#amwriting #shortstory - The Delivery Man

The Delivery Man

By ten past, the train was still late.

Lucas sat in the station cafe contemplating the film of tea now forming milk patterns in the bottom of the lime green cup. His toes tapping idly against the cool-box under the table.

The man at the table to his left apologised for the third time for the overly inquisitive spaniel, who had taken rather too much interest in the box's content.

Three hundred quid, is three hundred quid. But, time was getting tight if he wanted to get paid; and the attentions of the dog was beginning to play upon Lucas' imagination.

In an effort at distraction Lucas picked his way around the coffee stains and grease of the abandoned newspaper. But, guilt pricked him, and poked him, until eventually he found the excuse of a droplet of water at the farthest corner of the box to spur himself into action.

With snakelike guile he slithered past the lip of the table on the pretence of tying his shoelace. However he could obtain no conclusive proof, as he caught the gleaming eye of the dog who sprang forward with tail wagging.

Again the owner apologised, and again Lucas settled into the guilty nonchalance of checking his phone. His foot once more tapping at the cool box. And, again the station announcement apologised for the delays: due to an incident on the line.

Clearly a suicide, or some other act of selfishness, thought Lucas. In a further moment of lucid incisiveness he decided the now dried spot of water was melted snow that had fallen from the shoe of a passing stranger.

Thus satisfied, he drained the final dreg of tea, patted down his pockets, and all present and correct he set off, with the box, to find a bench in the open air of the platform: in the cold.

#shortstory #amwriting 3

3

They followed the path down through the woods, until they reached a gulley cut by a waterfall. The night was barely moonless, and the woods enfolding. Beyond the approaching rush of water, and the occasional car: the very occasional car, to remind them that they had not stepped back in time: the only sound was the breaking of twigs and the crunch of their boots.

Josh kept close to Mo, who was clearly in no mood to talk.

At the gulley, Josh could see down the narrow gouge the lights of what he took to be a farmhouse by the looming shadows of the outhouses. And, in the fields in front the dotted outline of what he took to be sheep. The path here turned back up the hill, but to Josh's surprise Mo slithered down the bank to the stream and set off down the steep incline. Josh followed. At the bottom the ground was marshy, almost ankle deep mud, they waded through this until they reached a thicker tree-line again. Here Mo rested, ducking down behind a tangle of brambles.

"Ok," said Mo, taking off his back-pack, "we wait here for the others."

"Others?" asked Josh, dropping down beside Mo.

"When they come, you say nothing. Let me do the talking."

The darkness here was almost total. The only real light coming the slightest reflection of moonlight on the head of the waterfall. The shadows ran down the hill in a perfect gradation of grey, into it reached the blackness with the arching cave of the brambles, And just as Josh's night-vision adapted, so his hearing in the stillness began to pick up on the sound of the woods. The faintest creaking of trees, the splash of bird-wings, the distant squabble of late roosting crows.

"Mo," he whispered, indicating movement away to the left.

They both stared at the shape, which hung frozen, listening. Then hearing nothing, the shape moved again, slower than before. Josh thought he could see the head, which seemed to be sniffing, but at the angle they were viewing from, and amongst the trees it was difficult to make out what it was. Mo, angled his body to get a better look. Josh noticed Mo's thumb moving above the trigger of the assualt rifle. The shadow was moving toward them, less concerned now. As Mo moved the rifle to his shoulder, Josh could see that the shadow was a deer. Josh's heart began to race, realising that Mo had taken the safety off of the gun, and was intending to take a shot. The creature was less than twenty metres away, it's eyes glinted, and it was clearly sniffing at something. Mo braced the rifled into his shoulder, his movements matching the deers for stealth.

Then suddenly deer startled and sprang back in the direction from which it came, Moments later they heard the sound of splashing, stumbling, and guttural curse. Mo clicked the safety back on, lowered the rifle and said, "that was freaky."

