 

_{“ Yeah, I guess yer could say that,”} 

_{“Well, in that case you definitely have the right man, take him with my blessing …. you'll need it,” John looked between the two of them, and then as an after thought. ”Oh, and I advise you to get those springs checked over as soon as you can, before matters get any worse,”} 

_{“ Will do, chief !”} 

_{“ Well then, don't just stand there get going, the pair of you. I want to get this all finished by tonight !” They dawdled their way - almost in concert - towards the door only just avoiding a mid-door collision at one point.}

_{As the door closed behind them, an air of serenity descended upon John and he allowed a small sigh of relief to escape. He was pleased to be alone once more, and the opportunity to begin his investigation in earnest, in the orderly and professional manner that he was accustomed to. Where would the investigation take him ? Was there an ulterior motive to Sergeant Keel's interest in folklore ? Were his two officers trustworthy - they were certainly hiding something ? And had a crime even be committed here, or was it simply a case of incompetency ? Ironically, the one person whose word John felt he could trust right now, was the man he was investigating ! But until he knew more about things, this was his station, and he was going to be run it his way, with his rules, and from here on in he was going to be watching everybody, very closely.}

   _{It was a chilly dreary afternoon, not unlike the inside of the station, when John finally stepped outside. He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, as far as they would go, over a set of blue tinged hands numb with the cold, and proceeded along the short front path towards the street beyond it's gate. After a time consuming and questionably productive morning he had succumbed to a call of nature, and ventured out in search of something to eat, or at least whatever semi-hot, mildly-digestible – or semi-digestible, mildly hot - offering he could track down on this desolate excuse of a Sunday.}

_{He walked leisurely towards the Crow Inn, or 'the scene of the crime' as he preferred to call it, which was guilty of passing food off as being edible, but he didn't have much choice in the matter as it appeared to be the ONLY place in the village that was open. And since he needed to check out of his room there and collect his belongings, it seemed an open and shut case of ' two birds with one stone' or perhaps more aptly ' one crow on two accounts'. As he approached the pub, from the other side of the road, he noticed that it was almost directly opposite a church with a strangely looking twisted spire, a fact that he'd missed when he passed it by earlier that day. Slowing to a virtual standstill, as his curiosity was roused by some wild flowers, sheltering under a rampant hedge that supported the wooden stake fencing skirting the cemetery grounds. He had just crouched down to get a closer look at them when, “ Ahh, there you are ! You little devil !” came a voice from out of nowhere. “Who's there ?” John called out, spinning his head around to isolate it's invisible source. Although he had been startled by the unexpected interruption, part of him questioned if anyone was really there at all, or if it was just another of his mental aberrations. “Come on now, show yourself !” he demanded, becoming increasingly agitated with the continual surprises, the darker aspects of the case, and feeling the outsider to everything and everyone, all these factors were taking a toll on his nerves.     “ Oh, I am sorry. I didn't know any anyone was standing there ,” a clean shaven middle-aged gentleman with short receding grey hair, swept back to one side, which currently was in a state of disarray, rose from behind the hedge. “I suppose I was too taken with my 'big game hunt'... MOLES !” he explained holding up a curious little contraption. “They play havoc with the stones, you know,” he pushed a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses back from the brink of his nose.} 

_{“ Right, so you're setting traps for them, then?” John asked.} 

_{“ Yes, well I don't wish them any harm you understand, we are all god's children after all. No, I'll just capture them and release the lot into the arms of mother nature,” replied the stranger, gently dropping the trap to the ground. “ Well, it's good to have a hobby, ” John mused. “ Ha ! I'm not sure it's so much a hobby, more a necessary evil,” the slim would-be trapper replied, a twinkle in his eyes revealing the humour in the situation. “ Actually, this rather reminds me of an account in France, many years ago, where a church actually resorted to issuing an excommunication order on their mice population, forbidding them from attending services.” 
“ I take it, that it didn't work ?” surmised John. 
“ Heavens, no ! Don't you know... rodents are terrible at Latin, ” the stranger replied, with a mischievous smile.} “Personally, I think I'd prefer mice in the chapel to... bats in the belfry !” he finished, extending an invitation to meet him at the cemetery gates for a friendly rendezvous.

_{"You must be that Inspector fellow, the one everyone's talking about,” he assumed.} 

_{“ Yes, I am that DETECTIVE. Inspector fellow ! So, who 'must' you be then ?” John returned, scrutinizing his challenger's appearance for any tell-tale signs of his profession, but none were apparent. His attire was garden casual in theme, a pair of well worn denim dungarees, with a cream, checked twill shirt under a light green, corduroy overcoat. “ Lord, how amiss of me, I do apologise. I'm obviously a bit out of practice meeting new people,” the stranger dismissed his oversight, removing one of the garden gloves from his left hand he extended it towards John. “ Father James, pleased to meet you,” came the introduction, as they shook hands. “ Detective. Inspector John Foxe, how do you do, “ John replied.} 

_{“ My goodness, that's quite some moniker you have there. Why, it's almost as long as one of my sermons,” the vicar quipped. John stared blankly at the vicar, it seemed everyone had something to say about his title, which he was determined to keep, as it had taken most of his adult life to achieve it,} 

_{“ Hmm, quite,” he responded. “ That's an unusual looking church you have there. It's not Catholic, is it ?”} 

_{“ No, we're a non-denominational church, I'd be rather surprised if you've heard of it – The Sacred Order of Wayward Souls.”}

_{“ You're right, that's a new one on me.”} 

_{“ Actually, it's a very old one, Inspector. Old and decaying, I'm afraid to say. We face imminent extinction in these changing times of ours. We're spread few and far between the coastal lines of this fair isle, but what we lack in numbers we more than make up for in devotion, I can assure you.”} 

_{“ Why only the coastal towns ?” John found the notion of a regional religion somewhat of an oddity. “ Ah, well it's a belief that was borne by the villagers who lived and worked in the areas that were dependent on the sea for their livelihood. They banded together seeking what little solace or comfort they could, in the darkness of adversity. Sunken ships, the loss of precious cargo's and their poor unfortunate crews, consigned to the watery depths for all eternity,” responded Father James. 
“ 'Wayward Souls', huh ! Tell me, is everything different around here ?”} 

_{“ Do you mean different or unfamiliar, Inspector ? I admit that Mistry life requires a certain period of... readjustment, shall we say,” empathized the Father.}

_{"That's something of an understatement, Father,” agreed John. “ It's just that things seem rather backward around here, I guess"} said John, looking beyond the vicar at the cemetery behind, and it's collection of unusual, semi-subsided headstones. 

“ 'Backward', no I wouldn't say that, exactly” the vicar spoke in a soft reverent tone in defense of the village's reputation. “ You must appreciate, Inspector, that this place has a long and intriguing history, one that almost predates sense or reason, as we know it, an existence forged from the fires of superstition and fear. If anything I'd say it was the world that moved and simply left Mistry behind. We seem to attract the lost and forlorn, those who are either running away or searching for something. And some just feel- for whatever reason - abandoned by society and it's modern ways. So, perhaps you can hardly blame them for their little foibles or 'eccentricities', they are as much trapped here as... you or I, in a way.” 

“ I'm NOT trapped here ! “ John denied vigorously. 

“ I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any distress, I was merely demonstrating a point that you were unable to leave here right now, even though you so wished to ! ” 

“ I'll leave when I'm ready, and not before, Father.”          

