tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46239956288162161162024-03-13T03:25:53.417-07:00A Good JokeUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-3178329605845837002011-10-06T13:00:00.000-07:002012-05-13T12:01:53.752-07:00The Broken Globe - Geoffrey Smagacz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My brother Timmy's Halloween party started with a parade of high school guys, six packs in hand, piling out of rusted pick-up trucks and climbing the stairs over the garage into a smoky room where loud music blasted through tall free-standing speakers.</div>
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I don't know how he finagled the presence of Diane, cheerleader, since my brother floated with the vocational trade students and not that heady jock circle. But she was there, along with three of her not-quite-as-cute girlfriends, one of whom brought Juanita, a plain and plump foreign exchange student from Mexico.</div>
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Timmy had purchased a keg and strung black-and-orange crepe paper and balloons, tacking them to his ceiling with great care. He'd also vacuumed, and he must have powdered the shag carpet with baking soda or talcum because the place didn't smell like the usual musty beer-soaked dish rag.</div>
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After I'd settled into a bean-bag chair and hit the three-beer threshold, meaning once I'd reached three I couldn't stop, Jim arrived. Don, his sidekick, followed immediately behind him wearing, of all things, creased pants.</div>
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"What are you doing here?" I shouted to Jim, ignoring Don except to note he'd purchased a new pair of glasses with thick exactly rectangular lenses.</div>
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"Your mother said you were up here."</div>
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"What?"</div>
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"Your mother," Jim yelled, pointing in the direction of Mom's house, then pointing to me.</div>
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For a few minutes one of my brother's friends, who'd brought the latest record from a metallic-sounding Southern rock band, cranked up the volume. Several of them joined in the refrain.</div>
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"My brother's throwing a Halloween party."</div>
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"Looks like high school."</div>
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"Hard to pass up a keg."</div>
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"Huh?"</div>
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"Want a beer?"</div>
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"Sure."</div>
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I walked over to the keg where my brother and a couple of his cronies stood guard.</div>
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"You mind if they have a beer?" I asked my brother.</div>
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Timmy glanced at them, glanced at me, shrugged, then went back to sizing up Diane and the girls huddled together in a giggling clique. I expertly filled three plastic cups to capacity, minimum foam, as if I had a certificate in bartending.</div>
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We picked a spot away from the two speakers, but near enough to the keg, which sat in a round metal tub surrounded by chunks of ice. The beer went down smooth. Timmy – or whoever it was who bought the beer for my underage brother – had paid a few extra dollars and purchased Canadian.</div>
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Timmy came over to me and said, "You better fork over some money for all the beer you guys are drinking."</div>
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"He speaks," I said to Jim and Don, as if a lightning bolt struck, juiced Frankenstein, and gave us proof positive that the brain transplant worked.</div>
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"I'm not kidding," he said.</div>
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"OK, we will."</div>
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I looked at Jim and Don, thinking they might divvy up or maybe at least pretend to reach in their pockets but each looked at something else. Then Jim took a long swig.</div>
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"I'll give you some money later," I said. But Timmy turned his back on me and walked toward Diane and the girls.</div>
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"Let's go over to Harry's Tavern and have a few," Jim said.</div>
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"Why not hang out here?"</div>
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"Is this the only style of music your brother likes?" Don asked.</div>
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"I don't know what kind of music he likes," I said. "Take a look through his records," which Don did for the next half hour, sitting on the floor, records between his legs, reading record covers, taking records out of their jackets, and examining the quality of the vinyl.</div>
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"Where's Debra tonight?" I asked Jim.</div>
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"I don't want to talk about that bitch."</div>
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"Huh?"</div>
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"When I told her I was going to go out to have a drink, she blew a gasket. Said I was a drunk."</div>
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I was starting to get tanked. Jim may have had a few before he came.</div>
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"Hey, you gotta cigarette?" I asked one of my brother's beer buddies. He pulled a pack out of his denim jacket and jerked it, causing exactly one filtered cigarette to stick out. He grinned. He was either proud of his feat or proud that he smoked.</div>
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"I think you're getting hooked on those things," Jim said. "You've got a monkey on your back."</div>
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I looked over both my shoulders. "No, I don't."</div>
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"When you've got a monkey on your back you're not free." He took a long swig, then got up and poured out another beer.</div>
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"Look at this," Don said. "You think your brother would mind if I played it?"</div>
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Others had changed records; no one seemed at the helm, so I said, "Wait'll this song finishes." The song Don played was kind of rock and roll and kind of twangy at the same time, a tune with a sappy story.</div>
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A couple of the guys groaned when it started. Someone said, "What is this shit?" But they let it play almost to the end before the needle scratched across the vinyl and another replaced it on the turntable, a song with screeching, inaudible lyrics.</div>
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I felt a tap on my arm. "Don't let him do that again," my brother said to me.</div>
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Jim's eyes had become slits by the time the subject of Debra came up again.</div>
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"I thought you guys had worked everything out."</div>
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Jim sat there trying to think and talk at the same time. Something tried to bubble to the surface. One of my brother's recessed lights shone directly on Jim's face, making it seem as if he were being interrogated. However, he didn't move out of the light.</div>
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"The plans have been made, right?" I asked him.</div>
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"I don't want to marry that bitch."</div>
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I shook my head a couple of times like a deer flicking off flies.</div>
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"Everything was perfect the other night."</div>
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"The car goes off the road, and then we nearly drown."</div>
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"You two were all lovey-dovey. You put your ear to Deb's belly."</div>
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"That kid. Stupid," he said, banging his fist on his thigh, then swilling another long draught. "This is good beer," he said.</div>
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"We're going to have to come up with a few dollars for the beer."</div>
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"All I have is a twenty."</div>
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I spotted Juanita, standing within earshot.</div>
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"<i>Hola</i>," I said, summoning my knowledge of two years of high school Spanish.</div>
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Juanita smiled, making her cheeks even plumper.</div>
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"Hello," she said, moving closer.</div>
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"<i>Como estas? </i>"</div>
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"You idiot," Jim said to me.</div>
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"Good, and you?" She asked.</div>
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"<i>Muy bien. Yo estudio espa-ol hace</i>… Jim, do you remember how to say it makes so and so many years that I studied Spanish?"</div>
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"<i>Dos</i>, you idiot." Jim had been in one of my classes.</div>
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"Please," she said. "In English."</div>
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"<i>Pero, yo…</i>"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Please, no Spanish."</div>
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There must have been drama in the way Juanita held up her hand and shook her head "no" that made Diane walk over and grab her arm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"These two bothering you?"</div>
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"No."</div>
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"Come over here," Diane said, after she eyeballed us. A couple of old lechers, she probably thought, though she did smile at me. I figured she knew I was Timmy's brother. As Diane turned, her thick sandy-blond, shoulder-length hair fanned out.</div>
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"Cunts," Jim said.</div>
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"Why do you have to talk like that?"</div>
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"And Deb's the biggest cunt of them all."</div>
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This last thought hung in the air like cigarette smoke. Maybe he assumed I was pondering his profundity, but what I was pondering was why the hell he wanted to get married and why the hell he didn't tell Debra about Lynette.</div>
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"What are you going to do?" I asked.</div>
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He shrugged his shoulders and took another long swig, finishing the contents of his plastic cup. This time he didn't immediately get up to refill it — probably too tanked to exert the energy. He waited for me to finish mine then had me do it.</div>
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"You gonna get married or what?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"How can I get married to someone I don't love?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You don't love her?"</div>
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"I'm in love with Lynette."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I thought you weren't seeing her anymore?"</div>
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Jim looked to the side, probably some expression he learned as a boy after his father asked him if he knew who broke the neighbor's front window when he'd known full well he'd done it himself.</div>
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"You're not, right?" I asked.</div>
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"Look at this Beatles album," Don said, interrupting us. "This is pristine. There's not a scratch on it."</div>
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"Fuck the album," Jim said. Don took the cue and buzzed off. I poured us two more beers.</div>
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"Lynette's the best fuck I've ever had," Jim said when I returned.</div>
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"I don't want to hear about it."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"She's incredible. You know what she did Thursday?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I thought you weren't seeing her anymore."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"She was a virgin you know."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You're right back to where you were a couple of weeks ago?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"There's nothing like popping a cherry."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Jim assumed the position of Rodin's Thinker, but sitting Indian style, his chin held up by one arm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I don't know what I'm gonna do," he said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Why don't you tell Debra you're seeing Lynette and get it over with?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Jim let out an audible breath of air, put his head down, and ran his hands through his hair.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Well?" I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Well?" he said, imitating my voice.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Why don't you just tell Deb?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Why don't I just tell Deb?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Are you making fun of me?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
He looked up and eyed me with a mean, penetrating stare.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I'm just asking a question," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"If I knew what to do I wouldn't be sitting here drunk."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"If you told her, she could have an abortion."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"She's not having an abortion."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"No?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"We talked about that already."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What if she knew about Lynette?"</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
He must have misread the tone of my voice, because he started to rise. "You better not tell her about Lynette." And then I think I misread his actions because I thought he was going to punch me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I gotta take a piss," he said. He stood for a moment, lost his balance, tried to catch himself, thumped the floor hard enough to make the room shake, and then fell onto one of my brother's friends who helped him stand upright. The kid said, "You all right?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Yeah. Where's the bathroom?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Downstairs in the garage," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
He steadied himself and slowly descended the stairs, a hand holding up each wall.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
A few songs later Don came over to me and said, "Where's Jim?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"The sonofabitch probably passed out."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Maybe we better check on him."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"He's old enough to take care of himself."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"He looked pretty drunk."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Don descended the stairs. I bummed another smoke and inhaled very deeply, causing a long portion of the cigarette to glow. I looked up at a balloon, then at the end of my cigarette, pulled myself up, took a furtive glance toward my brother in conversation across the room, and popped the damned thing. A couple of guys looked over. My brother, from across the room, said, "Hey." Then I, too, made my exit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I didn't see Jim in the toilet or in the garage. As I walked outside, the screen door snapped back, echoing in the alley between the houses. It wasn't enough that the neighbors had to endure the house vibrating or the cars revving up their engines, they also had to put up with that freaking door.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I could see Jim's red pick-up truck but where the hell was he? As I approached the truck, I heard the gut heave of a man puking, walked around the truck and saw Jim on his knees behind a blue van, his arms on the bumper, letting go the contents of his stomach. He groaned. Don stood aside looking on.</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You all right?" I asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Uh."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I didn't think he had that much to drink," I said more to myself than to Don.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"He was drinking shots at Harry's Tavern before we came here," Don said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Jim let go again and then groaned some more.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I stood there thinking maybe Jim deserved to heave out his innards. Maybe if a person poked around the alcohol soup he'd deposited, they could find his heart or his brains.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You gonna drive him home?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Yeah," Don said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You got your keys?" I asked Jim</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Jim reached into his pockets, a hand still on the bumper. He vomited one more time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Oh, God," he said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I grabbed him by his arm to drag him up. "Come on," I said but, as he stood, Rodney, one of my brother's friends, slipped out of the shadows.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What the fuck did you do to my van?" he asked, looking straight at me, obviously judging me by the company I keep. I didn't respond. "I said what the fuck did you do?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Nothing," I said, but better that I hadn't because, with his pointed boot, he aimed a kick at my crotch. I flinched backward, barely escaping serious injury.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Puke on your own fucking car," he said, then got into his van, revved up the motor and spun out, flinging stones.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Asshole," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Not until Jim and Don had situated themselves in the cab did Don realize that Jim's truck had a standard shift, and he didn't know how to drive it. He nearly backed into a tree before I realized that I had given him opposite directions on how to shift gears, but he finally figured it out and lurched off slowly.</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
After they left, I walked along the garage approaching the snapping door to my brother's lair, sure that I would continue past it and into the house, run upstairs and fall into bed. But as I neared it, three of my brother's friends emerged. I could have walked around them, but I stopped and held open the door for them. One of them said, "Hey, take it easy." Then I made a choice. A door had opened and I entered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
As I reached the landing at the top of the stairs, Diane was trying to poke her arm through the sleeve of her varsity cheerleader jacket marked with the school letters. Her girl friends flanked her sides while Juanita stood behind in the shadows.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You leaving?" I asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Yeah," Diane said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Too bad," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
The ends of her mouth curled into a smile and her nose crinkled.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You're cute," she said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You are too," I said, and suddenly our faces came within breathing distance, which is probably the closest I've ever gotten to a cheerleader. Her breath smelled beery.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
She put her lips to my ear, "You're cuter than your brother." Our cheeks brushed together. Her hair smelled smoky clean.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Thanks."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"God, I think I've had too much to drink," she said, snapping me back to reality.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Suddenly my brother appeared at my side, then pushed in front of me, nearly stepping on my toe.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Need help getting to your car?" Timmy asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"No," she said. "We're all right."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