#shortstory #amwriting 2

2

Josh had made it his mission to leave college without any debt. He was entitled to a small grant, and took every chance he could to earn money: including some small-time pot dealing for Mo's uncle. He also had two part-time jobs, one in a book shop, the other in a coffee shop, both on campus. In the holidays he took factory jobs or picked vegetables. With the result that after two years of study, he had a net debt of £162, and had passed every examination and assignment.

"What the hell is this?"

"Cammo," answered Mo, daubing his cheek with black grease paint, "put it on."

"Is this necessary?"

"It is if you don't want to be seen. Hurry up, we need to get this done before midnight."

"Or we'll turn into pumpkins?" asked Josh sarcastically, taking off his jacket.

"No. Because after midnight the Old Bill will be out stopping drunk drivers and Dark-Skinned fellows in Four-by-Four's. Which means me," he nodded, at his uncle's car. "and they might get a bit suspicious is they find the boot full of dead sheep." He threw the cammo-paint to Josh, who missed it, "Right. Do you want the AK, or the shotgun?"

"What are you talking about Mo?"

Mo took the two guns from under the passenger seat of the car, and held one in each hand. "You have a choice, an AK-47 or a sawn-off shotgun."

"Where did you get those," asked Josh, picking up the cammo-paint.

"You take the sawn-off." Mo thrust the gun into Josh's hands, and disappeared round to the driver's side of the car. He re-appeared with a two large hunting knives, "come on, come on, we haven't got all night. Look, don't worry about the trousers. Those black jeans will do just fine for now."

"But, but..."

"Look man! Stop whining. You either want the money or not. If you do, get ready quick. If you don't, stay here."

Josh made two smeared green-black lines across his cheeks, and another down the bridge of his nose. "I was going to say..."

"Yes well don't," said Mo, securing the the knife belt around his waist. "There's a first time for everything. The guns are for our protection. We'll do the killing with this, if need be." He thrust the other knife into the ankle of right boot, and took a large lump hammer from the rear of the truck. "Are you ready?"

Josh tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat, "Ready," he said, putting on his 1-D beanie.

"Good," said Mo. The indicators on the truck blinked twice. "Two rules, don't touch the trigger on the gun. You're not a cowboy. No matter how tempting it is, leave it alone. And two, don't puke."

"No shooting or puking. Fine."

Mo slung the pack on his shoulder, handed Josh the lump-hammer, and set off into the woods. The headlight of a car passed on the top road, the sloshing sound it made seemed very far away.

#shortstory #amwriting 1

1

"NAZI'S OUT! NAZI'S OUT! Hey man what are you doing?" whispered Mo, between exclamations.

"I'm rolling a fag: OUT!: what does it look like."

"NAZI'S: the cameras are rolling. NAZI'S: Amy will do her nut, if she sees you."

"OUT!," Josh licked the paper, "fine."

Josh made his way to the edge of the crowd, and ducked back behind a large concrete gatepost to make sure he was not in view of the news-crews. He lit the cigarette.

"Herbal is it?"

Josh looked up to see a policeman standing in front of him, "I wish."

"Oh don't worry sir," said the policeman, moving into the gateway beside Josh, so as to be equally unobserved. "We are under strict instructions to only arrest toublemakers today. It would be awfully bad form if any of your lot were to be arrested. Very bad PR all round. What with Austin-Maxi making hay about the corruption scandal."

"My lot? What do you mean my lot?"

The policeman adjusted the radio on his shoulder, "aren't you with the anti-Nazi's? I was sure I saw you venting you spleen not two minutes ago."

Josh shrugged his shoulders. The policeman had a cocky air that Josh did not all together trust: not least because the number on his shoulder had been obscured by a piece of black elastic. "It's a free country," Josh replied, hoping the answer would be sufficient, the policeman would take the hint and leave him alone.

"I take it you are one of the rent-a-mob then?" continued the officer, not taking the hint. "How much did they pay you?"