“Yes, of course, Inspector,” said the vicar, allaying Johns's stance while he cleaned his eyeglasses with an old handkerchief. “ Well, I hope you'll join me for a drink and a friendly game of draughts sometime. We have to make a our own entertainment here most nights, except on Thursday's,” offered the vicar returning his glasses to their original position.                         “ Why, what happens on Thursdays ?” “ Ah, we have the pleasure of, 'Jay, and his organ', over at the Crow Inn.”  

_{“ I'll bare that in mind for the future, thank you,” said John, wincing slightly.} 

 _{“Actually that reminds me, I have to get over there now, before they stop serving food for the day. Otherwise my stomach will never forgive me !” he explained.} 

_{“ Of course, Inspector. Go in peace, so don't order the game pie,” the vicar mockingly advised. With that John took his leave, and set off across the road towards the Inn. Father James watched the policeman's progress with curious interest, not even distracted by the mysterious gruff voice from the hedge, “ He sounds like trouble, to me !”}    

_{“ Yes, I fear you may be right, Edward. In which case..” the vicar answered without turning around, “.. he's come to the right place, hasn't he !”}

_{lifeandfunnies.blogspot.com}

Midwinter Mystery - Chapter Eight - " The Tale of the Mad Monk of Mistry"

  They sat in an irregular semi -circle around the fire engaged in their respective brews – united by consumption, separated in their own worlds. John discreetly studied his two new 'comrades' continuing to assess if he could really truly on their support and just how much, if at all, they were implicated in this affair. “ I suppose you have your own questions about me, but first of all just answer my question first. Why hasn't divisional H.Q received any reports from this station in the last three years ?”  John pressed his inquiry. Buster returned a blank look and then passed it over to George when he had finished with it, “ I don't know nothin' about no reports, Sergeant Keel was in charge of all that stuff weren't he, Buster ? “ George explained. “ Aye that's right “ He did all them 'ficial things, “ Buster piped up, “ always writin' things down on bits 'o paper, he were, Buster recalled. “ Wait, are you're saying that he DID fill in all the reports ? So, where are they now, then ?”  John asked disbelievingly. The pair looked briefly at each other and then back to John, speaking almost in unison they delivered the same verdict, “ Dunno ! “                                                                  “ I'm beginning to come to the conclusion that it might be easier to ask you two, just what DO YOU KNOW !” John regrouped his thoughts and proceeded. “ Well if we work on the assumption that Sergeant Keel was indeed responsible in his duties, then what would he have done with the paperwork, once it was completed ?” he reasoned. The small pendulum clock hanging over the fireplace didn't tick as loudly as the stony silence from the confounded officers, John waited in anticipation for the reply, before his impatience finally got the better of him, “ Let me guess, you ' duuno' anything about such matters ?”                                                                                                      “ That's right ! But, we're not stupid you know, we jus' never handled those things, that's all.  The only one who can answer your questions is Sergeant Keel, 'imself ! ” George stated .                             “ Believe me, I wish I could ask him !” John inhaled deeply, and slowly released it along with some of his frustration. “ Look, it's honestly not my intention to make anyone feel stupid, however I do need to find out what's been happening here these last few years, and for that I need answers longer than two syllables, that's all.” John endeavored to be more compassionate. Turning in his chair he looked around the small forlorn chaotic room in search of any possible clue, “ Just where do you file all your paperwork and records,” he paused in thought for a second, “ CRIMINAL records that is, NOT THE  L.P VARIETY !” he added.
“ It's jus' like we keep trying to tell you, Guv'nor, we don't know nothin' abou' things like that. You'll just 'ave to go up to his room and have a butcher's at it yerself !” George declared, swallowing the last dregs of tea.                                                                                                                                               “ WHAT ! HIS ROOM ? YOU MEAN TO SAY HE ACTUALLY LIVES HERE ! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. MAN ? WHERE IS IT ? “ John exclaimed, catapulting out of his chair.                                                                                                                      ” Upstairs, where else would a bedroom be ? Buster responded with a slight air of superiority, pointing to a door in the far corner. “ Follow them stairs up and you'll find two rooms, take care to go in the door on the left. Whatev'r you do, don't venture into the other one.” he cautioned.                      " REALLY ! Why, what's wrong with it ? John challenged.                                                                      “ IT'S MY ROOM !” declared George jumping to his feet in defence.                                                    “ I see ...” John viewed his young constable's rather disheveled attire and unkempt grooming , “ .. thanks for the warning, I'll try to give it as wide a birth as I can. So, you and Sergeant Keel both live here in the station, then ?”                                                                                                                        “ And Buster  ! “ George concluded.                                                                                                       “ SO, ALL OF YOU LIVE IN ! That's absurd, there's hardly a place for the prisoners !” applied John making his way over to the door.                                                                                                                “ Yeah, well we have to, don't we ! Neither of us have been paid any wages now for the past three years,” Buster followed.                                                                                                                               “ Yeah, that's right enough, Guv'nor ! We've had to take care of ourselves all this time, one way or another, ” finished George, bringing up the rear.                                                                                        “ Hmm, so from what you're saying the files and the wages went astray roundabout the same time, interesting, ” considered John standing up. “ But, what about the telephones, surely at least one of you  have tried calling and reporting the situation to the branch station ?” he questioned stepping onto the first step of the stairs.                                                                                                                            “ Yeah, course we did !” protested George. “ But it didn't do any good, the line was down, weren't it, Buster ?”                                                                                                                                                      “ Well, that's not entirely unsurprising I suppose, given the unusually hilly terrain around here. But you have to keep trying at these sort of things, you know !” concluded John, continuing his assent of the stairs.                                                                                                                                                   ” No you don't get it, the line is ALWAYS DOWN no matter where or when we call. I swear it's  like the main line is cursed or somethin' !” George trailed a few steps behind Buster, with John leading the way and about to enter Sergeant Keel's room.                                                                                           “ Let's put the cursing to one side for a moment, shall we. I'm only interested in the facts, and not your local colour, thank you very much. So, what excuse were you given about this line then ?” John pushed the bedroom door slowly open and cautiously entered.                                                                  “ The big pole won't stay up !” Buster jumped in.                                                                                          At this stage John was only half listening as he was more pre-occupied with entering the room than listening to Buster's ramblings, but he felt compelled to challenge what he thought he'd just heard, “ The WHAT, won't stand up ?”                                                                                                      “ The main line that connects Mistry to the exchange, keeps gettin' knocked over. It's keeps gettin' hit by  cars or struck by lighting, caught fire.. a couple of times, chopped down by accident once and … oh yes, it's had dry rot too !” Buster kept a tally on his fingers itemizing the various calamities.          “ Then there were all those poles they had to be replace on accoun' of that big landslide the other year, ” prompted George, peering over Buster's shoulders to watch John at work.    
         The atmosphere in the room was slightly stuffy, a mix of stale air and old socks, the single bed looked clean and well made, it's corners tucked tightly underneath, but the rest of the room was in a state of disarray, heavily decorated with cobwebs around it's corners, light fitting and other areas that invited such activity. The solitary window was closed and it's curtains drawn, John circumnavigated his way round a small high table and chairs in the middle of the room on his way over to it. Pulling back the thin brown curtains he turned a catch unlocking the window and dropped it down on it's old wooden sashed frame admitting long needed fresh air and light. “ Huh, so basically the mail, payroll and ...any other form of communication has been discontinued for all this time, correct ?” John surmised still semi-distracted by the room and the possible secrets it may contain.                                 “ Yeah, that sounds abou' right, Guv'nor !” agreed George, nodding to secure the fact.                          “ I see, well it seems a visit to your Post Office may be called for, if only to corroborate stories, ” John  confided with his fellow officers.                                                                                                   “ Wot'cha mean ?” George looked more than usually puzzled.                                                               “ I mean, that I need to secure the details before I start forming any opinions or theories. It's what is commonly known in police circles as 'conducting an investigation',” John answered with a hint of derision. He continued to scour the room for any indication of what may have befallen it's resident. His eyes fell immediately upon a number of opened books and sheets of papers strewn across and around the table. Picking up a handful of the papers he commenced to sift through them, a  cursory glance revealing they were covered with a collection of scribbles, symbols, passages of text - probably taken from one of the surrounding books – and rough sketches. Diverting his attention to the books he noted that they had either been bookmarked or had corners turned over, a clear indication that Sgt. Keel had obviously found something of interest or importance contained within their pages. “ Is this everything ?” John asked searching the remaining part of the room, peering into the large door-mirrored wardrobe and fumbling through the small chest of drawers. “ Yeah, this is the lot, we ain't touched a thing. In fact, we ain't even been in 'ere since he left, 'ave we, Buster ?” George confirmed proudly.
 “ Aye, there weren't nothing worth having in here !” Buster volunteered all to truthfully.                      “ I'm sure Sergeant Keel appreciates your warm sentiments  … wherever he is, ” John gave Buster a judgmental frown. “ So, no files, no reports, no clue ! Just a fistful of ramblings,” John returned to the table and the written pages, drumming his fingers across their surface. “ We're no further along now than when we started. Look, surely there must be something else, something he may have said or did that seemed out of character at the time ?” he pressed with mounting frustration.                                    “ Nah, he kept pretty much kept to hisself , 'specially the last few times I saw him” Buster explained joining them by the table.                                                                                                                           “Yeah, he was always takin' himself off into the woods, I reckon'd he must be one of them bird fanciers, or somethin' !” George revealed.                                                                                                  ” An ornithologist ? What made you think that ?” John queried.                                                           “ Well, he would spend a lot of nights up in the woods all alone with jus' a thermos, a round of sandwiches and a pair of old binoculars. Then he'd creep back in 'ere in the early hours of the mornin' upto his neck in mud, lookin' even worse than, Buster ! ” George lifted one of the books from the table, and started to casually run his eyes over one of it's opened pages.                                                “ Wait, did he own a camera at all ?” a sudden idea flicking a switch of hope.” If he did then there may be some photographs under this little lot or perhaps there's an undeveloped film lying around here somewhere !” John grasped desperately at the prospect.                                                                   “ I don't think so, besides there's nowhere around 'ere to develop it,” George replied in an apologetic tone. “ Hmm, that's too bad,”  John accepted disappointingly, he picked up the top sheet of paper from a pile of other loose papers, and raised it closer to to his face for further examination, “ There appears to be a sketch of a hooded figure on this one, does that mean anything to either of you ?”                                                                                                                                                                           “ That's odd, this book 'ere 'appens to be open on the legend of 'The Mad Monk of Mistry'. Y'know, I bet that's who's the picture's of !” George's deducted.                                                                                “ The Mad Monk of Mistry, eh ! I suppose it could be some kind of religious garment at that,” concurred John studying the drawing more closely. “ So, what's the story on this misguided monk then ?”                                                                                                                                                       “ Ah, it be a dark tale from Mistry's past, it's long forgotten past” Buster stared strangely into the distance as if he were reliving the account himself. “ But now it's returned to carry out it's ghostly ways on us all !”                                                                                                                                        “ All right there Jack-a-nory, that's quite enough story telling for now, thank you very much. I prefer to hear the unvarnished account if you don't mind,” John gestured to George to commence reading from the old book.      
         'The Tale of the Mad Monk of Mistry,' George read the chapter title slowly and deliberately, before finding himself completely immersed in the account.