We watched them descend, but, before they reached the last stair, Timmy turned toward me and said "You fucker" loud enough for my ears only.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What do you mean?"</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Why don't you throw your own party?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I responded by going to the keg and filling up another plastic cup.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Gimme some money for the beer," Timmy said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I said I would."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Then hand it over."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I don't have it on me."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Then that's the last beer."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
The girls were gone; only Timmy's core group of cronies remained. They started a contest to see who could shout the loudest. Then one guy shoved another who pushed him back. He then tried to unbalance another. In moments, a group wrestling match ensued with this tiny mob shifting to the left, and falling en masse, some on the bed and some on the floor, knocking objects off the nightstand. They laughed and shouted. Someone said, "Get off me, you fucker."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I bummed another smoke from the cigarette guy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I should have bought a pack," I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"No problem. Take a couple."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"One's enough."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Then I saw the balloons again — my cigarette and a large balloon. Pop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What's that, a gun?" someone asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Cut it out," Timmy said. The mob quieted.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I honed in on another one. Pop. And that was it. My brother extricated himself from the throng and from some deep part of himself shouted "Goddamn you" as he started toward me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I bolted down the stairs. He must've taken the steps two, three at a time, because in a moment he was behind me, pushing my back. I ran faster, snapping the door, but he didn't relent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You goddamn sonofabitch. I'm going to kill you."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I imitated the sound of his voice, no words, only the tone, taunting him. As I ran into the back entryway of Mom's house, I shoved the door in his face. I couldn't quite close it. He pushed with all his might. He didn't have my weight or my strength, but that night, maybe because I was drunk or because of some burst of his adrenaline or some deeper motivation on his part, I could feel myself losing the war. I let go and made a dash for the heavier kitchen door. I slammed it to give myself a minute before running into the kitchen.</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You bastard," Timmy yelled.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
We'd fought before, we'd gotten into shouting matches or tussles, but something in his voice made me take him seriously.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
The back porch light shone through the kitchen windows, illuminating the stainless steel sink and the enamel kitchen table.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Knock it off," I said. I ran around the table. "Cut it out."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I'm going to kill you."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You're going to wake Mom."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I don't care."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
We circled the table again. And again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Damn it. Knock it off."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"No," he yelled, and as he uttered the word he grabbed the table and flung it upward. As it spun, it shattered the ceiling globe.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
At that moment, Mom jumped out of bed and thumped through the dark house.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Goddamn you two. What do you goddamn kids think you're doing? Get the goddamn hell to bed." With each word came the accompanying rhythmic thump of her footfalls, like the telling of a primitive poem. Then, almost like a plaintive refrain, came a very long and loud "Oh, Jesus" as she entered the kitchen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Timmy bolted. I turned on the light. Mom had made her way to the bathroom indicated by a trail of blood which began from a sharp shard protruding from the bottom of what a moment before had been a drinking glass. It must have set on the table when Timmy threw it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I found the broom in the corner and began sweeping. Broken glass had reached the hallway by the bathroom, and, as I approached the door, Mom said, "Goddamn you two."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I didn't do anything."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What do you mean, you didn't do anything?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I didn't fling the table in the air. I didn't break the glass."</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Get me a clean towel."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I hesitated to go in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I said, get me a goddamn towel."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I entered. She sat on the tub's edge, her back to me. When she spoke, her words reverberated inside the enamel hollow of the basin. "I wish your father were alive," she said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I'd never seen that much blood.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Listen, Timmy's the one that started chasing me. He's the one that threw the table in the air."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Is that what happened?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Yeah, he threw the kitchen table in the air and broke the ceiling globe."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What did you do to him?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Nothing."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You must've done something."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I didn't do anything."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Then why would he chase you?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Because he was drunk, because I flirted with the girl he's interested in, because I popped one of his freakin' balloons."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I don't know," Mom said. "I can't stop the bleeding."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What do you mean, you can't stop the bleeding?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What did I step on?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"The bottom of a glass I think."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Get me the hydrogen peroxide." I did. She poured it on her foot without flinching. "I can't understand you two."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I told you I didn't do anything."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You act like two-year-olds or a couple of drunks. You certainly don't act like brothers." She turned around. "Give me another towel."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"How are brothers supposed to act?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Don't start with me." She threw a second blood-soaked towel near the first and wrapped her foot with the third. "I don't know if this is going to stop bleeding."</div>
</div>
<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.8125em; line-height: 1.31;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I went back to sweeping the glass in the kitchen. I upturned the table. As I picked pieces of glass off the stove top, Mom hobbled through the living room and back into bed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I'll tell you this much right now," she said from the other room, "you're not getting the car for a while."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"How am I going to get to work on Thursdays and Sundays?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"You should have thought of that before."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
I was too tired to argue. I slumped at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"How about turning the light off and getting to bed?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"In a minute."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Now."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"In a minute."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
A minute passed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Oh Jesus," Mom said with alarm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
Nothing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"What is it?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I can't stop the bleeding. You're going to have to drive me to the emergency room."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"I thought you said I couldn't have the car."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
"Don't start with me."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
So I drove Mom to the emergency room where she received seven stitches on the arch of her foot, three pints of blood, and a prescription for iron pills.<br />
<b style="background-color: white; text-align: right;"><br /></b><br />
<b style="background-color: white; text-align: right;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/">Source</a></span></b></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-68098272825297172732011-08-20T00:00:00.000-07:002011-10-04T10:52:17.380-07:00Appearance - Kate Peterson<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O6D7myyudm8/Tk4YdDHCK5I/AAAAAAAAAPo/ySf1l9PlkHI/s1600/Appe886F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O6D7myyudm8/Tk4YdDHCK5I/AAAAAAAAAPo/ySf1l9PlkHI/s1600/Appe886F.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was during the first snowstorm of the new year. The color green was something you saw in pictures tacked to the wall or in a memory from what felt like years ago. I was living alone in a studio apartment in a shitty section of west Cleveland. Everything was the same color in that neighborhood, even in the summer. It was the kind of dirty grey that gets swept up into the air of unfinished basements and cold storage warehouses. There were no stairs to get to my apartment. I was as far down as you can get without going under. I slept in the same room as the oven, but I liked the smallness of it. When I was young my sister and I used to zip each other into suitcases. We would drag the suitcases up and down the stairs, and all around the living room, laughing hysterically.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> That first morning I wrapped a scarf around my neck and lit the stove. I tripped over my shoes on my way to the sink to fill the pot. I looked down at them accusingly, as if anyone but me could have put them there. I looked up after kicking them across the room and that was when I saw him for the first time. I wouldn't find out until later that he had been there for weeks. Inches away from me as I slept. An arm's reach as I showered and dressed each morning. He sat with me while I overcooked my eggs and searched the internet for a cat to adopt, each time deciding against it because I could imagine it snowballing into two or three until I became one of those women.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The outside world that day, and every day since I had been living there, was a white swirling mixture of ground and sky. Set against the bright seamless backdrop was the outline of a man. He was fading in and out with each gust of wind, like a Polaroid gone backwards. But I saw him. I saw the tip of one of his pink fingers poking out of a hole in his glove. His hands were up against his mouth which was covered in a thick dark beard and his breath came in a long slow billow of white smoke, like the mouth of a gutter under a frozen street. His hood was pulled up over his head which made his eyes ever brighter in the shadow. I couldn't tell what color they were, but they seemed to have a reflection inside them like the round outline of a flashbulb in the eye of a magazine model. I didn't scream. I felt nothing like adrenaline, or dread. Or that feeling when your heart beats so fast it makes you want to throw up. Nothing like that happened. If someone told me that they saw a strange man staring at them through their window I would have expected to hear them say, "And then I screamed and dropped my glass and it shattered and I ran to the phone and dialed 911 and then I ran to my front door and pulled the deadbolt across and then I hid in the bathroom with the door closed and I couldn't stop shaking." But I didn't do any of that. I stood completely still as if someone was holding me there, and I watched as the man I saw so clearly disappeared into the endless white.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There was nothing in my apartment that anyone would want. My possessions were piled in and out of boxes and I didn't even own a real bed. I had a mattress on the floor that tripled as a couch and dining room table. I did own a laptop but I took it with me to work. I didn't own a TV, or a toaster oven, or even a decent pair of shoes. I just decided that since there was nothing for him to steal, and I was sure he figured that out if he took a good look, that I would go on about my day despite his strange appearance outside my window. It felt less like a decision to ignore it, and more like it didn't happen at all. Or like it happens all the time. And that is exactly how it ended up. Each morning while I boiled water and ladled my mug into the steaming pot, I saw him. I didn't own a tea kettle either. I didn't see why people spent money on things like that when they could function perfectly well without them. But anyway, each night when I came home from work and my apartment was dark and quiet and anyone would think that I should be scared, I wasn't. There was no one waiting for me behind the shower curtain. Nothing was ever out of place. There were never any footprints circling my apartment, or scratch marks around my doorknob. I came and went peacefully and each morning I shared a moment with a stranger whose eye brows curled up like a puppy and whose fingers were always bent across his mouth.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It went on for about a week that way. I continued to start my car ten minutes early with the keys dangling in the ignition, so it could thaw. I guess in hindsight that was a pretty stupid thing to do in west Cleveland anyway, random man or not. But I mean I just lived my life normally, with the exception of my gloomy window friend stopping by more and more often. Once while I was watching TV late at night, something caught my eye at the window. Of course it was him. I just kept on eating my popcorn until I was full and there was still half a bowl left. I hated to waste food, and I always felt bad for the little birds that hopped over the snow, and wondered what the hell they ate in this neighborhood at twelve below. So sometimes I would throw food outside for them. Or for the squirrels. So I went to the window. I had never really…confronted the man. I stayed a room's length away from him as he peered at me sadly. But that night I guess I got brave. I got up and saw his outline like the moon must have been fat and shining right behind him, casting a line of white around his face. My eyes went to the top of the window to unhook the lock, and when they returned to him there was only the snow. He had been erased by its pale hand. I put my face into the cold, that kind of cold that feels more like fire than ice, and I looked for him. The snow was covered in a layer of glass. I threw the leftover popcorn and it rolled like dice across the ground. There were no signs of his tracks. I noticed, as I pulled the window back down, that there was no moon that night.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The next morning I saw the white grey billows of exhaust fumes pouring out of a piece of shit station wagon in front of my apartment. I saw the woman's eyes, and they were glossy and dull. I had seen her baby basset hound eyebrows before, on the man at my window. She just stared at the door as if she was waiting for someone to come out. I came out. She drove away.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It happened that way three times. Not all at once, but spread so far out across two weeks that I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't a déjà vu, and that yes, this had really happened before. The fourth time I decided had to be different. Something about her felt so much like the man at my window, but maybe it was just her coming and going. And her staring. And those eyebrows arching up. But her hands were not covering her mouth; they were white and exposed even in this weather, and they were gripping the steering wheel. So I could see that her lips were moving tightly against each other, and on top of each other, pulling in and out of her mouth. This fourth time she didn't drive away when I walked out onto the ice. I stood waiting for her to do it; to drive away as she always had. But she just looked ahead at the road, and then back into my face. Then I saw her hand move to the door, and the window rolled down. I walked towards her casually, not like someone who had seen her on three previous mornings, but like someone who was going to ask her if she needed directions. Or if she was alright. So I did ask her that, because I wasn't sure what else to say.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The wind stole the words and spread them out across the trees and the pavement and the kicked over silver trash cans. She said nothing. She looked like she might drive away again. She put her hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead. But then she turned and looked past me at my apartment. I looked back then too, like maybe I was missing something. She was looking at the right side of the house, at the space between it and the neighbor's fence, which was all of four feet. It was the space where I saw my window friend each morning standing, waiting to watch me curse at my hair for making me late.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Are you looking for him?" I asked. Feeling as soon as I said it, the longing to take it back. I wasn't sure what I would say if she asked "Who?" Oh, just that man who stares in my window every day. The one who for all I know could be a serial killer casing out his next victim. I know that's what people would think if I told them. But it didn't feel like that at all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But she didn't ask me who, she didn't say anything for about a minute, she just stared blankly back and forth between me and the apartment, and I knew that I would be late for work again. She looked like she was about to say something, her mouth kept moving and tears starting falling into it from her eyes. I remembered the landlord speaking to me in broken English, telling me how grateful he was that he didn't need to help me carry furniture. I remembered him telling me that a couple had lived there before me. And he kept saying something in Spanish that sounded like "tragic." And he kept shaking his head.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Do you need help?" I asked, coming a little closer to the window. She just kept crying, harder now. I squeezed my cell phone for the time and saw that I was still early. I always turned my car on too soon, and by the time I got inside it the snow was pouring from the roof like rain.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You can come inside and we can have some tea if you want." I said, imagining myself using a soup spoon to dish her out a ration of hot water.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Or maybe you just want to talk? Is that why you keep coming here?" I just kept talking. I didn't know what else to do with her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What's your name? I just moved here a few weeks ago, actually I guess it's been more than a month. I don't know anyone. I work downtown at a magazine. I do graphic design." She started to calm down a little and looked at me.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Amy," she said quietly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Hey Amy," I said, a little too cheerfully. "I'm Ellen. Is this where you used to live?" I said, pointing back at my little faded blue apartment and the trees, and the trash cans that were glued to the sidewalk now from all the ice. She stared at the apartment and nodded at it, as if it had asked her the question.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Well, did you want to come in for a little while? I can't stay long, I do have to go soon, but you can come in for a few minutes if you want. I know when I moved from my first house I always wanted to go back and see what they did to my old room. See if they painted it a different color or anything. I didn't paint anything yet. Maybe I will in the summer." I smiled at her, and she smiled back slowly, as if her face had forgotten which muscles it took to pull up the chapped corners of her mouth. She stared at the house, and then at me and then back at the house again, and without saying anything she unlocked her seat belt and got out of the car. We were standing there in the middle of the frozen street, her car was still running and dripping fluid, making a little puddle that was curling and flowing over the cracks in the ice and the dirty solid snow that was pushed up onto the curb.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Did you want to…?" I motioned to the keys hanging in the ignition. It was alright for me to leave my car running, but if hers got stolen I would feel pretty terrible.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Oh, yeah, thanks," she said softly. I watched her lean into her car and shut it off, pull the keys out and put them in the pocket of her coat. When she turned to face me again I smiled a sort of awkward, ok right this way, kind of smile, and turned to walk to the apartment. She followed me hesitantly and I heard her take in a deep breath. The cold air must have stung her lungs because she started coughing.