Josh was about to answer when Amy appeared. "There you are," she said, however her gaze immediately went to the policeman, and then back to Josh. "What's going on?" she asked, a note of heavy suspicion in her voice. "Josh?"

"I'm trying to have a quiet smoke."

"We need you in the demo. The film crew are having difficulty filling the frame. You are letting the side down. Come on." She grabbed the placard leaning against the post, and thrust it into Josh's hand. "Now!" she said, pulling him by the arm.

"NAZI'S OUT! NAZI'S: how much longer do we have to be here?" Josh asked, waving his placard.

"OUT! I'm not going on the march," said Mo, "they've had their twenty quid out of me already. Do you want to go somewhere afterwards?"

"Sure."

"Oh wait, I have to see my uncle."

Amy turned to them, "will you too stop gossiping and protest, please."

"I'm sure she fancies me," said Mo, winking.

"NAZI'S OUT! NAZI'S OUT"

The door of the tanning-salon-cum-party-office opened and out came Max Straw, the object of the protester's anger. The crowd jeered and shouted insults at the rather small man in a neat suit, who smiled, and blew a kiss as he got into his car. A few of the protesters, closest to the film-crew from the local BBC news, jostled with the tight-head from the police rugby team; and an egg was thrown, but didn't hit anyone. And with that Mr Max Straw was gone. Leaving only the local candidate, Noreen Plum (Mrs), and her election agent, Henry Plum (Mr), and a few of their supporters on the far side of the road, to shout at.

Giles on the megaphone tried to get a chant of "SCUM, SCUM, SCUM" going. But the autumnal afternoon was growing cold, and most of the crowd wanted to be like the news-crews: namely pack up and go home. Besides the Plum's spoiled the fun, by going back into the tanning-salon-cum-party-office.

"Wait a minute," said Josh, holding out the money in his hand as proof, "I'm two quid short here."

"I docked you for your unauthorised smoke break," said Amy, turning away, to deal with the sundry hands outstretched for payment. She was checking the list of those to be paid, when Big Malc, the local convener, intervened, by pointing out that this was hardly the best place to conduct such business, and bustled Amy, and a trailing gaggle off students, into the Nice Buns cafe: where the affairs of the League might be conducted in private.

"I can't believe she did that," sighed Josh, pocketing the short change.

"It will be worse when the revolution comes." It was the policeman again. "Still, it will good for me. I'll be on triple time come that happy day."

"I'm so pleased for you."

"Don't spend it all at once," mocked the policeman, as he moved off to join his colleagues laughing and joking by the van.

"It looks like you made a friend," observed Mo. "Oh, and don't feel too hard done by, they ripped everyone off by two quid. I was seen on camera yawning."

#shortstory #sketchbook translations ii

By the way Tom set his shoulders, and puffed out his chest, I could tell that he was about to launch into the story of how his ex-wife had run up a huge bill on the catalogues, in his name; before leaving.

Thankfully the call of nature gave me an excuse.

I found him in the gents. Standing at the urinal. And, not to my surprise, he was wearing olive green cords and brown Church brogues, and the tweed jacket was of single vent. I took my place at the farthest urinal from him. After brief stage-fright, the flow began, but I peripherally noted that he shook twice: 'more than three is masturbation', and by the time I finished, he was still standing at the sinks.

And so we stood in front of the mirror, the four of us.

"There being no one to introduce us, perhaps we should break the ice," he said, shaking his hands before moving to dry them.

In my drunken state I was relieved that he spoke first, as it pierced my last remaining hope that this was some sort of dream.

He said his name was Julian, that he was a vicar, and had been attending the same conference on Zoroastrianism that I had attended. I introduced myself, and we both smiled, in the same manner, at my mention of the conference.

"And would you be catching the five o clock train to Leeds?" I asked, as he stepped aside from the dryer.

"Funnily enough I am."