                                          ' When the bell doth toll from yon abbey's tower                                                                                              spectres long past will soon be found.
                                                Take heed tales of woe or deathly power,
                                             as cold bones will rise from hallowed ground
                                                 fingers reaching out for souls hell bound '

         In the middle of the seventeenth century at a time of great civil and religious unrest under Cromwell's Commonwealth England, many people found the changing political and social landscape hard to accept. Never more so than at the sleepy abbey of Mistry which was forced to seek alternative areas of revenue to address the dramatic change in their fortune, the continuing loss of wealth and lands threatening to ruin their very existence, in order to address this situation the Abbot finally succumbed to looking outside the Abbey's walls for it's salvation.
       Brother Nathaniel, a young naive novice, fresh from vows of obedience, celibacy and virtue, was also struggling with changes of his own, adapting to his new surroundings and the enforced strict disciplines of life in a Medieval Monastery. Among his many duties was the procurement of new sources of income within the village and the offering of his services for private tuition among it's locals. Over the year the monk took on a number of students from various backgrounds and ages, and became a highly regarded and respected figure within the community, but to one pupil he was something more.
       A wealthy trading merchant, Ezekiel Smallbone, long since widowed, employed Nathaniel to instruct his youthful, high~spirited and beautiful daughter, Grace, further in her studies of art and religious matters, with hopes that his presence might provide the much needed peace and serenity that she so sadly lacked. At first her contempt for the new tutor was plain for all to see, and she could constantly be heard challenging his authority and teachings. Slowly over the course of time a degree of understanding and mutual respect seemed to develop between them, much to her father's joy, growing srtonger and steadier with each passing day. Seasons passed, the days grew shorter whilst the nights became longer, darker, and somewhere amidst all this the two became one – and fate interceded spiraling their lives together hopelessly out of their control.
       With the summers final breath Grace, fell with child, bringing with it conflicting times for them all.  She was delighted at the prospect of motherhood, but distraught at the thought of confessing all to her father, whereas Nathaniel, was torn between his devotion to the church and his all consuming love. Ezekiel, a deeply proud man was bitterly ashamed and disgraced to hear his daughter's story, and struggled with the loss of face within the village. As Grace's pregnancy approached ever nearer it became impossible for her to conceal it anymore, just as her father couldn't hide his disapproval, they could only wait and bide their time until fate showed it's hand.  But Ezekiel knew, deep down, that an inescapable dilemma was drawing nigh and that  eventually he would have to make the hardest of choices - family or honour, love or loneliness – with a heavy heart his decision fell and he disowned his own flesh and blood, casting her out into the streets. With no means of support, she was forced to beg on the streets for alms, and sought refuge in a ramshackled old barn on the outskirts of the village. Ezekiel incensed beyond reason screamed out at the abbey's gate exposing the monk's behaviour and the illegitimate child to all inside, denouncing him and demanding retribution. The church could ill afford to defend the strayed member of their order, fearing reprisals for any incidents of sin or stigma during these perilous times, so sided with the locals to assuage their already troubling overtures. The Abbott bathed Ezekiel in platitudes and assurances that Brother Nathaniel would face expulsion, excommunication and be held accountable for his actions by a higher power.        
      The night of the birth fell on a stormy desolate evening, the couple held each other tightly in their arms, hearts full of love but weak of  pocket, they could not afford the services of a physician or the much needed medicines. Complications arose and a slow arduous labour followed dragging on into the early hours of the morning, but come first light both mother and newborn child had sadly perished.
      The great loss of love and faith finally took it's toll on Nathaniel's fragile state of mind sending him into a deep spell of despondency, from which a darker spirit re-emerged, twisted and damned beyond recognition. His soul was forged from denial and rejection, vilifying all that he had once believed in, some say he'd made a blood oath with Beelzebub himself to preach the innate virtues of evil and the dark arcane practices that existed unseen by the ignorant or the self-righteous. He spread the word wherever to whoever would listen, but they were few and far between and in the end the villagers became fearful of him and everything he stood for. The Abbott rallied a small group of citizens together and confronted the fallen monk in an attempt to dissuade him from this twisted path, but to no avail, he did not falter from his course nor take heed of their plea to recant his ways. Instead the encounter seemed only to exasperate Nathaniel's fevered conditioned pushing him deeper into his malaise, he turned away from them and surrendered himself to powerful demonic thoughts.
        That night, grim clouds massed releasing a torrent of rain upon the earth, while thunder and lightening danced across the sky as if heaven itself was voicing it's disapproval of his conduct. The monk had scaled the abbey's high walls and paraded across it's walkway shouting, screaming out words of blasphemy and heresy against the world and it's elements, he was nothing more now than just an instrument of hate and anger. The hard rain lashed at his face, the thunder threatened to drown out his words and the lighting struck down faster and furiouser. From the abbey's high bell tower came it's haunting toll punctuating the howling storm along with Brother Nathaniel's delirious rantings. Twelve times it rang out, twelve long chimes, midnight had fallen. At the zenith of the monk's frenzied calling for followers and the damning of all things that represent love and hope, a spear of lightening struck at the wall beneath him. Crumbling, disintegrating the wall collapsed and his body dropped like a child's toy crashing to the ground buried under the ensuing cascading stones of the old wall. The storm slowly subsided, the clouds eventually cleared, the full moon glowed, all was silent, all was peace once more.
      And so there he lays to this day, so folklore says, a forgotten spirit in an unmarked grave in unhallowed ground. It's said that under the light of a full moon, on the final srtike of the witching hour the monk rises again scouring the abbey's grounds still searching for followers or for those who no longer knew how to live, souls he could claim for his masters bidding.'
        The story told, George slowly lowered the book sporting a slightly paler complexion from when he began, there followed a brief moment of silent reflection between the unlikely trio. John had listened to the tale, but his thoughts were more haunted that this, for the time being, was to be Mistry's police force -the young, the old and the … lost.