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You ok?" I said, turning to look at her over my shoulder as I opened the door and walked in. She just nodded, and I saw her eyebrows start to go higher, and her lips start to pull into her mouth. I wasn't sure if this was such a great idea after all. What was I supposed to do with some strange sobbing woman? I remembered that I didn't have anywhere for her to sit, and it felt like an even worse idea. I took in a deep breath of the frozen air as we walked into the apartment.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She was my first guest and I was suddenly a little self conscious about my housekeeping. I scooped up the cold soggy tea bags from the counter and threw them in the trash, and moved a few things around so I didn't look like a slob.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Do you want some tea? Or hot chocolate maybe? I don't have a coffee maker." I grabbed two mugs before she could answer, refilled the pot that was on the stove, and started it to boil. She didn't say anything, and I looked behind me to see her standing in what I guess had been her living room, looking around the apartment like Dorothy when she came out of her little spinning cabin.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I think I feel like some hot chocolate," I said, trying to break her from her daze. She stared at me as if she had forgotten where she was. "Sure," she said finally.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I attempted small talk, mostly to myself, while the water boiled. I asked her questions and got a nod here and there. Finally I had two cups of hot chocolate and I stirred at them violently trying to get the lumps out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I wish I had some of those tiny marshmallows. They're fun," I said, smiling awkwardly as I handed her the mug. It was from some rest stop in the Redwood Forrest, Paul Bunyan and his big blue Ox. I wished I would have noticed and given her the one with the Dalmatian instead. That would have seemed a little less awkward. My mom sent it to me because when I was little I loved Dalmatians. I tried to explain to her that, thanks to Disney, lots of little kids liked Dalmatians and that the phase was over, but she still kept sending me mugs and birthday cards with black spots.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I guess you could sit…on my bed if you want? I'm sorry, that's pretty creepy but I don't have any chairs yet." I looked around at the empty walls and the posters rolled up on the floor and told myself I would hang them up tonight. But I knew I wouldn't. She walked over to my bed and sat down on the corner. I pulled up a box full of books and sat down on it. I sipped at the hot chocolate and got a big chunk of powder. I hoped I had stirred hers a little better.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "So, you lived here before me?" I asked quietly. Hoping not to start another round of hysterics; she had finally seemed to calm down.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Yes."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Did you live alone?" I squeezed the hot mug, already feeling like I knew the answer. She must have been part of the couple the landlord attempted to gossip with me about. Maybe it was a really bad breakup. Maybe he was still looking for her, still stalking her. I thought of the man who I guess was stalking me. But he didn't seem like he would hurt anybody. He was too sad, too cold and lonely.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "No," she said, and then she breathed into the steaming mug, and I waited, hoping that maybe she would tell me her story so that I didn't ask the wrong question and make her cry.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I lived with my fiancé, Eric. He was a musician." She tried smiling. "We had rugs and towels hanging all over the walls," - she pointed to the tiny holes, the ones I never noticed - "and his friends would come over and practice."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Band practice in this place? That must have been crazy." She smiled bigger now. I was sure she was transporting herself back there, and I pictured four or five guys with guitars huddled around the bed where she sat and listened, maybe a drummer with his chair stuck inside the bathroom. She stopped talking and stared down into her mug. We sat in silence and then my eyes went to the window. He was back.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Amy noticed the way I looked at the window suddenly, and she looked too, but nothing happened. She didn't see him. He walked closer to the window and cupped his hands around his face to peer inside. Then he looked sadder than he ever had. His cheeks pulled up and his forehead wrinkled like an old man. It looked like he was shaking. He put his palms flat on the window and I could see what looked like frost forming where the tips of his fingers touched the glass. I realized in that moment, what I knew I couldn't say out loud. Either I had a tumor growing in my brain that was making me see this man that she couldn't, or he was a ghost. He was her ghost. Her fiance's ghost.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Amy, what happened to him? To Eric." I halfway hoped she would say, "What do you mean? He's at work." But then that would mean that I had a tumor, and I couldn't afford a tumor. I didn't have health insurance.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But she didn't say that. She just looked at me as if she didn't care how I knew, or what I knew. As if I wasn't even there. She stared into the air and her mind went somewhere else again. This time it wasn't somewhere happy at all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "He killed himself. Right over there." She pointed to the cramped bathroom. The yellow tiles. I pictured the man at the window, staring into the tiny mirror over the sink, with a gun inside his mouth. I thought about what questions were appropriate, if any. And what do you ask first? Why or how? I guess how was the less complicated one so I went with that.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Pills. He swallowed the whole cabinet full. I found him lying on the floor all curled up." She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut hard. I guess she was seeing it again. Seeing him. I looked at the window and he was squeezing his eyes shut too.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What was he like?" I tried changing the subject a little. I stared out the window at him as she spoke.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "He was," she paused, "quiet. I never knew what he was going through. In his head. He just wouldn't tell me. He lost his job and they kicked him out of the band. They said they didn't need three guitar players, they said they looked stupid on stage with that many people. My parents never liked him. They didn't want us to get married. They said he looked like he belonged in a homeless shelter. But he loved that beard. I loved it..." She trailed off and looked down at her shoes, which were making a puddle on the wood floor.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I'm sorry, I don't know why I keep coming here. I just feel close to him here I guess. I never got to say goodbye." She sighed and looked around at the empty walls. I was sure now that the man at the window was dead. That he was Eric. That he was coming here for her. I guess it didn't sound as crazy to me as it should have.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I think he's been coming here too." I said, bracing myself in case she flipped out. She didn't. She just stared at me and squinted her eyes like she was trying to read the fine print across my face.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Someone's been coming to the window. I thought maybe he was homeless or, I'm not sure what I thought. But maybe it's him. He's there right now actually." I expected him to disappear as soon as she turned her head to look out the window, but he didn't. He stared into her eyes. She turned back to me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "There?" she said, confused, pointing to the frozen glass.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Yeah. He's looking at you. He seems really upset. Maybe he didn't mean to do it." I wasn't sure what I was doing. Being an interpreter for the dead? She looked at me at first like I was crazy, and I understood. But she didn't get up, she didn't throw the hot brown liquid in my face and run screaming for the door. I think she must have wanted this, deep down. She must have driven here needing to find something. Needing this to be real. Her face softened and she looked back at the window as she spoke. I looked back too and of course, maybe to make me look even crazier, he was gone.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Does he…talk?" she said, and I could hear the sane part of her trying to win out over whatever part believed it all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Well he's gone now. But no, he doesn't talk. Not to me."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She snapped her head back towards me, the fastest movement she had made so far.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What do you mean, he's gone?" She got up and went to the window. She looked out of it a little frantically, and then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She stood there with her eyes closed for a long time. Just breathing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally she turned and looked around the apartment again, this time with the softest edge of a grin. She looked down into her mug and then up to me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Thank you for this. For letting me come back."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You're welcome."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I'll let you go now. I don't want to make you late." She walked to the sink and put her mug down next to the dirty plates and cups. I followed her to the door as if it were still her apartment. The sun was so bright against the snow that I had to shield my eyes with the half empty Dalmatian mug.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "It was nice meeting you." She said, smiling so that now I could see the row of white teeth that I never imagined existed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Sure. I'm glad I could…help?" I said, searching for the words to describe or explain what just took place. She turned and walked back to her car, seeming almost a little embarrassed for having been there at all. Then to my left, from the side of the house came at first a shadow, and then a man. Eric. Now he had a name. I watched as he walked with his hands down from his face now and at his sides. He stopped and looked at me, right into my eyes, for a few seconds that seemed to stretch out longer than any other few seconds of my life. Then he walked forward again, catching up to Amy.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Amy!" I wanted to tell her that he was right there, he was right behind her. But I stopped. She turned to face me and she was really facing him. He was between us looking right into her face, close enough to touch her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You're welcome to stop by anytime." I said, feeling like it sounded less genuine that it was. I guess I really did mean it. She got into the car and I watched as Eric got into the passenger's seat.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Thanks." She said, looking back at the house. I knew I would never see her again by the way she looked at it as she drove off, like she was saying goodbye.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px;"><b><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/">Source</a></b></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-53300939461383555262011-05-17T12:00:00.000-07:002011-05-17T12:00:05.045-07:00Gifts to the Dark Gods - Mary McCluskey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u3eRkb8kJ5c/TdD15NDjvrI/AAAAAAAAAME/rTlPsOHLJCo/s1600/GiftDark857F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u3eRkb8kJ5c/TdD15NDjvrI/AAAAAAAAAME/rTlPsOHLJCo/s1600/GiftDark857F.jpg" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u3eRkb8kJ5c/TdD15NDjvrI/AAAAAAAAAME/rTlPsOHLJCo/s1600/GiftDark857F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">The tap on her shoulder freezes her; the quiet, warning voice in her ear is exactly what she has feared. In a small dark place inside herself she is prepared for both. She had not expected a teenager.</span></span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Come with me please, Madam," the young man says, his back stiff with self-importance.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He is young enough to be her son; young enough to be one of the troubled youths she tutors in the small charity-run literacy programme in the suburbs. She is tutoring a boy now: he has a tattoo on his forehead that spells HATE and eyes that dart around the room, alert for predators. This young man, though also dark skinned and mixed-race, keeps his eyes averted. He is smooth suited and smells of fresh citrus cologne as he grips her arm and leads her to the manager's office.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The manager is tired and he lowers his pale lashes when he asks to see her ID, as if asking for something intimate, inappropriate. Then he turns to his computer.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen swallows. This is new. As he scrutinises the screen, then types something into the computer, fear knots her chest. Her name is now accessible to every major store in the city. The next time she is caught she will be arrested and booked. No question.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Is that legal?" she asks. "Storing information on someone who hasn't even been charged?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You want to call your husband?" he replies, with a tiny smile. "Or a lawyer?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "My husband <i>is</i> a lawyer," Helen says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The manager blinks rapidly, the smile vanishes. The young man who had escorted her from the jewellery department leans against the door and makes a small groaning sound.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "He'll be very angry if I call him," Helen says. "At me. Or at you. I'm afraid he's likely to make a big fuss about wrongful arrest."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They understand her. She knows they haven't called the police yet. She is carrying a fat wad of cash in her purse, four credit cards, including a Platinum American Express and their own Valued Customer Card. She wears an emerald ring, an anniversary gift from her husband. The diamond studs in her ears are one caret each. She is easily able to pay for the designer scarf and the hard plastic earrings in the shape of sunflowers she was seen to stuff into her bag. Helen knows that what most disturbs them is that these are two different items, from two separate counters. But she always steals two items. That is one of her rules. It has to be two items, from different counters, from the same floor of the same store. But they want to let her go. They don't want trouble.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Perhaps if I pay for these things now? " she asks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When she reaches her car, Helen is shaking too hard to insert the key into the car door. She stands still, taking deep, gulping breaths, willing herself to calm down. That was too close.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They had almost called Daniel. The thought makes her light-headed. Her husband is a man of principle and firm opinions. A strong man, which is why she married him. He seemed the type of man who would take care of her. And he has. But his view of the law is simple and punitive. He thinks that teenage gang members who commit murder should be executed, that fourteen-year-old thieves should be tried as adults. Only yesterday they had disagreed over a youth arrested for stealing a bottle of cider in a local off-license.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "It was an initiation thing," Helen had said. "His mother's a crack head. He wants to be part of the gang. He wants a family."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Daniel had given her a long look.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "He's probably been unhappy and hungry all of his life," Helen added.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Nobody's hungry in this country, " Daniel said. He actually believed it. "You heard of Benefits?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen thought of the people in the literacy programme – young and old, struggling with so many demons. Hunger was not unknown. Though her teenage pupils were more likely to eat badly than not at all, their problems went far beyond an inability to read or write.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Daniel knows little about the literacy programme. He believes she teaches pensioners how to use a computer. He would not understand Amanda, the girl who carries a kitchen knife to make small cuts in her wrists when she is stressed. Or Zak, the boy with HATE tattooed on his forehead.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When she first met Daniel, he was studying law and she was passionately involved in a course on Writing and Madness. She would quote Rimbaud, Breton, Artaud, Foucault. He teased her for taking this "foreign" literature seriously. He made her feel stupid for liking it, stupid for understanding it. An irony that did not occur to her until much later.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There are many things, she admits now, that Daniel does not understand. Things that are grey, with edges that are undefined, confuse him. He would not understand what had happened today in the department store.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the newly decorated bedroom of her immaculate suburban home, Helen places the earrings and scarf in the locked trunk with the other shoplifted items. There are hundreds of them now. Many hundreds. She calls them her gifts to the dark gods. She knows that it is the dark gods who turn the wheels of a tricycle and send the toddler screaming into traffic, the dark gods who guide children to falling fences, hidden currents and smiling strangers with death in their black hearts. She cannot afford to stop now, after such a soft, uneventful life. Who knows what vengeance the dark gods might take?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She can't remember exactly when it began. It was soon after Chloe and Nick left for university, when she quit her job at the advertising company. When she became, as Daniel describes her, a lady of leisure.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "We can afford it, sweetheart. Do charity work or something. No need for you to stress out in</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> advertising."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It started in Marks and Spencer's food hall: she stole a chocolate bar at the counter. A week later she took a magazine. It grew to two items a week. The rules gradually became more complex and demanding. The rule now is: two items a week by Friday at three in the afternoon. The items have to be from the same store, on the same floor, and they have to be different. Two scarves, for example, won't do. Today's items, the pretty scarf, the silly earrings, don't qualify because she has paid for them. The problem now is that she is behind. She is two items behind. And it is already Thursday. Tomorrow then. At the Mall.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Meet me for lunch tomorrow?" Daniel asks, as they have dinner. "That client we met at the Algarve. John Stanton? He's in town with his wife. "</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen stares.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Tomorrow?" she repeats. "Where?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "The Blanc place."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He studies her expression.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Busy day?" he asks. "Hair appointment?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He laughs. There is a strange pride in the way he teases her about her empty, frivolous days. He is the sole breadwinner now.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "No problem. The Blanc place it is," she says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But Helen is seething. That means the local mall is out. That means it has to be the city centre again. She was there last week, when that middle-aged businessman followed her around. She knew he was plain-clothes security. He had the look. She was carrying her Debenham's bag; she always carries a department store bag with a number of purchased items inside it. A basic rule. And she was dressed well and carrying a good quality handbag. Her new one is Italian and black linen, full of expensive clues to background and breeding. Intimidation. The guy hadn't been intimidated though. He'd stayed close.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the city centre the following day, Helen avoids Harvey Nicks, too many close calls there, and heads to House of Fraser. A lanky kid in sweats shoots up from nowhere. He is behind her as she enters the store. He is still there at the jewellery counter. She is certain he is security; she has learned to spot them. Helen avoids looking at him. She picks up a scarf, replaces it, studies earrings, bracelets, tries one of them on her wrist, then puts it back. He waits, watching.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When she takes the escalator, he is four people behind her. Lingerie will smoke him out, she knows that. It's worked well before. Plain-clothes store detectives stand out in the red satin thongs and French bra department. But he's behind her. She can feel him. She glances at her watch and catches her breath. She is almost out of time. She has to be at the restaurant in half an hour.