We both agreed that this meeting was just too 'weird'.

Even his voice was like mine. Not the Olivierian voice that I imagined when lecturing to students on the Council of Nicaea or the Augustinian controversies, but that alien voice I hear on recordings. The one with the ill-formed vowels and the tendency toward the bumpkin of my grandmother.

It was then I suggested, that as we had an hour to kill, perhaps we might have some fun. Without going into details about Tom, I proposed that we might change places in order to see if we were really so similar.

He agreed.

And so, I returned to his beer, and he to mine: and the story of how Tom had taken the debt-collectors to the small claims court, on the grounds of mental distress brought on the harassment of their pursuit. It was rather fun sitting in the other bar, watching Julian react to a story I had heard more times than I recall. He clearly had my tolerance of boorish people.

A clearly unremarkable sameness we shared.

I, or Julian, were relieved of the obligation of continuing the pub crawl, by the barmaid's announcement that the stripper would be on at four o clock, and those wishing to stay should put five pounds in the hat. Both I and Julian drunk up. Tom did not. So on my behalf Julian said our goodbyes.

We walked to the station ignoring the numerous pointed fingers.

Quite what I expected from this chance encounter I can't say. If this were a novel, no doubt we should have gone on to plan some overly elaborate bank robbery or similar crime. As it was, we exchanged email addresses, and made some vague promise to keep in touch, before Julian went to buy coffee, and I to the toilet: before going to buy coffee.

We did not see each other on the train.

#shortstory #sketchbook translations

I hadn't seen Tom for several years.

Nor would I, had not the conference finished early. Thus quite by chance he caught me sitting at a coffee house pavement table, enjoying the early spring sunshine, and fending off the pigeons with my foot.

Unwisely, I let slip that my train was not until five that afternoon.

I don't drink Guinness, I never have. Yet on this crawl back to the station: no same pint twice: compared to the unappealing selection offered by the electorate array of golden taps, Guinness was the safest option. Perhaps it was my mood, but the poorly drawn shamrock perfectly matched the unmatched surroundings: the neon red patterned velour competed with autographed photos of amateur boxers and horse brasses.

No wonder the place was empty at three o clock in the afternoon.

Tom was prattling on about various embarrassing incidents from our schooldays. It being the fifth pub, and this being the fifth pint, and Tom being a man hide-bound to a schedule, he was predictably recounting the time I fell in a ditch on the cross-country run. Part of me wished we could just move on, if only so he could moan about his divorce.

I checked the clock behind the bar, still two hours to the train.

It was while pouring cashews into my hand that I saw him.

Being well dragged up, I immediately looked away: it being impolite to stare. But, every-time I sneaked a look at him, he was doing the same, in the same furtive manner. Same was clearly the operative word. His tweed jacket was the same as mine, his red checked Ben Sherman shirt, the same glasses, with the same long-sighted lenses, even the way he shook his cashew nuts in his clenched fist matched my manner. His Guinness was drunk down to branding on the glass, just like mine. His hair was receding at equal pace, with the same island of hair clinging on as a relic of fringe.

"Tom?" I asked, interrupting his story about how his ex-wife had slashed the tyres on his car and got him arrested for domestic violence; "does that man look like me?"

"What bloke?"

"Don't stare."

"He does a bit."

Confirmed in my suspicion, I began to rationalize matters. My first theory, of a mirror, was exploded when the barmaid walked through the connecting door from the other bar.

#shortstory #amwriting dispatches

dispatches

The bottle of Coke went flat sometime around eleven.  Now it sits on the window ledge behind the mesh screen, a summer fattened bluebottle climbing down the neck to drink. The harsh late afternoon sun sears the glass.