Lifeandfunnies.blogspot.com

ELECTION DAY 2017 - ELECTION DAY JITTERS ANYONE ?

                                                          ELECTION DAY JITTERS !

     

 I'm not a political animal, just a humble and very simple working class guy, but it seems to me that this election is the most lack luster, saddest one I can recall.

       None of the leaders seem to  possess any degree of charisma and with no discernible backbone or courage - I know what's new there - perhaps I've just become weary of the whole predictable show over the years. Old promises, old cliches, the kissing of babies/minors ( provided a parent or legal guardian is present ) or failing that any opportunity that permits the wearing of a hard hat and the complete inability ( paralysis of facts ) to give a straight answer to any question posed to them directly, plausible deniability I believe it's called. Some parties even seem to find it hard to provide concise facts and details concerning their own manifesto's and lastly the eternal spin machine that dictates that polls are NEVER accurate  ... unless of course their swaying in YOUR PARTY'S favour ! 

   As I said, maybe I've become too cynical about it all, how can one party promise the earth without expecting to plunge our economy into the red or another party asking us to vote for them simply to stop another party's path - surely the weakest argument ever to gain a seat in power. 

     There's certainly no denying that we're living in a changing political world, one where one countries president can rise to power from out of nowhere or assigned to one of the main political party's. A new world order that rejects actors as world leader for a more extreme outspoken entrepreneur. It's a fearful time for us all, a fragmented Europe, fragile global economies, climate change, splintered countries and radical ideologies, I don't believe any of the candidates have offered us any clear message on how they hope to address these issues.      

 ... oh well, thank god it will soon be over, unless some idiot calls for another referendum to confirm the merits of the original referendum because it didn't suit their own political agenda.

Anon

Midwinter Mystery - Chapter Seven - A Supernatural Thriller series

_{Midwinter Mystery – Chapter Seven}

 _{"Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here"}

_{Morning crept it's way in to John's small room, it's cold sobering early light finding him strewn across the bed staring up at the white uneven and cracked ceiling. The day had begun where the night had finished, having moved little since passing out a few hours earlier, only the occasional shifting of the hips to alleviate the pain in the lower back caused by the weight of his legs hanging over the side of the bed. Gently raising himself into an upright position he wiped away the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, and concentrated on restoring sound and vision for a new day. He sat motionless for a while, his thoughts slowly coalescing as he submerged under a wave of questions: why was he really here, did he even want to do his job anymore, was this all some sort of disturbing dream or a hind of midnight madness, but to these, and more, no answer came - there never was. His new world was populated by secret fears and doubts, with only the inhabitants of routine and habit offering any hope of normality or solace.}

_{He also drew a certain amount of solace from his ritual ablutions, the purification of body, in action if nothing else, with all it's various components the splash of water, the application of cool shaving cream, the scraping of steel razor against skin and the stinging kiss of cologne, which currently was supplied by a bottle of Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet Aftershave, a present from Cathy on his last birthday – he'd often find himself smiling into the mirror as he recalled her saying how much it suited him, the fragrance was discreet, sensual and dry - like his sense of humour. Cathy always had a way of making John laugh, particularly about himself, as if she somehow knew how important it was not to let him take work or life too serious.}

_{After washing away the previous evenings hangover a degree of humanity and consciousness had been restored, allowing John to turn his attention to dressing, an act hampered by the fact that most of his shirts and ties were in his other suitcase – the one still siting at the train station. He finished shaping the dark navy silk tie, with a full Windsor knot, which rested atop a crisp white shirt and then slipped into a finely pinstriped charcoal three piece suite, shoe horned on a pair of black leather slip-on shoes and grabbed up his single breasted herringbone tweed overcoat from the back of the chair as he strode confidently towards the door.}

_{A light breakfast of tea and toast, assisted by a choice of preserves awaited him downstairs courtesy of a large burly woman named Janet, the Inn's chief - see only - cook, bottle-washer, waitress, chambermaid and all round busy body. John noted her warm refined accent and was not too surprised to hear, during their brief exchange, that she wasn't exactly a 'natural native' to the area, he also admired her ability to weave in and out of the tightly packed tables of the small back room, swaying her hips around them like a human pendulum, a testimony of stature over service. Janet revealed the station's location, but couldn't shed any light on the rest of his enquiries, as she had never heard of anyone needing their help. Downing the last dregs of his brew he got up from the table and thanked her politely for the assistance, the irony of the situation, a member of the public giving directions to a policeman was not entirely wasted on him.}

_{John stepped out into the main street - as far as he could surmise – where a new morning refused to reveal any more of Mistry's identity than the previous night. A murky sun diffused sky descended upon the little village seemingly merging with the dank hanging mist that rested upon the rooftops, threatening to engulf another day. He walked through the heart of the village, under the large ominously dark tree rooted in it's center, now dead for the winter, and carried on to the other side upon which he then turned promptly left and followed the curving road around, he passed a string of terraced cottages, several passageways and two derelict houses, in truth only the first building actually merited this classification, the other on closer inspection was more a borderline civil case, or to give it's official designation... police station. The main distinguishing features for such a conclusion were the iron bars covering the downstairs windows on the outside - whether to stop somebody from getting out or to prevent anyone trying to get in was debatable – and the blue glass lantern hanging above the doorway, with the word ' POLICE' inscribed in white capital letters. A short overgrown garden path led up to the entrance and an open door, whereas normally this wouldn't be an issue for John, he decided to err on the side of caution on this occasion, after all he still didn't have any idea of what he might be walking into. ” HELLO ! HELLO ! IS ANYBODY THERE ?” he called out, but if there were then his words had fallen on deaf ears.}