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "May I help you, ma'am?" asks a salesgirl. She is a sweet Barbie doll of a girl, about Chloe's age. Security kid must have alerted her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Just looking," Helen smiles, panic starting in her chest. Her heart begins pounding. She is not going to be able to do it. The kid stands only ten yards away, and he is watching openly. She meets his gaze, then tries to smile.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Hello there," she says. He turns away.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She is ten minutes late to the restaurant and Helen is damp with fear. It is Friday and already 1:30 p.m. It will have to be items from the restaurant: knives, forks, saltshakers. She has done it before but it is awkward, and this is her husband's client.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> John Stanton and his wife, Barbara, are already seated at the table, sipping aperitifs. Barbara has the kind of drink no one orders in the city anymore: a martini with an olive. His looks like a scotch.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Daniel regards her with some disapproval.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Sorry," she says. "Traffic."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She shakes hands and smiles but she is starting to tremble. She is running out of time. It will soon be too late.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Barbara Stanton has the perfectly manicured and coiffed look of the suburban matron. A generation ago her type of woman would have had blue hair. Her hair is streaked blonde, her chin tucked, her skin spa-pampered. She smiles a white, wide smile.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Lovely to meet you," she says. The men talk business, the women chat about children. The competition is equally fierce on both ends of the table.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Your daughter's at Cambridge?" asks Barbara.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Yes. Chloe's choice. And Nick's at Edinburgh. Medical school. As far away from home as they could get! You have two sons?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Yes. Both Oxford," says Barbara, her smile victorious.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They exchange photographs, making admiring noises.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Chloe looks just like you," Barbara says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen cannot see it. Her bright, lovely daughter, Chloe: so confident, so creative. She is amazed that she produced these children. The gene pool had obviously sucked more from Daniel's side during their formation; all the classy traits from his Patrician Berkshire family are visible. Her own working class genes are not in evidence.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen lifts the fish knife, turns it over, and places her hand over it. The waiter appears with salad, and takes the knife away with a swift, smooth stroke. Too late. They are too efficient here. She looks at the dessert spoons. Possibly, possibly. She is sweating. Her blouse is sticking to her back and she can feel her hair, damp, curling against her neck. Her heart is starting to pound, a hard nauseating pounding. Panic attacks, her therapist, Martha Kim, calls them.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Terrifying but temporary," she had said to Helen when they first began.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I think I'm going to die; that's how it feels."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "No-one dies of panic attacks. Stay calm until it passes."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen has not told Martha the reason for these attacks. The stealing, the rigid rules about the stealing, is something she has never shared with anyone. How could Martha, with her small, empathetic smile, understand about dark gods?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When the waiter asks about dessert, Helen pretends an interest only to keep the silverware on the table. She studies the menu: chocolate mousse, crème caramel. She looks up, and so quickly that she wants to cry out, the waiter is there and the silverware is gone. The table is bare. Helen looks at him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Decided?" the young man asks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Oh, nothing. Thank you." She knows her mouth is trembling. "Excuse me."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the ladies room, she stands at the sink, fighting the nausea. It is fifteen minutes to three. It would be awful to vomit; she hates that. She splashes cold water on her face. She is ashen, her eyes wide with fear. In the mirror suddenly she sees Barbara Stanton's face.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Are you all right, my dear?" Barbara asks. "You turned so white in there."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Fine, fine, thank you," Helen says weakly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You're not pregnant, are you?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Lord no. No. Too old for that. Menopause more likely."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Is that it? You look so young."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen continues staring into the mirror as Barbara disappears into the stall. Barbara has left her purse on the counter. Helen takes a breath, listens, every nerve ending on red alert. The purse is soft kid leather, black with a silver snap clasp. Helen opens it.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You get the hot flashes too?" calls Barbara.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Hmm. Yes. Sometimes."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "St. John's Wort, dear. Try it. Better than estrogen. Works like a charm. More natural."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen is not listening. She is staring into the bag. A lipstick. Estee Lauder. She recognizes the casing. She takes it. And…what else? Fuck! What else? The bag is a tip. The toilet flushes. Helen grabs a tiny leather purse. It is tight in her fist when Barbara comes out of the stall and begins to rinse her hands. She smiles at Helen.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen catches sight of herself in the mirror: her eyes are round, sparked with fear. She has realised that the tiny purse, curled in her palm, surrounds sharp metal. Something is protruding. Car keys. Oh shit. They will turn the place upside down. Barbara must have driven here. Must have parked her car outside. They'll search the place. Helen drops the car keys on the floor.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Oh," she says, her voice too high. "You dropped something. That yours?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Barbara still has her hands under the tap. She looks at Helen, then glances at her bag. It is lying on its side, closed. Helen had snapped it shut automatically. Barbara dries her hands slowly, then stoops down to pick up the little purse containing the car keys. She opens her bag, looks into it, running her finger along her lower lip. Then she turns to Helen. She studies Helen for a long moment. There is no censure in her look, only sympathy.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What were you looking for, my dear?" Barbara asks finally. "Is there a problem?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> For just a moment, Helen hesitates; it would be so easy to say, yes. Yes, there is a problem. As she has not been able to say to Martha Kim, or ever to her husband. But she shakes her head.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What do you mean?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Does your husband know about this?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I don't know what you're talking about."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "He should. He could help you to find counselling. Before it becomes," there is a pause while she thinks of the right word. "Public."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She snaps her bag closed, looks hard at Helen.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Someone should mention it to him," she says quietly as she walks out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen stands still for a few minutes trying to curb the shaking, fumbling in her bag for Valium. She finds only Paracetemol and takes three of those. Anything will do, anything. When she walks back into the restaurant, only Daniel sits there.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "The Stantons leave?" she asks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Yes, had to rush. Is that woman a bit loopy? She said you were distressed. You had issues to discuss."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He stares at her, astounded.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Sent John off to get the car for Christ's sake, then starts whispering in my ear, talking some psychobabble crap."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He shakes his head.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "She left you her card."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Daniel picks up a business card:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You don't want it, do you? I'd avoid her if I were you."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen shakes her head and he tears up the card, throws it onto the tiny saucer that holds a candle.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Ready to go?" he asks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen nods her head but she is barely listening. All she can think is that it is two minutes to three and she has only the lipstick. Only the lipstick. She is an item short. <i>She is one fucking item short</i>. She lifts the napkin as if to wipe her mouth, but the waiter is beside her, holding her chair, helping her up. The napkin has to go back on the table.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> On the way to the door, Helen begins to shake. She can feel the shaking from her knees right up to her hair. So hard and strong is the shuddering that her head trembles on her neck. Fast, impulsively, she lifts a small vase from a table near the bar. It contains daisies. Helen sniffs them. She does not look at anyone. Staring straight ahead, she puts the whole thing into her bag. Vase, water, flowers, everything. And keeps walking. She begins to breathe again. The trembling slows.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It is then Helen notices that her skirt is damp. She pauses. Water drips from her soft linen bag onto the carpeting, onto her shoes. Helen thinks of the mess inside her bag. She imagines her wet driver's license, her sodden checkbook, the photographs of her children, the card from Chloe, all destroyed by the water from a vase. It is lunacy. Helen stops.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Daniel," she calls, and he turns. He is holding the door for her. "Wait. Hold this."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She hands Daniel the bag. She does not want to drip all the way back through the restaurant. He frowns.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What's this? Did you drop this thing in the toilet?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I forgot something," she says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen walks swiftly back to the table, praying it will still be there. The two pieces of card are curling in the saucer. She places them together. Barbara Stanton. Interior Designer. Well, why not? A start. Maybe a friend.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When she gets outside Daniel is pacing the pavement. He holds her bag in front of him, at arm's length so that it does not drip on his suit. He stares at her.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "What's going on?" he asks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She shrugs, meets his eyes. His frown is deepening, fear and worry are on his face but the irritation has gone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "<i>Is</i> there something the matter, Helen?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Helen slides Barbara Stanton's card into her pocket so that it is safe and dry then reaches for her dripping bag. With her fingers, she traces the outline of the small vase inside the bag. Still there, still intact. Her last, her very last, gift to the dark gods.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "No. I'm fine," she says. "I'll be fine."</span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px;"><b><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-2793534734196395582011-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:002011-04-29T12:00:00.858-07:00The Unknown Quantity - O. Henry<div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The poet Longfellow - or was it Confucius, the inventor of wisdom? - remarked:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Life is real, life is earnest; And things are not what they seem."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As mathematics are - or is: thanks, old subscriber! - the only just rule by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means, adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures - unassailable sums in addition - shall be set over against whatever oposing element there may be.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus - that is, that life is real - then things (all of which life includes) are real. Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why -"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued, satisfying, mysterious X.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accomodated) bought a five-cent load of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000 prof - er - rake-off.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical, studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies. Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously, being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his mainsprings - and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire, hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics, Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses, and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things before. Football and trying to be white to my fellowman were about the extent of my college curriculum.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a friend and a judge.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You can't pay them back"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have - I never cared for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort. But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where it came from I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want to pay back all that money I can."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter. It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two millions."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth. Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance can it be done."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the dollar cannot heal."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street. He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it, Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital - all he had in the world."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to that much. Boyne died in an asylum."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance companies on my charity list."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell into bad way after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. he was acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government doesn't need to stand in the bread line."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "The last item of the instance is - come and I will show you," said Kenwitz, rising.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged, poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octupus. He knocked on a door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last item of the Instance.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him warmly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely -"a thousand times obliged."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his spectacles for the first time in years.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the proprietor.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/" style="text-decoration: none;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Source</span></b></a></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-21207995030292714152011-04-27T12:00:00.000-07:002011-04-27T12:00:01.991-07:00The Night Doings At 'Deadman's' - Ambrose Bierce<div class="title_text" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 24px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div class="subtitle_text" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A Story that is Untrue</span></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a singularly sharp night, and clear as the heart of a diamond. Clear nights have a trick of being keen. In darkness you may be cold and not know it; when you see, you suffer. This night was bright enough to bite like a serpent. The moon was moving mysteriously along behind the giant pines crowning the South Mountain, striking a cold sparkle from the crusted snow, and bringing out against the black west and ghostly outlines of the Coast Range, beyond which lay the invisible Pacific. The snow had piled itself, in the open spaces along the bottom of the gulch, into long ridges that seemed to heave, and into hills that appeared to toss and scatter spray. The spray was sunlight, twice reflected: dashed once from the moon, once from the snow.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In this snow many of the shanties of the abandoned mining camp were obliterated (a sailor might have said they had gone down), and at irregular intervals it had overtopped the tall trestles which had once supported a river called a flume; for, of course, 'flume' is flumen. Among the advantages of which the mountains cannot deprive the gold-hunter is the privilege of speaking Latin. He says of his dead neighbour, 'He has gone up the flume.' This is not a bad way to say, 'His life has returned to the Fountain of Life.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> While putting on its armour against the assaults of the wind, this snow had neglected no coign of vantage. Snow pursued by the wind is not wholly unlike a retreating army. In the open field it ranges itself in ranks and battalions; where it can get a foothold it makes a stand; where it can take cover it does so. You may see whole platoons of snow cowering behind a bit of broken wall. The devious old road, hewn out of the mountainside, was full of it. Squadron upon squadron had struggled to escape by this line, when suddenly pursuit had ceased. A more desolate and dreary spot than Deadman's Gulch in a winter midnight it is impossible to imagine. Yet Mr. Hiram Beeson elected to live there, the sole inhabitant.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Away up the side of the North Mountain his little pine-log shanty projected from its single pane of glass a long, thin beam of light, and looked not altogether unlike a black beetle fastened to the hillside with a bright new pin. Within it sat Mr. Beeson himself, before a roaring fire, staring into its hot heart as if he had never before seen such a thing in all his life. He was not a comely man. He was grey; he was ragged and slovenly in his attire; his face was wan and haggard; his eyes were too bright. As to his age, if one had attempted to guess it, one might have said forty-seven, then corrected himself and said seventy-four. He was really twenty-eight. Emaciated he was; as much, perhaps, as he dared be, with a needy undertaker at Bentley's Flat and a new and enterprising coroner at Sonora. Poverty and zeal are an upper and a nether millstone. It is dangerous to make a third in that kind of sandwich.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As Mr. Beeson sat there, with his ragged elbows on his ragged knees, his lean jaws buried in his lean hands, and with no apparent intention of going to bed, he looked as if the slightest movement would tumble him to pieces. Yet during the last hour he had winked no fewer than three times.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There was a sharp rapping at the door. A rap at that time of night and in that weather might have surprised an ordinary mortal who had dwelt two years in the gulch without seeing a human face, and could not fail to know that the country was impassable; but Mr. Beeson did not so much as pull his eyes out of the coals. And even when the door was pushed open he only shrugged a little more closely into himself, as one does who is expecting something that he would rather not see. You may observe this movement in women when, in a mortuary chapel, the coffin is borne up the aisle behind them.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But when a long old man in a blanket overcoat, his head tied up in a handkerchief and nearly his entire face in a muffler, wearing green goggles and with a complexion of glittering whiteness where it could be seen, strode silently into the room, laying a hard, gloved hand on Mr. Beeson's shoulder, the latter so far forgot himself as to look up with an appearance of no small astonishment; whomever he may have been expecting, he had evidently not counted on meeting anyone like this. Nevertheless, the sight of this unexpected guest produced in Mr. Beeson the following sequence: a feeling of astonishment; a sense of gratification; a sentiment of profound good will. Rising from his seat, he took the knotty hand from his shoulder, and shook it up and down with a fervour quite unaccountable; for in the old man's aspect was nothing to attract, much to repel. However, attraction is too general a property for repulsion to be without it. The most attractive object in the world is the face we instinctively cover with a cloth. When it becomes still more attractive -- fascinating -- we put seven feet of earth above it.