“Mrs Deadman, Mrs Deadman… listen ma’am…. I really cannot be of assistance in this matter.” The burned out cigarette stains Riley’s fingers, the heat of the receding tip, catching his index finger, jolts him to cast the still smouldering Lucky into the ash-tray; as on the other end of the telephone the voice persists to press her case. “I do not have the jurisdiction ma’am.” Riley takes another cigarette from the packet. “Mrs Deadman please, you have to hear me out. I do not have the legal powers to act in this matter.” The match flares sulphurous. “And I agree,” Riley states, emphatically. He pauses, to light the cigarette, before adding, “I have an appointment with your husband at eight. And I will explore the options with him. Mrs Deadman, rest assured you have my sympathy.”

The office is small, dominated by a large desk, and a newspaper picture of Martin Luther King attending a communist training camp. This picture catches Riley’s eye as he prepares to leave. 

“Bastard,” he says with venom.

The business of the day had not subsided. A line of negroes snakes out of the courthouse door. Cars with out-of-state plates warily process up and down Main street, the inhabitants viewed with suspicion by the local people. This suspicion is returned in full. 

The chair is taken in the barbershop. A thin man with unkempt appearance, whose hair despite the best efforts of George refuses to play ball. At first Riley doesn’t pay attention, but as he turns the pages of the magazine he catches sight of the man’s reflection in the mirror. There is something familiar about him. 

“No, I’m just saying,” says the man, in reply to George’s question, “he said if I want to get a job at the hospital I have to be a resident. And then I get here and they say it don’t matter. And I can’t register anyway.”

“But you already said you got a job.”

“Oh I got a job.”

“Then why do you want to work at the hospital. You know they’re crazy right?”

The man laughs. A fulsome laugh; like there is something wrong with the question, “you have no idea how crazy this world is. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say they was sending me here for an alibi.”

“Why would you need an alibi?” interrupted Riley, still trying to place where he had seen this man before.

The man in the mirror stares straight at Riley: his eyes bright with mirth, “don’t worry officer, I’ll be gone by sunset, I have friends coming to pick me up.”

“Why would you need an alibi?” Riley asks again.

The man adopts a more serious tone now; his grey blue eyes weighing Riley in a balance that displays an acute understanding. “Excuse my manner of speech,” he says, “I was being friendly.”

The body lay half exposed; one of the legs chewed by rats from the nearby creek. The burial had been rushed. Riley saw at once the marks on the ankle of the good leg; the unmistakable mark of manacles. He knew at once the man would be declared one of the escapees.

As the night closed in they fetched lamps and without much care or ceremony they dug the naked body out. In that glow the shock of the tumours was heightened. Three or four huge growths bulged from the man’s neck, stretching his black skin to a pale redness. The doctor crept forward to examine the body for signs of violence.

A small flask of whiskey was produced and they all took a sip.

“Does he have any paperwork?” asked Riley

“Only if it’s up his ass,” commented Sam, tugging at the leash of his hound, to bid it be still.

“Well I ain’t looking.”

News of the body spread fast. And by morning it was the talk of the town. Journalists who had come in to cover the registrations seemed to have forgotten that story; if only for a moment. Because there was no news, the man had escaped from prison with two others and they had killed him and hidden the body. Riley repeated the story so often that even he believed it. But of course he didn’t believe it. And of course no one mentioned the tumours, since that would have proved the lie.

No, Lincoln Lynch was a violent thief and he had got what was coming.

“Mr Deadman,” declared Riley, clearing his lunch from the desk.

“Carry on eating Riley,” said Mr Deadman, closing the door. “I have a gift for you, from my wife.” Mr Deadman placed the stone jar on the desk and pulled the chair from the corner. He sat down and smoothed his white cotton trousers. “I need to speak to you about these registrations.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make the meeting.”

“Of course, I understand.” Said Deadman. “But time is of the essence and we need you to help us.”

Riley stood at the window watching Deadman get into his Cadillac. He looked down at the Coke bottle: at the bluebottle floating dead, without the slightest hint of struggle. 

And he drank it; insect and all.

The Blue Book