_{Starting to cross the threshold he suddenly became aware how clammy his hands felt, he rubbed them dry down the sides of his trousers, as his heart began to beat faster and faster, running a hand over a fevered brow and unbuttoning his shirt collar was all he could do to manage the worsening condition. But, it was to no avail, John was already deep in the grip of a powerful force unlike anything he'd known before, one that grew stronger and stronger, rapidly surging through his body and onward to his head, overwhelming feelings of … anxiety and panic ! The tsunami like emotional wave that flooded his brain along with the disturbance to his blood pressure, caused him to almost blackout as he staggered back against the door-frame. Remaining motionless, suspended by the doorway, John found himself too weak to do anything but wait for the palpitations to subside, wait and desperately struggle with whys and wherefores and any rationalization of his state of mind, but it was impossible to control his own wild chaotic thoughts anymore.}

_{Slowly as his composure and strength of purpose returned he forced himself away from the sanctuary of the doorway and took the first few tentative steps forward into the deserted looking charge room. The main room was divided into two sections by a 4' ft counter, on John's side there were only three shabby looking table chairs sitting under a noticeboard adorned with old public service posters, advocating everything from the benefits of buying war bonds to drives for blood donors, and one wanted poster for an escaped mongrel called 'Digby'. Raising the counter-top flap he passed though it and finally entered the AWOL office, which more resembled someone's living quarters than an actual working police office, with two deep armchairs seated in front of a fireplace, a small round heavily stained coffee type table, a larger fold-down dining table and a gas stove. John noted the hint of fried bacon hanging in the air and steam escaping from a boiled kettle on the hob, all indications of recent life but no sign of a corpus delicti, it was a veritable public servant's Marie Celeste.}

_{On the opposite side to the fireplace there was another doorway, this one shut, he wondered if behind this closed door were some of the answers he was searching for. Turning the handle John cautiously pushed it open, his body tense with the anticipation for whatever lie ahead. It gave way without argument revealing a room with two iron bar cells, neither without doors, one of which appeared to be engaged already, it's resident lying seemingly dead to the world buried beneath a pile of blankets, only a pair of twitching mismatched socks protruding from out of them betraying any living presence . The 'mystery guest' had left their muddy old boots propped up against the outside of the cell and an assortment of garments hanging from a tall elaborate looking coat stand next to the bed.}

_{John approached the slumbering cadaver, shoved it carefully a few times and then withdrew to a respectable distance awaiting the expected fallout. The mass rose, undulated and collapsed several times before finally expelling it's elderly captive to the hard floor, “ Huh ! Eh ! Is it breakfast time already ?” came a confused mumble. John relaxed his guard slightly as the new arrival didn't appear to pose any immediate danger to him, and given his current state of undress, a long washed out nightshirt, a bobble hat and woolly scarf , he wasn't exactly a flight risk either. The wizened gentleman was also wearing a rather confused and dazed expression beneath a beard as thick and as grey and as it was long and wiry, he stood, well more stooped, in front of John, his mouth held ajar in awe. “ BREAKFAST TIME ! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, THE RITZ ? ” John started up. “ Come on with you, get up now, and would you please put some clothes on while I'm talking to you. It's a personal rule of mine about questioning naked people before mid-day,” he continued. The skinny man of the cloth nodded his head slightly as if acknowledging the request, then bending over grabbed the bottom of his night shirt between both hands and proceeded to lift it off over his head. “ NOT NOW, MAN ! I meant wait until I've left the room, turned my back, or something !” John interfered promptly, fearing the repercussions. “ 'OLD YOUR 'ORSES THERE YOUNG FELLA ! You can't jus' come in 'ere and start bossing people around in their sleep whenever you feels like it, y'know. There are laws for that sort o' thing... “ the old timer regained some of his spirit as hopped around the cell trying to slip his boots on, “ ...' DISTURBIN' THE PEACEFUL', that's wot it's called ! ” ” NO, IT'S NOT ! Besides, in your case it's more like ' WAKING THE DEAD' ! ” John remarked caustically, eyeing up the would-be protagonist. “ Look, let's start from the beginning shall we ? What's your name old-timer ?” ” William Wilberforce Burke the Third !” came the proud, defiant answer. ” THE THIRD ! And people say you can have too much of a good thing !” John remarked sardonically, while watching his cell mate struggling like a second rate escapologist trying to pull his trousers up - over his shoes. “ Aye, well it's a bit much, so folk around 'ere just call me … Buster !” ” BUSTER ? Huh, that does surprise me, I thought they'd have gone another way with that one. Still, a curious choice where did it come from ? ” John resignedly enquired. ” I dunno, they jus' started callin' me it one day and it kinda stuck” and with this he toppled sideways, knocking the coat stand over, which landed heavily on a nearby jug of water smashing it to bits. ” Well, I guess that solves that little mystery,” John muttered proceeding to grasp the semi-decent suspect by his upper arm and guided him into the main ofice. “ Come on, let's do things by the book, the due course of the law in action and all that ! THEN, I can find you guilty and put you back in your nice snug little cell, all official like !” John pointed to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. ” GUILTY ! ME ?” choked the old boy. ” Ahh, a confession already. Excellent ! “ ” WOT ! I'M NOT CONFESSUN TO ANYTHING ! LOOK, JUS' WHO THE HECK ARE YOU ?” the ageing jail bird squawked loudly at the end of his tether. ” Sorry, perhaps I should have formally introduced myself from the beginning. Would it help at all if I showed you my credentials ?” John offered. ” Why would I want to look at YOUR DENTURES ? “ ” CREDENTIALS, YOU DEAF FOOL ! ! AS IN PROOF OF IDENTIFICATION ! ” John drew out his wallet and presented a warrant card to Buster.. “ 'Ere, this says that you're a policeman ?” came the reaction to this shock revelation. “ Yes, that's right, and you're in a P-0-L-I-C-E station, Buster. Do you remember where you are now ?” John spoke purposely slow and deliberate to allow for the age delay. “ OF COURSE I DO ! I'M THE ….” Buster was cut dead before finishing.}

_{“ HEY, BUSTER, SHAKE A LEG THERE MATE ! Some stranger arrived in the vilage last night and people are sayin' that he's fixin' to come over 'ere this mornin' to see us ! ” a young red faced man bounded through the doorway, his arms laden with farm produce, dressed to a fashion as a police constable. He collided with the dropped down counter before running into the arms of John, “ Well, well, who do we have here then, another uninvited guest ? Does this station operate some kind of ' Open House ' policy, or is there an amnesty on waifs and strays today ?” John lifted the flap, beckoning the newcomer to join them. “ So I take it from what I've overheard, the pair of you are in cahoots with each other, and if that's so then I have only ONE QUESTION to ask ! Which one of you is going to tell me... WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THIS PLACE ?”}

_{The two suspects glanced at each other furtively, a moment of guilt and a secret shared passed between them. “ HEY, NOT SO FAST THERE, MISTER ! WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO COME IN 'ERE ALL COCKSURE OF YERSELF AND START THROWIN' QUESTIONS AROUND ? ” the chubby youth responded in an act of bravado, slyly pushing a carton of eggs along with a suspiciously wrapped piece of uncooked bacon under a pile of papers on the desktop. John briefly studied the features of this new ' rebel without a cause', noting the way his thick mop of unruly black hair flopped over the forehead, the short snub nose and the dark beady eyes. “ Well, for your information, we,” John waved an open hand in the direction of Buster, “ were already in the middle of introductions when YOU BARGED YOUR WAY IN HERE, ON US ! Still while I have the attention of you both, allow me to clarify my position.” He produced his warrant card once more and handed it over to the youth, “ I believe this should help to clear matters up. I'm Det. Inspector. John Foxe, and ... I'M IN CHARGE OF THIS POLICE STATION - SUCH AS IT IS ! NOW, I TRUST THAT ANSWERS YOUR QUESTION SATISFACTORILY ? “}