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'Sir,' said Mr. Beeson, releasing the old man's hand, which fell passively against his thigh with a quiet clack, 'it is an extremely disagreeable night. Pray be seated; I am very glad to see you.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Beeson spoke with an easy good breeding that one would hardly have expected, considering all things. Indeed, the contrast between his appearance and his manner was sufficiently surprising to be one of the commonest of social phenomena in the mines. The old man advanced a step toward the fire, glowing cavernously in the green goggles. Mr. Beeson resumed.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'You bet your life I am!'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Beeson's elegance was not too refined; it had made reasonable concessions to local taste. He paused a moment, letting his eyes drop from the muffled head of his guest, down along the row of mouldy buttons confining the blanket overcoat, to the greenish cowhide boots powdered with snow, which had begun to melt and run along the floor in little rills. He took an inventory of his guest, and appeared satisfied. Who would not have been? Then he continued:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in keeping with my surroundings; but I shall esteem myself highly favoured if it is your pleasure to partake of it, rather than seek better at Bentley's Flat.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> With a singular refinement of hospitable humility Mr. Beeson spoke as if a sojourn in his warm cabin on such a night, as compared with walking fourteen miles up to the throat in snow with a cutting crust, would be an intolerable hardship. By way of reply, his guest unbuttoned the blanket overcoat. The host laid fresh fuel on the fire, swept the hearth with the tail of a wolf, and added:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'But I think you'd better skedaddle.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his broad soles to the heat without removing his hat. In the mines the hat is seldom removed except when the boots are. Without further remark Mr. Beeson also seated himself in a chair which had been a barrel, and which, retaining much of its original character, seemed to have been designed with a view to preserving his dust if it should please him to crumble. For a moment there was silence; then, from somewhere among the pines, came the snarling yelp of a coyote; and simultaneously the door rattled in its frame. There was no other connection between the two incidents than that the coyote has an aversion to storms, and the wind was rising; yet there seemed somehow a kind of supernatural conspiracy between the two, and Mr. Beeson shuddered with a vague sense of terror. He recovered himself in a moment and again addressed his guest.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, and then if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over the worst of the way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike -- I dare say you know the place.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that he did, but that he did indeed.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'Two years ago,' began Mr. Beeson, 'I, with two companions, occupied this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred we left, along with the rest. In ten hours the gulch was deserted. That evening, however, I discovered I had left behind me a valuable pistol (that is it) and returned for it, passing the night here alone, as I have passed every night since. I must explain that a few days before we left, our Chinese domestic had the misfortune to die while the ground was frozen so hard that it was impossible to dig a grave in the usual way. So, on the day of our hasty departure, we cut through the floor there, and gave him such burial as we could. But before putting him down I had the extremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to that beam above his grave, where you may see it at this moment, or, preferably, when warmth has given you leisure for observation.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death from natural causes? I had, of course, nothing to do with that, and returned through no irresistible attraction, or morbid fascination, but only because I had forgotten a pistol. That is clear to you, is it not, sir?'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a man of few words, if any. Mr. Beeson continued:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a kite: he cannot go to heaven without a tail. Well, to shorten this tedious story -- which, however, I thought it my duty to relate -- on that night, while I was here alone and thinking of anything but him, that Chinaman came back for his pigtail.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'He did not get it.'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank silence. Perhaps he was fatigued by the unwonted exercise of speaking; perhaps he had conjured up a memory that demanded his undivided attention. The wind was now fairly abroad, and the pines along the mountainside sang with singular distinctness. The narrator continued:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'You say you do not see much in that, and I must confess I do not myself.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'But he keeps coming!'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There was another long silence, during which both stared into the fire without the movement of a limb. Then Mr. Beeson broke out, almost fiercely, fixing his eyes on what he could see of the impassive face of his auditor:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no intention of troubling anyone for advice. You will pardon me, I am sure' -- here he became singularly persuasive -- 'but I have ventured to nail that pigtail fast, and have assumed that somewhat onerous obligation of guarding it. So it is quite impossible to act on your considerate suggestion.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'Do you play me for a Modoc?'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrust this indignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was as if he had struck him on the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was a protest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for a coward -- to be played for a Modoc: these two expressions are one. Sometimes it is a Chinaman. Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question frequently addressed to the ear of the suddenly dead.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment's pause, during which the wind thundered in the chimney like the sound of clods upon a coffin, he resumed:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life of the last two years has been a mistake -- a mistake that corrects itself; you see how. The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may say at Bentley's -- but that is not important. It was very tough to cut; they braid silk into their pigtails. Kwaagh.'</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. His last word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath, opened his eyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep sleep. What he said was this:</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'They are swiping my dust!'</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Then the aged stranger, who had not uttered one word since his arrival, arose from his seat and deliberately laid off his outer clothing, looking as angular in his flannels as the late Signorina Festorazzi, an Irish woman, six feet in height, and weighing fifty-six pounds, who used to exhibit herself in her chemise to the people of San Francisco. He then crept into one of the 'bunks,' having first placed a revolver in easy reach, according to the custom of the country. This revolver he took from a shelf, and it was the one which Mr. Beeson had mentioned as that for which he had returned to the gulch two years before.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In a few moments Mr. Beeson awoke, and seeing that his guest had retired he did likewise. But before doing so he approached the long, plaited wisp of pagan hair and gave it a powerful tug, to assure himself that it was fast and firm. The two beds-mere shelves covered with blankets not overclean-faced each other from opposite sides of the room, the little square trap-door that had given access to the Chinaman's grave being midway between. This, by the way, was crossed by a double row of spikeheads. In his resistance to the supernatural, Mr. Beeson had not disdained the use of material precautions.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The fire was now low, the flames burning bluely and petulantly, with occasional flashes, projecting spectral shadows on the walls -- shadows that moved mysteriously about, now dividing, now uniting. The shadow of the pendent queue, however, kept moodily apart, near the roof at the farther end of the room, looking like a note of admiration. The song of the pines outside had now risen to the dignity of a triumphal hymn. In the pauses the silence was dreadful.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It was during one of these intervals that the trap in the floor began to lift. Slowly and steadily it rose, and slowly and steadily rose the swaddled head of the old man in the bunk to observe it. Then, with a clap that shook the house to its foundation, it was thrown clean back, where it lay with its unsightly spikes pointing threateningly upward. Mr. Beeson awoke, and without rising, pressed his fingers into his eyes. He shuddered; his teeth chattered. His guest was now reclining on one elbow, watching the proceedings with the goggles that glowed like lamps.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Suddenly a howling gust of wind swooped down the chimney, scattering ashes and smoke in all directions, for a moment obscuring everything. When the fire-light again illuminated the room there was seen, sitting gingerly on the edge of a stool by the hearth-side, a swarthy little man of prepossessing appearance and dressed with faultless taste, nodding to the old man with a friendly and engaging smile.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'From San Francisco, evidently,' thought Mr. Beeson, who having somewhat recovered from his fright was groping his way to a solution of the evening's events.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But now another actor appeared upon the scene. Out of the square black hole in the middle of the floor protruded the head of the departed Chinaman, his glassy eyes turned upward in their angular slits and fastened on the dangling queue above with a look of yearning unspeakable. Mr. Beeson groaned, and again spread his hands upon his face. A mild odour of opium pervaded the place. The phantom, clad only in a short blue tunic quilted and silken but covered with grave-mould, rose slowly, as if pushed by a weak spiral spring. Its knees were at the level of the floor, when with a quick upward impulse like the silent leaping of a flame it grasped the queue with both hands, drew up its body and took the tip in its horrible yellow teeth. To this it clung in a seeming frenzy, grimacing ghastly, surging and plunging from side to side in its efforts to disengage its property from the beam, but uttering no sound. It was like a corpse artificially convulsed by means of a galvanic battery. The contrast between its superhuman activity and its silence was no less than hideous!</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mr. Beeson cowered in his bed. The swarthy little gentleman uncrossed his legs, beat an impatient tattoo with the toe of his boot and consulted a heavy gold watch. The old man sat erect and quietly laid hold of the revolver.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Bang!</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Like a body cut from the gallows the Chinaman plumped into the black hole below, carrying his tail in his teeth. The trap-door turned over, shutting down with a snap. The swarthy little gentleman from San Francisco sprang nimbly from his perch, caught something in the air with his hat, as a boy catches a butterfly, and vanished into the chimney as if drawn up by suction.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> From away somewhere in the outer darkness floated in through the open door a faint, far cry -- a long, sobbing wail, as of a child death-strangled in the desert, or a lost soul borne away by the Adversary. It may have been the coyote.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the early days of the following spring a party of miners on their way to new diggings passed along the gulch, and straying through the deserted shanties found in one of them the body of Hiram Beeson, stretched upon a bunk, with a bullet hole through the heart. The ball had evidently been fired from the opposite side of the room, for in one of the oaken beams overhead was a shallow blue dint, where it had struck a knot and been deflected downward to the breast of its victim. Strongly attached to the same beam was what appeared to be an end of a rope of braided horsehair, which had been cut by the bullet in its passage to the knot. Nothing else of interest was noted, excepting a suit of mouldy and incongruous clothing, several articles of which were afterward identified by respectable witnesses as those in which certain deceased citizen's of Deadman's had been buried years before. But it is not easy to understand how that could be, unless, indeed, the garments had been worn as a disguise by Death himself -- which is hardly credible.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/" style="text-decoration: none;"><b>Source</b></a></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-25406921150127823952011-04-25T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-25T00:00:08.451-07:00The Mouse - Saki<div class="title_text" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 24px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Theodoric Voler had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure.</span></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near, the handyman who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outbuilding called a stable, and smelling very like one - except in patches where it smelled of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago have recognised that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from circulation.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As the train glided out of the station Theodoric's nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak odour of stable yard, and possibly of displaying a mouldy straw or two on his unusually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only other occupation of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an hour's time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort that held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further travelling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric's semiprivacy. And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse, that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of the clothes lay back against the cushions and endeavoured rapidly to evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership. It was unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that made his ear tips tingle in a blush of abject shame. He had never been able to bring himself even to the mild exposure of open-work socks in the presence of the fair sex. And yet - the lady in this case was to all appearances soundly and securely asleep; the mouse, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to crowd a wanderjahr into a few strenuous minutes. If there is any truth in the theory of transmigration, this particular mouse must certainly have been in a former state a member of the Alpine Club. Sometimes in its eagerness it lost its footing and slipped for half an inch or so; and then, in fright, or more probably temper, it bit. Theodoric was goaded into the most audacious undertaking of his life. Crimsoning to the hue of a beetroot and keeping an agonised watch on his slumbering fellow traveller, he swiftly and noiselessly secured the ends of his railway rug to the racks on either side of the carriage, so that a substantial curtain hung athwart the compartment. In the narrow dressing room that he had thus improvised he proceeded with violent haste to extricate himself partially and the mouse entirely from the surrounding casings of tweed and half-wool.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As the unravelled mouse gave a wild leap to the floor, the rug, slipping its fastening at either end, also came down with a heart-curdling flop, and almost simultaneously the awakened sleeper opened her eyes. With a movement almost quicker than the mouse's, Theodoric pounced on the rug and hauled its ample folds chin-high over his dismantled person as he collapsed into the farther corner of the carriage. The blood raced and beat in the veins of his neck and forehead, while he waited dumbly for the communication cord to be pulled. The lady, however, contented herself with a silent stare at her strangely muffled companion. How much had she seen, Theodoric queried to himself; and in any case what on earth must she think of his present posture?</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I think I have caught a chill," he ventured desperately.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Really, I'm sorry," she replied. "I was just going to ask you if you would open this window."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I fancy it's malaria," he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I've got some brandy in my holdall, if you'll kindly reach it down for me," said his companion.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Not for worlds - I mean, I never take anything for it," he assured her earnestly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I suppose you caught it in the tropics?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small instalments?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Are you afraid of mice?" he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Not unless they came in quantities. Why do you ask?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I had one crawling inside my clothes just now," said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. "It was a most awkward situation."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight," she observed. "But mice have strange ideas of comfort."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I had to get rid of it while you were asleep," he continued. Then, with a gulp, he added, "It was getting rid of it that brought me to - to this."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn't bring on a chill," she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric accounted abominable.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Evidently she had detected something of his predicament, and was enjoying his confusion. All the blood in his body seemed to have mobilised in one concentrated blush, and an agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mice, crept up and down over his soul. And then, as reflection began to assert itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation. With every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the crowded and bustling terminus, where dozens of prying eyes would be exchanged for the one paralysing pair that watched him from the farther corner of the carriage. There was one slender, despairing chance, which the next few minutes must decide. His fellow traveller might relapse into a blessed slumber. But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed away. The furtive glance which Theodoric stole at her from time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "I think we must be getting near now," she presently observed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the journey's end. The words acted as a signal. Like a hunted beast breaking cover and dashing madly toward some other haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and struggled frantically into his dishevelled garments. He was conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window, of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart, and of an icy silence in that corner toward which he dared not look. Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl, and the woman spoke.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Would you be so kind," she asked, "as to get me a porter to put me into a cab? It's a shame to trouble you when you're feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so helpless at a railway station."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/" style="text-decoration: none;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Source</span></b></a></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-33805454080089512472011-04-23T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-23T00:00:07.556-07:00The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton - Arthur Conan Doyle<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might trace the actual occurrence.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div></div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Appledore Towers,</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Hampstead.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Agent.</span></div></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Who is he?" I asked.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of the card?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I turned it over.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Will call at 6:30 -- C.A.M.," I read.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get out of doing business with him -- indeed, he is here at my invitation."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But who is he?"</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers. Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen money-bags?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of the law?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a woman, for example, to get him a few months' imprisonment if her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we must find other ways to fight him."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And why is he here?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful debutante of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters -- imprudent, Watson, nothing worse -- which were written to an impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned to meet him, and -- to make the best terms I can."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the room.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large, intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him with a face of granite. Milverton's smile broadened, he shrugged his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is it discreet? Is it right?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests that I protested. The matter is so very delicate -- --"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dr. Watson has already heard of it."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What are your terms?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Seven thousand pounds."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And the alternative?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no marriage on the 18th." His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes thought for a little.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and to trust to his generosity."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Milverton chuckled.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> From the baffled look upon Holmes's face, I could see clearly that he did.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "They are sprightly -- very sprightly," Milverton answered. "The lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to regain them." He rose and seized his astrakhan coat.</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We should certainly make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Milverton relapsed into his chair.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's resources," said he. "At the same time you must admit that the occasion of a lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It is impossible," said Holmes.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out a bulky pocketbook. "I cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!" He held up a little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That belongs to -- well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of the lady's husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It IS such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the MORNING POST to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your client's future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr. Holmes."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot be found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit you in no way?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of them much more open to reason. You see my point?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes sprang from his chair.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the contents of that notebook."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room and stood with his back against the wall.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside pocket. "I have been expecting you to do something original. This has been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead." He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his head, and I laid it down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the wheels as he drove away.</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street. "I'll be back some time, Watson," said he, and vanished into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No, indeed!"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You'll be interested to hear that I'm engaged."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My dear fellow! I congrat -- --"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "To Milverton's housemaid."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Good heavens, Holmes!"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I wanted information, Watson."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Surely you have gone too far?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But the girl, Holmes?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He shrugged his shoulders.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You like this weather?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house to-night."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result of such an action -- the detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "For heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and, indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take his pocketbook -- an action in which you were prepared to aid me."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I turned it over in my mind.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes," I said, "it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?"</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You will be in such a false position."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight it to a finish."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, I don't like it, but I suppose it must be," said I. "When do we start?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You are not coming."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of honour-and I never broke it in my life -- that I will take a cab straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let me share this adventure with you."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You can't help me."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect, and even reputations."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on the shoulder.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See here!" He took a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining instruments. "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and every modern improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?"</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Excellent! And a mask?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I can make a couple out of black silk."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked along the edge of the heath.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes. "These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha -- that's my fiancee -- says it is a joke in the servants' hall that it's impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and never budges from the study all day. That's why we are going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own grounds. Through the gate -- now to the right among the laurels. We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working splendidly."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several windows and two doors.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. "This door opens straight into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There's a greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study, and a portiere at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as surprised as I.</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. "I can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Can I do anything?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his dress-coat -- he had placed his overcoat on a chair -- Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour, Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain, motioning me to do the same.</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock, and I heard the rustle of papers.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine, I knew that he was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and opened it.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well," said Milverton, "you made me lose a good night's rest, my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other time -- eh?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The woman shook her head.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are you shivering about? That's right. Pull yourself together. Now, let us get down to business." He took a notebook from the drawer of his desk. "You say that you have five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are really good specimens -- Great heavens, is it you?"</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted Milverton -- a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It is I," she said, "the woman whose life you have ruined."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were so very obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such extremities? I assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means. You would not pay."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "So you sent the letters to my husband, and he -- the noblest gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace -- he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his feet. "I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no more."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly smile on her thin lips.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound -- and that! -- and that! -- and that!"</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. "You've done me," he cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip -- that it was no affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. "This way, Watson," said he, "we can scale the garden wall in this direction."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest sitting-room.</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Good-morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good-morning. May I ask if you are very busy just now?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Not too busy to listen to you."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which occurred only last night at Hampstead."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "A murder -- a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure."</span></div></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Criminals?" said Holmes. "Plural?"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their description, it's ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly built man -- square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "My, it might be a description of Watson!"</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's true," said the inspector, with amusement. "It might be a description of Watson."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case."</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. "By Jove, Watson, I've got it!" he cried. "Take your hat! Come with me!" He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand, there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.</span></div></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; text-decoration: none;"><b><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/" style="text-decoration: none;">Source</a></b></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-11383130046575207502011-04-20T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-20T00:00:10.209-07:00Simon at the Shore Line - Jonas Hurwitz<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UISF0fEvGsc/TaV7Z-7SlAI/AAAAAAAAAK4/EdCj9o7Hi70/s1600/SimoShor883F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UISF0fEvGsc/TaV7Z-7SlAI/AAAAAAAAAK4/EdCj9o7Hi70/s1600/SimoShor883F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">My girlfriend keeps her halo on the nightstand. From my side of her bed I can just see a glowing arc of it, obscured by my wallet and a box of tissues. Her sheets are white and the lacy bed-skirt hangs down all the way to the floor, where it swishes about softly in the breeze that comes in through the open bay window. We're not exactly on the beach, but we're close enough that you can almost taste the salt in the air.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I always wake to see her stretching her thin arms, yawning and making soft sighs to herself. Sometimes she hugs her little shoulders. Sometimes she sits cat-like on her haunches, with her hands together in front of her. Sometimes she sways and coos as if receiving a gentle caress; her eyelids flutter, and she smiles, with her mouth closed, content.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> For a little while I pretend to be asleep, watching her enjoy the breeze and the sunlight, the coolness of the bed, or whatever it is that seems to bring her so much happiness. She wriggles her shoulders and unfurls her wings; blowing the silk canopy outwards. The billowing sheet collapses in slow motion as she folds them in again. Her dove-white feathers are sweet and smooth; rich, earthy, but somehow immaculately pure. I hold my breath and drink in their beauty as they slide silently together and flutter across her naked body. Lailah, she looks how cream and strawberries taste.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She fits the halo above her head, its glow warming her golden hair. She rises from bed with her wings tucked curtly across her nude back. Her toes touch the floor and she glides across the room, her hips swaying as if she weighs nothing at all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I'm trying to catch a glimpse of her ass wiggling as she walks, but her wing-tips are in the way. She arches her back and tosses her hair, and I'm watching the crisp morning light play across the little gap between her thighs. After all this time, I'm still consumed with lust for her. Kissing her lips is like drinking great draughts of cool milk and spiced honey. I wonder, not for the first time, if this is all wrong. I even asked her once, when she was still flush and sticky with sex, "Lailah," I asked her, "Is this wrong?"</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Maybe I'll never know. Maybe I have to figure it out for myself. She kneels at the window. Birds are just starting to sing outside, and she runs her pearl-colored comb through her hair. A hundred strokes on one side, a hundred more on the other. Watching her, I fall back into the lazy sort of late-morning dreams that are so full of meaning at the time, but later I know will seem foolish. As the morning breaks, I can see her in little snips and vignettes, half mixed in with my wandering dreams. Now she's singing gently. Now she's eating half a grapefruit and licking the spoon. When I finally throw the sheets off and sit up, she's leaning on the bed at my feet, resting her chin in her hands. She says, "Good morning, Simon."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Cereal with little slices of fruit for breakfast. Clean clothes folded at the foot of the bed. I don't know why I've got things so good; I don't know why I deserve Lailah. Before she leaves for work I make love to her up against the breakfast bar. "Make love", that's always what I call it with her. Other girls I used to "fuck", or "nail", or "screw". It doesn't seem to fit for her though, doesn't seem right. Even with her dress pulled up around her hips and her hair whipping around her shoulders, she seems so above this place and this act. Even biting her lip and arching her back, even spreading her wings in bliss and knocking a vase off the bar, she seems so perfect and innocent.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She preens and straightens herself while I clean up. She kisses me goodbye, and she blows out the door.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I should get out of the house. Maybe go apply for some jobs. I should at least put on some pants and get outside. Pants first though; once I've got that figured out, everything else should fall into place. Pants are in the laundry hamper. Doing the laundry, that'll be a good chore to start the day. Lailah likes to fold the clothes though, I can never do it right. Maybe I'll let it wait till this afternoon, get some more perspective before I decide whether to do it myself or let Lailah take care of it later. I've got to have pants though. Maybe I'll just wear them dirty. Lailah hates that, kind of makes me look like a shlub. Don't want people to think I'm the kind of guy who can't find a clean pair of pants in the morning.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Sometimes I hate how good things are with Lailah. I should just go hang out with Rick and Sarah. Maybe kick back a few beers, maybe get smoked out. I grab some clothes out of the hamper and throw them on before I rush out the front door, almost tripping down the stairs in my flip flops, almost fleeing from the perfect antebellum porch.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"You know, Simon, I can smell her on you," Rick says. He's leaning back into the patched old sofa we found out in front of the house down the street. I wish he would stop staring at me with those blood-red eyes. Sarah is pressed into him so closely it seems like you can only see her eyes and her purple lipstick-smile. Rick is running his fingers through her black hair, running them up and down her short little horns.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You spend too much time with her," she says, and she flicks her tail behind her, rhythmically. "What do you two even do together?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I don't know," I say. The room is dark, but it's beach weather outside; there are birds chirping. All the blinds are closed and there's a black bed sheet covering half the sliding glass door that opens up into the weed-ridden backyard. Why does it have to be so fucking dark in here? Their eyes are boring into me; these guys are my friends, but I always feel so weak under their stares. I feel like an open book, like they're flipping through the pages, smirking and whispering to each other. "Nothing unusual; normal stuff, I guess." I look around the room for help, or inspiration. There's a deer's head mounted above the fireplace, I think it came with the house. Matthias is lying like a heap of unwashed clothes on the bamboo rocking chair across from me, totally blazed up or strung out on something, he's been like that since I got here, and that was before ten. No help there. "We go to the beach most evenings, especially if the moon is out." I say, "We help out at the shelter on Wednesdays. Sometimes we visit my mom in Madison on the weekends."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Sarah laughs, "Yeah, but I mean," and she licks her lips, "what do you <i>do</i>?" I've got to get out; I just can't take their razor sharp stares anymore.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I need a drink," I complain as I get up from the bleached-yellow lawn chair.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We've got Equis in the fridge," offers Rick.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey man," Matt says, his voice croaking and dry, "get me one of whatever you're getting, huh?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Rick and Sarah, they're always so clean and neat, but their house is filthy. It looks like a bomb went off in a middle-class yard sale. Something stinks in this place, and it's not the ragged B.O. stench of cheap weed, not the creeping sourness of all the unwashed dishes and bowls full of molding food stacked high in the kitchen. It smells like sulfur here, like rotten eggs and vinegar.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The fridge creaks when I open it; its contents always remind me of the chem labs back at Southern State. Weird bottles and dark plastic jars filled with thick yellow and green juices. Tupperwares with troublingly inadequate tinfoil lids; the odd open can of Coke. Just like the grad lab, there's some chilled beer and liquor at the back. I can hear Rick and Sarah giggling and whispering in the living room and I just know they're about to go at it. It should probably be a stiff drink, then.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I take my time searching for reagents; half a dried up lime, a plastic tray of ice cubes, and a bottle of what smells like bourbon. The label's been peeled off, so I check the color. I stir the bottle and look for bubbles forming at the surface of the brown liquid. I was never a very good student, but I was one hell of a lab tech. I shovel dirty dishes into the sink to clear room for my workspace, and I can hear Sarah in the living room cooing and breathing heavy. I wonder what Matthias is doing, if he's watching. I wonder if he's got one hand down his greasy sweatpants; I think probably he has.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The first step is the ice cubes. I crack a tray of them and pick them out one by one. Too small and they'll be wasted, watering down the drink. Too large and they'll never get the drink cooled. Adding the bourbon is easy; just have to avoid too much splashing and churning.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I always preferred the lab to classes anyways. Glistening tubes impregnated with vividly colored admixtures; clear, bubbling solutions surging through coiled tubes and boiling up in frothy reactions. Simple things, common and ugly, but with so much hidden potential, and so simple to bring it out to full and magical life. This was beauty, this was creation. The endless diagrams of chemical cycles had no more appeal for me than the frank anatomical illustrations of a sex-ed class do for a horny teenager.