_{The pair shared the same stunned expression, caught in the aftermath of this revelation. John scoured the desktop in search of some paper and pen, to press home his advantage, “ Okay, now it's your turn. Who are you lad, and what's your business here ?” ” George Clemens, P. C. 49, Guv'nor !” he stated, puffing his chest out, to the best of his ability. “ P.C 49 ! Oh no, please tell me you're joking, you can't be an actual member of the constabulary.” John looked incredulously at the would-be-lawman. “ Wait a minute did you say your name is George ? That wouldn't be THE George, the one who runs a taxi service by any chance ? ” John asked curiously . ” Yeah ! That's me ! Wot of it ?” “ Huh ! So you're not only a taxi driver but you're a police constable too, eh ! Remind me to have a word with you sometime about the forces policy on 'moonlighting'.” ” OH NO, GUV'NOR ! I never work after midnight,” ” That's not what I meant,” the throbbing vein over John's right eye, indicated that one of his blinding migraines was close at hand. He exhaled deeply, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders and ease the mounting stress, ” Never mind, it'll keep. Right now, P.C. 49, you and I need to have a serious talk,” John became aware of a small shifting shape edging it's way closer to them. “ Look, take this chap's particulars down will you, and then .. oh, just send him on his way with a caution this time. I think he's merely a confused simple citizen, or something, ” John turned to face Buster. “ We're going to let you off with a warning for now, Buster. But if we catch you in here abusing this station's facilities again, then you will be arrested do you understand ?” ” THERE HE GOES AGAIN, TRYING TO ARREST ME ! WOT'S WRONG WITH 'IM ?” exploded Buster. ” NAH ! You can't arrest 'im, Guv'nor !” George chimed in. ” WHY EVER NOT ?” demanded John indignantly. ” COS, HE'S YOUR SERGEANT ! ” George declared. ” HIM ? NO, HE CAN'T BE ! I WAS TOLD THE SERGEANT'S NAME WAS 'KEEL' ! “ John was visibly taken back by this revelation. ” Aye, he is ! I'm one of those... wot you call … . 'acting sergeants', that's it ! ” explained Buster.}

_{John stared in disbelief at the shambolic figure standing infront of him. “An 'acting sergeant', you ? I'm not sure if that falls under farce or tragedy, “ he concluded, shaking his head in denial. “ So, where's this Sergeant Keel fellow, then ?” his perplexity with the situation reaching it's limits. “ Dunno,” answered George, shrugging his shoulders. “ Hmm, okay, well when do you expect him back,” John asked changing tack. “ Haven't a clue, ” admitted Buster. “ Why doesn't that doesn't surprise me ? I take it that neither of you are particularly familiar with the notion of 'police work' are you ?” John's hope of a fast resolution to this case was slowly, painfully, ebbing away from him. He stood still and silent, looking not so much at them but through them, rubbing his chin, pondering life's injustices before finally speaking again, ” Let me see if I fully understand my position, I'm in charge of station without bars, run by two 'Keystone Cops', and a Burke for a sergeant, is that about the size of it ? ” Without waiting for a reply John crossed over to the fireplace and collapsed into one of the armchairs, temporarily incapacitated by a form of mental fatigue. ” 'Ere, he looks a bit pasty, don't he ? “ said Buster leaning over the fallen inspector. “ D'yer think it was somethin' he ate ?” “ More likely somefink he drunk,” came George's second opinion. ” You're both wrong ! It was something I heard ...YOU TWO ! “ he murmered, leaning forward, head buried deep in his hands.}

_{George and Buster loitered nervously by the fireside awaiting John's re-emergence from his self-inflicted solitude, maintaining a respectful silence until suddenly, “ Who's up for a cup of char then ?” George offered with a clap of his hands. “ Oooh yes, and throw a couple of them biscuits in with it too ! “ Buster perked up. John raised his head, if not his spirit, and turned to look at the stove, “ If you've got any coffee back there I'll have one – black, one sugar, please.” he requested returning to the back of his chair. John watched George performing his ancient tea making ceremony, with an ancient looking tea set, while also keeping vigil on Buster as he stoked some more life into the log fire. They seemed harmless enough he thought, but could they be trusted and how much did they really know ? John decided he would have to play this one close to his chest for time being, friends or foe, he was going to have to keep his guard up around them for time being. Until he could be sure of who he could trust, he was going to have to continue being alone, an outsider looking in, conducting a man private investigation into the disappearance of Sergeant Keel.}

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Fortune Telling - A Fictional Account

    Once again Spring has sprung, blessing us with her seasonal warmth for another year – just in time before winter – and with it, a young man's thoughts turn to romance, and all the thrills and promises that accompany a new love. Unfortunately, if your NOT a young man – by general consensus that is – then you're probably turning your thoughts towards another lady – Mother Nature ! She is a far more demanding and unrelenting a mistress. With trembling knees and cold sweats – like a first date, really - I'll start to think about having to jet wash the patio, or suffer mild panic attacks with the expectation of having to mount an expedition into the darkest regions, of the lost world of flora & fauna, more commonly known as 'me back garden'.

It was with this oncoming event, that may - I confess – have influenced my decision to “accept” an invitation to a garden féte at the local vicarage. A community tradition, as British as cream teas, Morris dancers and Midsomer Murders. During my walk-a-round, I passed the familiar institutions, the “A Kiss for a Pound” stall – nice to see Jordan in steady employment for a change – and the competition for ' Best Buns.' usually judged by some pillar of the community or local celebrity – before the “rise” of Big Brother/Goggle Box “winners”

Then, suddenly, I came across the “Fortune Teller” tent, and it triggered a flashback to my youth, and my first exposure to occult practices and the powers of prediction.

It was the summer of 1980, and I was a shy, insecure, self-conscious and almost pennyless young man, just another of those  “statistical reminders of a world that didn't care.” So, with desperation as my moral compass, I sought answers with the aid of Lady Constance Ophelia Norman, and her amazing crystal ball.

Usually, searchers of the unknown and keepers of truth, go under the title of Madame or Mistress something or other, but my psychic adviser had much more nobler credentials. Which I thought must be a good omen, for surely a member of the aristocracy, would have much” better connections” when downloading the spirit world. Constance Ophelia Norman – an abundance of names for one supposedly medium person - was as the classic soul song said 'once, twice, three times a lady'. She materialized from the other side of the tent in a heady haze of mysticism and Estee Lauder, her large frame dis-placing the air as she approached me. Extending a heavily beringed hand to greet me she gave me a fixed expression accompanied with a choice of astrological readings and a non-refundable price list..

“ Which would you prefer ...the Tarot cards or the Crystal Ball ?” she enquried.

“ Oh, well, I'll take the.....ball, please. I've always been curious to see one of those in action”

“ Ah ! That's a pity. Unfortunately there was a slight accident, earlier, and I sort of... cracked it.” Constance confessed.

“ So, you mean it's broken. Too bad you didn't see that coming” I laughed nervously.

“ Hmmm, or you, for that matter” her ladyship muttered under her breath, “ but I can see just

as well with the cards, or perhaps I could interest you in a bit of palmistry, if you're feeling lucky ?” she smirked.

“ Lucky ? “my faith wavered slightly, “ I'll go with the cards thanks, lets just hope my fate doesn't come with a marked deck !” I tried to be funny – a feat that I still have as yet, to master.

“ One man's luck is another man's destiny” her ladyship countered.

“ That may as well be. But, tell me how about superstition, where does that stand in the cosmic scheme of things ?” I queried.

“ What, you mean like walking under ladders or a crossing black cat ?”

“ Ah, now black cats, I get confused about that one. If a black cat crosses your path, is that a good or bad thing ?”

“ I suppose, that all depends on just what one is doing at the time “

“ Yes, true, very true. I never thought of it that way. “ I conceded.

Her ladyship, displayed an impressive degree of manual dexterity and kept her cards very close to her chest – which was even more impressive given her stature- before splaying them out in a semi-circle on the small table, between us. Channeling the appropriate energy, she began the reading.

“ Now, ask the cards, whatever your heart most wishes them to show” she advised.

“ Gosh ! Where to start ? The future, all my hopes, dreams, desires, there are just so many questions, where shall I begin ? I mean, can they actually tell me everything, like where I'm going to ?”

“ Well, I can tell where you've been !” my guide retorted, with a look of disdain.

I decided to ignore this remark, “ O'k. How about romance. Lets asks the cards...will I ever find love ?”

“ Not in that shirt !” advantage spiritualist – I felt at this point..

“ Look here, I don't care too much for your attitude towards me. Kindly, keep your views to yourself and focus your energies on me future, if you would please !” I exploded.

Her Ladyship, looked down at the table, in silence, and then slowly turned over one of the cards.

“ Oh Lord !” the sayer gasped.

“ What is it ? Have you seen something disturbing ? ” I fearfully enquired.

“ Other than you ? " she answered holding up the card. "It's Mr Moody ! “

“ Mr Moody ? which type of card is that ? “

“ You know...' The Mister Men'... Mr Moody.... the blue one ! “

“ Is that why he's moody, because he's blue ? “

“ NO ! Of course not ! What's his colour got to do with anything ? “ she snapped.

“ You're absolutely right, we shouldn't let our colour dictate who we are -- “ at this point, I began to fear that we were about to lose ourselves in a pack of misunderstandings. So, I tried to re-animate my reading,“ Mr Moody, does this mean that I'm about to be emotionally challenged or something ? “

“You mean you're not already ? No. It means my precious grandson has been playing with MY CARDS again ! Let me see,” the mistress of fate, desperately shuffled through the rest of her mystic deck. “ Yes, it's as I feared, some of my signs are missing. I can't seem to find “ Death” anywhere ! “

“ Don't trouble yourself on my account ! “ I exclaimed.

“ Death doesn't necessary mean the end of existence on this earthly plane. It can merely be heralding in the end of one cycle and the dawning of a new era in your life. Like a change of job or a change of lover. Change...it CAN be a good thing”

“ Surely, that all depends on just WHO's doing the changing !”

“ What are you talking about ?”

“ Well, it's o.k. If I'm the ONE doing all the changing, But, what if it means that my boss is about to give me the sack or that my girlfriend's getting ready to dump me. Then, change ...really sucks !”

“ Oh, I see your point.”

“ Still, It could have been worse, I suppose” I posed philosophically.

“ How so ?”

“ It could have been Mr Blobby ! “ I pointed back towards to the cards.

“ Hmmm, quite.....especially in that shirt “

With this last remark, I sensed it was time to call it a day, and cease my quest for otherworldly guidance, and – after crossing her palm with several hours of minimum pay - headed out into the daylight once more, but no less in the dark about my destiny as before.

My future still questionable, and as much a mystery, as it is today.


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Mother's Day Gift Ideas - Another Cliff Richard Album

Acme Records proudly bring you another great collection of albums for this special day. Yes, albums especially chosen with a mother in mind - not exactly sure who's mother they have in mind, but she's out there somewhere. This years selection includes:

Cliff Richard Sings - 20 All-Time Favorite Chirpy First World War Songs
Chas 'n' Dave - Play Hits from 'Les Miserables'
A Cheery Irish Fella - Sings Songs Your Mother Would Have Liked 50 Years Ago
A Good Lookin' American Guy - Sings Romantic Ballads by The Rat Pack
And An Old Boy Band - Sing Cover Versions of Other Boy Bands Who Did Better Than They Did.

Plus, The World of Tat brings you the opportunity to buy your mother a truly c**p gift, because
a) you simply have never taken the time to ask your parent what they actually like
b} or can be bothered to think of anything original yourself
, because let's face it's not a real special day, so you'll probably just buy them a bouquet of flowers from the garage or some cheap floral perfume from Boots.

  Their just Mothers, right, people who carried you for 9 months and suffered the pain and trauma of birth, who put their entire life on hold for the last 30 years or so just to watch and supported you on you journey to adulthood and one day will become a parent yourself. Perhaps, one day, in the far future you can expect a prize present from your child, if so I am sure it will carry the sticker ' THE IDEAL PRESENT FOR MOTHER'S DAY !' the official seal of a **** !

Happy Mother's Day Ladies !

Father's Your Day is Coming Next  ...You have been warned.

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Midwinter Mystery - Chapter Six - "The Ghost & Mr Foxe"

_{" The Ghost & Mr Foxe"}

_{John hauled his tired and battered body, with matching luggage, up the last few steps of the narrow dimly lit staircase, while keeping a watchful eye on the large VSOP Brandy 'night cap' that he held tightly in his other hand. The small walled gas lamps flickered wildly, from some unknown draught, casting long distorted shadows to seemingly dance over the stairway's old flocked wallpaper. Approaching his room on a landing that continued the similarly ill-lit theme, a growing sense of apprehension started to deepen, it was as if it's claustrophobic walls were slowly inexorably closing in on him and the dark feelings of despair that he had been trying so hard to hide from everyone, especially himself, during the last few months began to resurface once more.}

   _{After reluctantly placing his suitcase on the threadbare carpet runner, he proceeded to fumble in search of the doors keyhole with a large tarnished chubb key, while uncompromisingly refusing to let go of his rapidly diminishing glass of cherished Brandy. Finally, with the encouragement of a particularly firm shove he pushed the unwelcoming door open, creaking it's objection with rusty hinges as it went, and immediately threw his suitcase inside followed by himself.}

_{The room was in relative darkness, with only the light of the full moon shining through a small bare window offering any illumination. John peered around and quickly made out an old brass oil lamp on top of a nearby chest of drawers, deciding it best to relinquish his burden of transporting alcohol by the means of rapid consumption. Picking up the lamp he made short work of lighting it and was rewarded at once with a bright yellowish glow, turning the wick up higher he surveyed the rest of the room. It was a reasonable size for a single room albeit the sloping ceiling made virtually half of it inaccessible to anyone over the height of 4' ft, the décor seemed to be from the early 'Puritan' period, sparse in number and appearance The furniture consisted of:}

• _{1 x chest of drawers, aforementioned,}
• _{1 x bed - single use thereof}
• _{1 x wardrobe, tilting}
• _{1 x table chair, table not included}

_{John crossed over to the window and stared outside, the streets below were empty and all seemed clear particularly the night sky where he found temporary solace gazing up at the stars as they sparkled like sequins in a midnight blue veil. From gaps in the window frame he could feel the cold icy fingers from outside desperate to get in, so he turned away to face the small cracked porcelain sink. Opening the cold tap – he'd resigned himself to the fact that hot water would not even be an option - fully up he waited for the violent shuddering and spluttering of the pipes to subside their resistance to supplying anything after so long a period of inactivity, and then finally he was rewarded with a virtual ... trickle, escaping from it's unsympathetic spout. Bending over the sink he cupped both hands filling them with the freezing liquid and splashed the lot into his face. As he straightened up he caught sight of himself in the above mirror - which had started to lose some of the silver backing around it's corners - and studied the dampened facial features staring back at him, they were undeniably all his, he recognized every unfriendly line, every scar, every imperfection, but as to the nature of the man returning his gaze from the other side of the looking glass... that man he couldn't truthfully admit to knowing anymore.}

_{Unfortunately, the short cold shock therapy had only a temporary effect, it didn't take long for John to recall that he was still very tired, very hungry and beginning to feel more bewildered than ever before. Turning to his suitcase he decided to unpack just his night wear and wash bag for now, and call it a day – even though it was technically already another day. He pulled out a pair of heavy blue stripped cotton pajamas's from the case and gave them a good shake to open them up.} 

_{“ Lord, are you still using those ? I thought you said that ' that they had deserved their final night of retirement', ages ago ” came a familiar woman's mocking tone from somewhere behind him. “ Ah, yes I did, didn't I ! But, I reviewed...” John's reflex response to the all to familiar disarming voice stopped short as the realization that such a conversation was not humanly possible, he spun sharply around to confront his senses, and came face-to-face with Cathy,} his wife – his long dead wife.