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> A lime isn't just a lime; it's the sweet bitterness in your mouth that drowns out the sharp tinge of alcohol. A lab tech isn't just a grimy grad student, he gets to decide everything's purpose and destiny; he gets to play God. I can hear Rick growling; the lights dim all across the house. There's a thin pall of smoke creeping into the kitchen, and the tinge of brimstone curls my lip as I squeeze the lime into my drink. Now comes the big risk that makes an experiment truly great. The wet, slapping, moaning noise in the living room escalates as I stand for several long seconds staring into the fridge, contemplating the open can of coke. The metal feels cool to my fingers; I can see no greasy lip mark around the lid. Some things you can control, some you can't. I pour the contents, whatever they might be, into my drink.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> This is why I never graduated from Southern State, why I make my living giving blood plasma and sperm samples; titrating and nitrating shit for junkies on the side. All great discoveries were made by accident; Curie and radiation, Rutherford and the atomic nucleus. Take a chance, you only live once. The liquid is a promising brown color; there are a few bubbles forming in it, presumably, but not certainly, from carbonation. The noise from the other room quiets down as I stir the concoction; the lights in the house brighten slightly. I grab Matt a bottle of Equis and slouch back to the living room to find Rick and Sarah lying in a heap, loosely clothed, on the floor. Rick's got purple smudges of lipstick arranged improbably all over his body, and sure enough, Matthias is passed out, with a hand down his sweatpants. I toss him the bottle.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I hope all those moonlit walks on the beach are worth it, Simon", says Rick, pulling his pants together, "because you have no idea what you're missing."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I tell everybody I want to go visit Lailah at work; Rick says they don't have anything else to do, so what the hell? It's a long walk down to the mall, but we're used to walking everywhere; none of us owns a car since Matthias' old Toyota rusted out. Matthias blinks in the daylight, and tries to get a glimpse at the sun through wincing eyes and fanned fingers. He seems surprised, like maybe he didn't expect it to be there. Rick unfurls one vast, leathery wing to shade Sarah, who clutches him tightly, her claws digging playfully into his skin. There's a sea breeze blowing in, whispering along the old salt-worn wooden fence that stretches down the street, whipping through the palms that reach up uneasily around the neighborhood; the air smells like salt and fish, and suntan oil on sweaty tourists. "I'm feeling like barbeque", says Rick, "let's get Mongolian for lunch." Sarah says she just wants to hurry.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah man", Matthias says, glancing, confused, at the cloudless blue sky, "I can't take this like, sun." He turns and pushes forward. The scarred stubs of his wings twitch painfully across his back as he leads the way, his sandals crunching on the little shells and pebbles that line the street.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We're passing by the little shops and restaurants downtown when Rick stops us, "Hang on," he says, "I need to buy some catnip." We stand out front of the pet store with the little puppies pawing and lapping at us through the glass. You want to take one of the little slobbering things home, but you know it'd just ruin the furniture and crap all over the carpet.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Matthias is telling me how they raise these puppies in dark warehouses. I ask Sarah what Rick needs with half a dozen bags of catnip, but her blood-red eyes just stare indifferently at me over a big pink bubble of gum she's blowing up. Matthias is saying some of the puppies, they get sold, and they probably lead long happy lives of fetching papers and getting scratched behind the ears, he's saying it must be like some kind of dog heaven, just to have a family to belong to. Sarah is popping the bubble, and she draws the wet pink mess back in with a single skilled lick, and her eyes never leave mine through the whole motion, much as I try to look away. She reminds me of a snake, standing slack and curved, flicking that gum in and out of her mouth.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Some of them aren't that lucky, though," Matthias is saying, "most of them, probably." I ask him about the unlucky ones, and he says that when a puppy gets old enough, it isn't worth selling anymore. He says they, you know, they usually get rid of them.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The sales girl is telling Rick that he must have a very happy cat, and he turns to her and gives her his pearly-white smile and replies cheerfully, "I hate cats."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"What ever happened to your halo, Matt?" Rick and Sarah are switching the parking tickets between the cars as we walk along the tree-shaded storefronts; they stop sometimes to share deep, breathless kisses and shameless gropes. Someone's going to pay a forty-dollar ticket they didn't earn. Someone's going to get a free ride, like they were just forgiven. Someone's going to have Sarah's ass print on the dusty hood of their mustang; wonder what they'll make of the tail-marks she's sweeping out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Oh, you know, it's still around." I knew Matthias all through college, but it wasn't till I started dating Lailah that I found out he was an angel, or was anyways. Hard to imagine that the guy who has seven stitches from crashing through our glass-top coffee table in a drunken stupor is supposed to be some kind of celestial being.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "So you don't know where it is?" Rick and Sarah are making out under a dogwood in front of a family diner; Sarah's little bat wings are fluttering, and her pointed tail is whipping around behind her, lifting up her skirt.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Of course I know where it is! What do I, hey, what do I look like to you?" I eye him doubtfully, he's a mess. His hair's long and unkempt. He's still wearing those grimy sweatpants; the wife beater he's got on is full of holes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "So you know where it is, but you don't actually have it." Rick and Sarah, they have to kiss around two pairs of fangs. It sounds like a quiet little knife fight. "Matthias," I say slowly, "did you pawn off your halo?" A pudgy guy with an apron and a little paper clerk's hat is coming out of the diner to ask Rick and Sarah would they please stop that. He must mean the furious dentistry they're performing on each other.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I think I can hear Sarah laughing, and Rick saying smoothly, no. "I ask only because you also pawned Rick's microwave and my old stereo. It would seem to fit the pattern."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's not… no, Simon, look. It's not exactly like a pawn shop. I know this guy, I can trust him, and he knows I'll buy it back. Anyways, I don't know why somebody would even want it. I mean, what would they do with it?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, whatever you used it for, I suppose." Sarah is hissing at a middle-aged woman through the diner's big street-facing window, she's licking her lips and staring down the husband. "Someone would want a halo, right? I mean, God's sign of His presence; that's gotta be worth something. Someone's gonna want that, I'm sure."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Not me man," he says. He stares squinting up into the sky, "I'm not sure at all."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Lailah works at the Victoria's Secret at the mall. Supposedly she and the others have got a little network going, all across the country. She says they've got forty store managers. She's working a register, nodding curtly and listening to the customers with an easy look of concern and attention. She's wearing a little white sundress, the kind that would light up if we were out on the beach, drinking in the rays and glowing gold, the perfect color to frame her clear white skin. I want to tell her how much she means to me, how beautiful she is. All I can manage is, "Hey Lailah, you look great."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I drift towards her helplessly. Once she waves and greets me with that voice that somehow always sounds clear and pure like a song, or like fresh water, when her golden eyes soften as they lay on me, I'm hers. She asks me about my morning. She wants to know have I eaten and am I still feeling okay after that cold I caught last week. With most people, small talk is just small talk, but I can't listen to her voice long enough, I can't get enough of her giggles and sighs and her curt glances. I'm a glutton for her.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I tell her about Matthias and his halo. I tell her I don't think it's right, for him to just get rid of it like that. I ask her, "Don't you like, need it for something?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah, sure you need it. You can get by without it for a while, though, just like anything else you own, and if it comes right down to it, it's just a thing, just an object."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It seems kind of important to me, like maybe you shouldn't just leave it at a pawn shop." I try to lean in close to her over the check-out counter. Why can't she understand how serious this is? "Shouldn't you like, tell him to go get it back? Maybe we can go buy it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Lailah sighs and lazily rolls her eyes in frustration. I could just reach across and kiss her right now. "Matthias… it's too late to bother with him, Simon. He's lost his wings, anyways. It's never going to be the same."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Why not? Doesn't he deserve another chance?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "He's had a second chance Simon, more than one."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I ask her about the other girls, if they're giving her any trouble. She's shift manager now. "Lailah," I ask her, "why this place? With everything you can do, isn't this place just, you know, kind of beneath you? What are you, I mean, you and the girls like you doing here?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She shrugs her shoulders, her wings whispering behind her, she says, "I think we're doing great work here."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Really? Can't you like, save people's lives right before they get into a car crash? Can't you tell people not to get onto a plane that's going to fall out of the sky? I've heard you can heal people, can't you heal the lame and the sick or something?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You're thinking about guardian angels; that's not my thing. And healing… I've done a lot of healing, Simon, but it just gets tedious, and afterwards, they're not thankful for very long anyways; it's the speeding ticket of miracles."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, just what are you guys doing? I mean why are you here, what's so special about this place?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We're here because it's something definite; we know we can do it, and we'll have something to show for it. We've tried other things, believe me, but this is something that we know can work."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What do you mean?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, look around you," and she gestures to the crowd of young women and couples sifting through the tote bags and pull-out drawers of colorful panties, "Ten years ago this store stood for nothing but sex and lust. Now mothers bring their daughters here. We sell as many tank tops as thongs." Sure enough, there are two little teenyboppers trying to get past me to look at some sweaters. At the back of the store, Sarah's trying to tell some girl and her mom how thongs are considered classy and sophisticated these days. She's trying to get them to look at a pair of crotchless panties. They don't even sell those here.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I lean into the counter and I ask her, "Don't you think you should be doing something more worthy? Isn't there supposed to be some higher plan?" Under the smooth glass counter display there are ten shades of Pink-brand sunglasses, a little sign says ten percent of their purchase proceeds are going to fight breast cancer.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I don't know."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You don't know if there's a plan?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Maybe there used to be. I don't know. Someone knows."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "So there is a plan. Are halter-tops and half price Bermudas part of the grand design? Am I?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Simon, please," she gives me her sad, distant look, her lips pouting just a little and her brow creasing, "it's not that simple. Do you remember the parable about the master who left his land and his money in the care of his servants? Some of them were very careful with his wealth, but some of them risked everything on a big gamble."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, what where they supposed to do?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's the point, Simon. He never told them. They all did what they thought best according to what he'd taught them, but they didn't all agree on what that was." She's sorting a bunch of change into her till and telling someone that Capri's are still the regular price. "That's what it's like for us," she says. Rick is trying to sell his catnip to a pair of lanky teenagers outside. He's got it in little Ziploc bags, and he's telling them it's fancy weed from Brazil. "We try our best, we do what we think is right."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Matthias is lounging against the storefront, blocking everyone's view of the mannequins in the window. The teenagers are asking him if Rick's stuff is really as good as he says it is. "It's not for you guys," he says, "you shouldn't be smoking that shit." They buy three bags. Lailah's saying people like her, people like Rick and Sara, and even Matthias, they're supposed to have a mission, but sometimes they forget, or they just get tired of it. She says thanks for coming to visit her. She says she always likes to see me, and to know that I'm thinking of her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Lailah," I ask her, "you want to meet me at the skating rink tonight at eight?" She says sure. I tell her, "Don't forget."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"I can't stand that place anymore," Sarah complains, flicking a black curl of hair from her face, "the angels have had it under their thumbs for too long, it's no fun."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No fun at all, my little imp," Rick agrees. I can't believe that the hundreds of other people in the food court don't notice his horns, or at least the huge bat wings he's got folded awkwardly behind him in the little booth seat. Maybe they just don't care.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And they've been meddling at Hot Topic, too, you know," Sarah continues, glaring at no one in particular, "I saw this middle-aged woman wearing Crocs in there last week. No one even sneered at her, I swear, not one sneer." She takes a slow, rueful draw from her near-empty soda cup; her cranky stare daring anyone to get pissed off with the gurgling noise it makes. "Come on, Matthias," she says, taking his limp hand, "We're gonna go see what people are reading at the Barnes and Noble and sneer down our noses at them."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I ask Rick if the demons have got any set-ups like the angels have at Victoria's. "Not many," he says, "see the guy over there, near the sunglass hut?" He points one clawed finger over my shoulder, and I twist in my seat to look, "That guy trying to get girls to try on skin lotion?" I tell him that I see the guy, a bald Hispanic guy in a Hawaiian T-shirt. "He's one of us." The guy's talking up some couple, trying to take the girl's hand and rub something on her arm. He's got a forked tongue that flicks in and out and licks his lips. I can see there's a scaly black tail running out from the back of his shirt.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We've got a lot of guys who only want to be cops," he says, "they just want to rough people up and stuff like that. It used to be popular to be a lobbyist; we've still got a few politicians."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, what are you guys doing, you and Sarah, I mean? Aren't you supposed to be corrupting someone, or like, driving somebody insane?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How do you know we're not?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Across the food court, I can see Sarah and Matthias in the bookstore being snooty to this guy who's reading something from the self-help aisle. They're trying to catch his attention and then shake their heads disapprovingly. The poor guy kind of deflates and shuffles away, holding the book like something unpleasant someone else gave him to hang on to for a moment. Rick is explaining all the really big jobs they used to do, how he'd seduce nuns and make them leap from bell towers in shame. I can see Matthias catch up with the self-help-reading guy and try to console him; maybe he's telling him it was just a stupid joke.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You ever hear about those nasty Papal elections in the middle ages that would end with blood in the streets and armed gangs walking around clubbing everyone who backed the wrong guy?" I tell him maybe I do, yeah. "We used to pull that kind of thing." He nods to himself, maybe remembering the good days, reminiscing about choking some bishop in the alleys of Rome. In the bookstore, Sarah is pulling Matthias aside and scolding him, maybe telling him not to ruin her fun, maybe trying to tell him that he should take this more seriously.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I guess it does get a little boring after a while," Rick says. "And it's not as easy to corrupt people anymore, not as easy as you might think, and not half as rewarding."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Matthias is skulking out of the bookstore with his head down, and I can see Sarah watching him go, tapping her toe and folding her arms and vaguely fuming. The guy who had the self-help book taps her on the shoulder, and he looks like he's trying to talk to her politely. She covers up her surprise by just glaring at him, working her jaw like she's chewing on some gum, and idly twisting a strand of her hair. The guy, maybe he's telling her it's no big deal if a guy needs a little help every now and then, maybe he's saying that he's not ashamed to want to try and get his life back on track. She bites back at him with some quick retort and he gives her the finger as he scuttles away, glancing resentfully over his shoulder.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "People just aren't that good anymore," Rick says. "Maybe we've done our job too well."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">From the steps of our old apartment building you can just about see the ocean if the trees are blowing the right way, and that's where me and Matthias are sitting, sharing a couple of beers and waiting for eight-o-clock to roll around. Lailah and I used to live here, till she asked me to move in with her. Where she got the big plantation house that we're in now, I never asked. She'd probably just say, "God provides". Maybe that's true. I keep asking myself why she's with me, why she's here at all. Maybe that's the answer, I'm not sure.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You can almost see the ocean from here," Matthias says, craning his head to see past the swaying line of trees. "I forgot about that."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "This place wasn't too great, but yeah, you almost can see it from here, sure."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm sorry about the table, Simon."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm sorry about the stitches."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Matthias stares down into his bottle, "I guess I had it coming, way I was acting."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You sure you remember all that? You were pretty messed up."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah, sure I do."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Somewhere just beyond those trees people are coming in and out of the water and realizing that they've got big bright burns all across their backs. Probably a few guys are finishing off their beers and putting away their tackle. Maybe some kid doesn't want to leave his sand castle because the tide's coming in and it'll just get washed away.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm sorry about the stereo too."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Don't worry about it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'll pay it back sometime."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Alright, man. Don't worry about it, though."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Lailah and I used to go out to the beach around this time of day. The tourists would all be packing it in and we'd be the only ones schlepping out with two fold-out chairs and a couple of drinks. We'd hunt for shells along the shore, even though it'd already been combed over a hundred times. Sometimes you never know, you just might find something beautiful.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What do you think about Lailah, Matt? I mean, you must go way back with her, right?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The sun's going down now; it must be getting close to eight. "Lailah?" Matthias says, "She's a good girl, Simon. You need to hang on to her."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Lailah and me, we'd sit out on the beach watching the sun set and the darkness creep in over the water, until it washed over us and we were alone except for a few lights behind us, and a few distant ones in the water and in the sky.