    _{She stood just in front of the window, her straw blond bob with it's flicked out ends seemed to catch the lamp light imbuing her with a soft almost halo like effect, but the rest of her features were more fleeting to the eye, as if constantly fluctuating just out of focus. She was wearing a yellow slightly ribbed wool jumper with a round low neck - John thought how much it resembled one of her favourite ones, and how alluring she always looked wearing in it - with a white large collar blouse underneath, finished by a dark blue pencil skirt.}

_{"I'm sorry darling, this must be something of a shock to you right now, if it's any consolation I'm just as surprised as you are, believe me,” she spoke empathetically. John remained speechless and motionless, his arms hanging down in front of him bridged by the pair of pyjama bottoms held tightly in both hands, any usual reply hampered by an inability to process the supernatural contact. Cathy tilted her head “ Okay John, you really must try to relax darling. Try a controlled breathing exercise, you know the one, out through your mouth, in through your nose, slow deep breaths now” offering her supportive guidance.}

_{John, automatically followed the instructions, but still struggled to verbalize his thoughts and feelings, instead he merely raised his arms – still attached to each other by their cotton bond - and pointed a solitary finger at her and then, “ Cathy ? Is it...you...is it really you ?” he blurted out.}

_{"Yes, it's 'really' me, well in spirit anyway,” she answered, remaining by the window Cathy rested her hands on both hips, John recalled how she would always adopt this pose for a photograph, as she was never too sure what to do with her hands.}

_{"No, no this isn't happening, you can't be here ! Ghosts don't exist...YOU TOLD ME THAT, YOURSELF !” he exclaimed slightly excitable.}

_{"Yes, I know I said that, but obviously the few books that I'd read on the subject hardly qualified me as an expert, while as you were so keen to constantly remind me,' there's no substitute for experience',” Cathy retaliated, then as an after thought, “ Look, darling let's not get caught up in some existentialist debate here, for all we really know I might be nothing more than a manifestation of a memory, a residual of emotions exorcising themselves in this form with this voice. Or, perhaps I'm simply something you ate that's disagreed with you, how did Scrooge put it ….' there's more of gruel than the grave about me 'she smiled warmly at him.}

_{John moved towards his former corporeal wife but as he did so her image started to shimmer and distort, rather like when you look at a reflection in one of those amusing fairground mirrors. He backtracked to his original position and waited to see if she would calm down, although in life this tactic seldom worked, “ I don't understand are you haunting me then or what ?” he pressed. Cathy remained silent for a moment, she merely returned his gaze as if awaiting an answer from a higher body and then, “ Honestly, all I now for sure are what my senses tell me, I can only trust the things that I see and feel, and you John, I know you darling more than anything else. Your eyes tell me that you've lost your way, I feel the pain and the torment in your soul and everything about you calls out for help... more than you've ever needed it before.”}

_{John looked around the room whilst searching his thoughts, trying to make sense of it, but all his years of experience in the force hadn't prepared him for anything like this. He staggered slightly on his feet, the physical hardship of the day, the alcohol, and the onrush of conflicting emotions were finally taking their toll on him. “ Help ! Why now then ? Why haven't you spoken to me before, I've seen you, you know that right ?” his frustration, his anger, his guilt fighting each other to be voiced. “ I thought I was going out of my mind !” he placed the fingertips of his right hand on his temple and set them to work, slowly massaging it around, vainly hoping to relieve the inescapable migraine that was slowly sinking it's own fingers into his brain.}

_{"I don't know, there could be any number of factors, it could be a transitional process for instance, the spirit world isn't exactly a science you know, perhaps a change of location escalated by the break from your familiar environment, or maybe.... it's you John... you just wasn't ready to listen until now !” she estimated.}

_{The wind outside picked up, whipping the thin bare branches of a nearby tree against the window pane, and then from somewhere in the distance a gunshot rang out disturbing the domestic scene.} 

_{“ What was that ?” startled Cathy, turning her head towards the disturbance. “ It's probably just some excited poacher or other,” he dismissed, frowning as the headache and the effort to keep Cathy in focus increased. “ Anyway, what were you saying just then, that you're my guardian angel or something ? If I couldn't protect you, save you, while alive, then what makes you think you can help me....dead ! Look, I don't need anyone or anything okay, I prefer it this way, not responsible for anyone but myself. I can take care of myself, honestly ! ” he gave up trying to stay on his feet and dropped himself down on the bedside and his pyjama bottoms to the floor.}

_{"REALLY, IS THAT SO !” Cathy asserted, she remained steadfast to her location, but her voice became more resolute with it's conviction. “ Let me see if I understand your predicament correctly. You were about to lose your job, so you've been sent to this old lost town, searching for some 'lost' police station or other, you've already lost half of your luggage and a moment ago you stood there and confessed to me that you were worried about losing your mind, does that sound about the shape of things ?” she concluded.}

_{"You missed one, “ he added solemnly. Cathy returned a quizzical look at him.}

_{"What ?” she pursued.}

_{"You ! I lost you,” John answered. “ Everything else is just...collateral damage if you like,” he replied in a purgatory tone.}

_{They both fell silent, looking down at the bare wooden floor – there was only 4 ft between them, 2 x reasonable steps, 1 x life apart - with only the ticking of a small travel clock buried somewhere in John's suitcase, growing louder and louder marking the passing of time without words.}

_{Finally, Cathy opened up, “ John, you have to let go of things ! Please darling, move on with your life, and stop blaming yourself for my death …” at this point she was interrupted by a further gunshot exploding out in the darkness, this one seemingly nearer than before.} 

_{“ That sounded like a rifle discharge to me,” she shared her considered opinion.}

_{"Hmm, you're probably right, “ he replied slightly distracted.” what of it ?”}

_{"Well, I always thought poachers were supposed to be .. well stealthy creatures, more traps than guns sort of thing, not just blasting away at anything that moves. After all, the whole poaching thing is an illegal activity, isn't it ?” she mused.}

_{"Yes, of course it is ! Perhaps it's a gamekeeper shooting off to warn some would-be poacher away !” he chided.} 
"My, poachers AND gamekeepers all prowling around out there, lock, stock and fully loaded. Your little town certainly seems to come alive at night, let's just hope you can say the same about it's inhabitants come the morning.” Cathy looked at the lamp, it's flame becoming more agitated, “ It's late John, you need to sleep now. Tomorrow's another day, my love. Sweet dreams.” a hard draught from between the window frame's timber, found the lamp and distinguished it without conscience, plunging the room into oblivion, not that John was concerned about such things, for he was there already, passed flat out on the bed, his pyjamas if not the world at his feet.

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