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah, I know."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No, man, listen to me, I mean it. She's good, like, completely good. You can't let her go man. You don't know what it would be like for someone like her to be hurt that much. It'd probably destroy her. She'd probably never be the same."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm not saying I'm gonna, but I think she's a little stronger than that, don't you?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I wouldn't be so sure, Simon."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey!" Rick shouts at us from below. "We ought to go, huh?" He and Sarah are looking up at us from the yellowed grass in front of the building, littered with broken bottles and liquor labels. Somewhere police sirens are howling.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah sure, Rick," I shout back, "let's go."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The skating rink behind our old apartment has been about to go out of business for as long as I can remember. No one will let it, though; maybe there are just too many memories of first kisses and hand-holdings there. Too many first dates and educated-guess gropings beneath the cheap strips of neon glow-in-the-dark tape and green plastic stars. Maybe a place like that can't really die until all those memories are gone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Every Friday night the rink is packed with twenty-somethings like me who should be giving serious thought to becoming adults. We should all be at home preparing our taxes, or sampling wines. Me and Lailah's crowd, we should move on and forget how we made friends here or got shorted by the soda machine. Some of us maybe should be ashamed of the things we've done; one too many people stood up or left out of the couple's skate. Something keeps us coming back to the hypnotizing darkness and the bright lights. Maybe it's the flowing mass of strangers and old friends, the endless curve that you can climb out of at any spot and find a bench to rest on, maybe try to cop a little feel on. At the rink, the aim is to be aimless. It's enough just to keep pace and move with the crowd.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Matthias likes it here, he just watches from the sides. "Everyone's happy," he told me once, "Or at least, they look like it, or if they're unhappy, at least they have something else to think about."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Lailah and I are skating easily, hand-in-hand. She's light, like her skates are barely touching the rink. Her hand is cool to the touch, not clammy. I ask her, "Can you ever go back?" She shakes her head, her hair rolling in long, breezy waves beneath the pseudo-strobe light of the disco ball, "No," she says. It's peaceful here with her; I can't imagine why I've got life so good. Sometimes I tug her around the turns so she speeds up and almost slips, and she giggles and I can see her cheeks blush, even in this fake twilight. Sometimes we move around younger couples, just kids who maybe are making the same mistakes that we did. I want to say that they should know better, but then again, so should we.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Rick and Sara are sharing a root beer float, off by the dining area. They're not bad people. They love each other, I'm sure. Maybe people like them have a bad rap, or maybe they were just born into a bad situation. It isn't their fault, and at least those two have someone to love.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The old, recycled music is loud enough that there's no need to talk. The hissing sound of a hundred skate wheels always reminds me of a long ocean wave, ebbing and flowing as the music changes. You could almost think the maze of green plastic stars above us is the real night sky. When you go back outside, it's almost a shock that the stars are so coldly lit and distant. It seems sad. People shuffle to their cars in little clinging groups; it seems so lonely. I ask Lailah, "What happens if you lose your wings?" She says, for one thing, you can't fly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The music changes. The loud, rolling breakers of skating noise change to a low hiss and bubble, the sound of the couple's skate. Some people leave the rink, others pull each other close. Lailah wraps her wings around us, the canopy of her feathers warming the glaring light. The shifting colors seem to change more slowly, and then not to change at all, but simply to flow across her face, now lighting her rosy cheeks, now brushing through her hair. Lailah watches me with her golden eyes, and we're alone. I take her hands in mine and lean away. She follows and we spin together beneath the cover of her wings.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I want to ask her why I deserve to have her love. I want to know what she sees about our world that makes it worth being here. It must seem so simple and dark to her. It must be lonely. Our world must be like a cheap knock-off to her. Any love I can give her must just be a shadow of what she knew before, but staring into her eyes, I know that she's truly, totally contented. I ask her, "What is it like to be here?"</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She looks into my eyes for a long moment, her own golden eyes starting to glisten over. "What if," she says, "what if your parents sent you away when you were very young? What if all you ever wanted was to make them happy, to do the right thing in their eyes?" She looks away, "Imagine yourself young and helpless. All you ever wanted was to study at your father's feet, to know your mother's loving touch. Imagine being lost, without enough of either knowledge or love. What if you never knew if they were watching? What if you never even knew if they were still alive? What if you started to imagine that you'd just imagined everything?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It must be lonely."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Her milk-white arms embrace me, pulling me into her soft breast with a weakness that could break your heart. Flashing green and blue beams light the canopy of her wings as I kiss her little lips, glowing red in the flashing halo around us.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's not so lonely," she whispers, "It's not so lonely anymore."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-7928157976366311902011-04-19T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-19T00:00:14.163-07:00The Backward Fall - Jason Helmandollar<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47Lzk2ftXJU/TaV58AuodOI/AAAAAAAAAKw/a1PW1jQ9GvM/s1600/BackFall879F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47Lzk2ftXJU/TaV58AuodOI/AAAAAAAAAKw/a1PW1jQ9GvM/s1600/BackFall879F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Dad?" she says. "I swear, I can't remember the words to my own songs." She is sixty-two and sitting on the edge of the couch, her old acoustic guitar perched on her knee.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Her husband of forty-seven years walks into the living room from the kitchen. "What's that, Mom?" he says. For decades, ever since they had their third child together, he has called her Mom and she has called him Dad.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I can't remember how the second verse starts."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, what are you singing?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You must be ignoring me. I've been trying to sing the same song for the last twenty minutes."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> George, her husband, looks up at the ceiling. "Well, let's see," he says, rubbing the gray stubble of his beard. "Picking Flowers in the Rain?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She smiles and strums the guitar with a flourish. "Lucky guess."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "The second verse is when it starts to rain. Something about drops on the petals, I believe."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Of course." She nods her head once. "How could I have forgotten that?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She begins to play again, simple chords on a wooden guitar, and sings a song she wrote when she was much younger. It is the story of two lovers who walk in a field of wildflowers. A warm rain begins to fall, and instead of running for shelter, they pick flowers together and realize they are in love.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Dad?" she says. She is sixty-four. "Will you get in that closet by the door and …"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What's that, Mom?" he says. He is instantly on his feet, poised to do her bidding. "What do you want me to do?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He sees the look on her face and lowers himself back into his chair. He hates that look, although he sees it so often it has become his old, evil friend. It is a look of confusion, one of bewildered fear.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I forgot what I wanted." She shakes her head, settles back into her own chair.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's all right. It'll come to you."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She stares straight ahead. Their two recliners are set up in front of the television, but she rarely watches anymore. After a few moments, she turns her head to him. "What are we going to do when I can't remember anything?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "The doctors said it might not get any worse. You know that."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But what if it does? What if one day I wake up and I've forgotten everything?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He reaches across the small table between them and pats her hand. "Then I'll just remind you of everything."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She smiles at this and the evil look fades away. Above the television is a mantle full of pictures. Her entire family, from her grandparents to her own great-grandchildren, rest on that mantle. She ignores the television and stares at the pictures, even though they are too far away to really see. After a few minutes, she says, "My feet are cold. Will you get me the blanket out of the closet by the door?"</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Did you fill up the tank like I told you?" she asks. She is sixty-five. She is also forty-eight. "Once we get on the road, I don't want to have to stop for gas."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He looks at her for a moment, bobs his head, and turns back to the television.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Aren't you going to answer me?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I don't even know what you're talking about, Mom."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "The tank. Did you fill up the tank?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Sighing, he mutes the program he is watching about ancient people in Peru. He has always wanted to see the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu. Several years ago, he embraced the fact that he will never go. "Why would I fill up the car? We never go anywhere but to the grocery store once a week."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She laughs and shakes her head. "You can be so dull sometimes. The Grand Canyon!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "The Grand Canyon?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We're leaving tomorrow."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Mom, we went to the Grand Canyon over fifteen years ago. Don't you remember?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She raises a finger to correct him, pauses, looks off into nowhere with her eyes unfocused. The finger moves to her bottom lip. "But, I …"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He watches her for a time as her face voids of all emotion, all evidence of thought. He thinks of the Grand Canyon, which they visited shortly after he retired from the factory on disability. On his first day without a job, he cashed in almost all their chips and bought a motor home. They drove it all over the country – but first, to the Grand Canyon. They called it <i>The Big Adventure</i>, their three year jaunt from one ocean to the other and back again. They felt so young during that time.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He un-mutes his program and, like he does every minute of every day, tries to breathe through the pounding of his heart.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I heard they have mules you can ride down into the canyon," she says. "You think that's true?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Her hand is resting on the table between them. He reaches over and grasps it. In his mind's eye he sees her body rocking forward and back as the mule traverses the rocky trail, her reddish-gray hair lit from behind by the desert sun.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm sure of it," he says.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A hand on his shoulder shakes him from sleep. He props himself up in bed and looks at the clock. Nearly four in the morning. "What is it, Mom? What's wrong?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I need to tell you something." She is sixty-seven. She is thirty-one.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He sits up and turns on the lamp.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Wendell Thurber kissed me on the mouth today," she says.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Wendell Thurber?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We've been taking lunch together quite a bit lately and today he kissed me." She lowers her eyes to the blanket. "He did it before I even knew what was happening."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> George remembers this conversation. It was years and years ago, during a time when she worked at the factory for several months to help save for their first real house. He stares at her but says nothing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Here's the thing, George," she says. "Things haven't been right with us for a long time. You don't seem to appreciate me anymore."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I appreciate you."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You don't act like it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> At the time, he <i>hadn't</i> acted like it. For some reason, he'd fallen into a pattern of ignoring her, of taking her for granted, without even realizing he was doing it. This was the conversation when she had called him out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I've had a crush on Wendell Thurber for awhile," she says. "Today, he showed me that he feels the same way." She clutches the blanket to her. "I'm telling you this because I love you. I just want you to know that there are other men out there who might treat me like I deserve to be treated."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> It was quite a chance she took. He could have gotten angry, called her a whore. He could have left. She bet their lives together on his reaction to a kiss from another man. And it worked. Instead of getting angry, he held her in his arms. He changed. He started being nice to her again.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> And then a wonderful thing happened. The more he was kind to her, and did things just to make her happy, the more she did the same thing for him in return. Soon, it was like a contest to see who could be the best spouse, who could give the most love.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Smiling, he draws her into his arms. "I'll change," he says. "I promise."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What are you talking about?" she says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He looks down and sees that her eyes are fixed on the clock.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's four in the morning," she says. "What are you doing up?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I … couldn't sleep."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, turn off the light and try harder." She lies back and turns roughly onto her side.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He looks at her for a long moment. Then he turns off the lamp and closes his stinging eyes to the dark.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"I know you stole my ring," she says. "Where is it?" Her eyes are narrow but full of fire. She is twenty-three and sixty-eight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I don't know where it is, Mom." He is standing in the kitchen, pebbles of broken glass from the coffee pot all around his bare feet.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You're a liar."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You must have hid it again. Just calm down and we'll go look for it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She roars, a sound he did not think she was capable of making, and picks up the fruit bowl.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Pulling his arms up over his face, he says, "Please don't throw anything else at me, Mom."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Stop calling me that! I'm not your mother. You're just a dirty old man."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Don't you recognize me? It's me, George."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She slams the bowl back to the counter, hard enough to crack it. "You're not my George. You're an old man. You've got me trapped here. You stole all my money, and now you took my wedding ring."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's not true."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She says nothing for a moment, breathing hard.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I gave you that ring," he says. "I wouldn't ever take it away from you."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She breathes faster, nearly gasping. Tears ring her eyes and that scrapes at his heart more than anything else.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Please," he says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Suddenly, she turns and runs out of the kitchen. He hears the slam of the front screen door, and with thoughts of her in the street, missing, hurt, he steps across the broken glass and runs after her. He has not run so hard in years. His heart feels large, bloated in his chest. He brings her down in the mud by the road, his twisted fingers, gnarled by arthritis, pulling at her nightgown. She slaps his face, pounds his chest. He only has the strength to hold her where she is, writhing in the cold mud.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Soon she ceases thrashing. Her body curls and shakes. He coaxes her to stand and then walk back to the house. When the warm water of the shower is running, he stands in the tub next to her and moves her beneath the spray. The mud rolls from her white hair and her white skin and mixes with the blood that spins in pink spirals from his feet.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She is sixteen. The old man is staring at her again, but she ignores it as she always does. She has more important things to think about than the nervous, always-crying old man.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> George is coming today. She knows he is coming to ask if he can court her. He courted her sister for a few weeks, but that went nowhere. Her sister is pretty, but George couldn't stop looking over his shoulder at the younger girl with long, dark hair. Today, he is coming for her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She steps out onto the front porch. A dirt path trails away from her door, down the hill into the holler, and then around a bend where it disappears into a cove of pines. On the other side of those pines is the wooden bridge that spans the Sandy River and then the railroad tracks.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She turns her head and sees that the old man is out on the porch now, sitting with his hands crossed in his lap.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What do you want?" she says to him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Raising his hands in innocence, he replies, "Why, nothing, Mom. I'm just watching the TV."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The old man is senile. She hardly understands a thing he says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She turns back to the path. And there he is, emerging from the pines, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt draped loosely over his thin but sturdy frame. He walks with an easy gait, a little bowlegged, as he makes the bend and then lowers his head for the trek up the long hill. After a time, he looks up and she waves. He acknowledges only with a dip of his head. This is a man too proud to wave, but not too proud to pick a bouquet of wildflowers which she now sees clutched in one of his fists. Those flowers make her smile, and in the back of her mind the words to a song begin to form. She knows without the slightest of doubts that this is the man she will love for the rest of her life.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Who are you waving at, Mom?" the old man says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My husband," she says.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, I'm right over here. You're waving at the wall."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The poor old man. He is senile, but kind. She turns and waves to him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Lifting his hand in return, he says, "Hello, darling."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The faces are all around her, hovering. She cannot move, but she can watch them. The faces have no names. Within her, there are no memories because she is an infant. She has a vague sense that something has been stripped from her, torn away against her will, but this does not anger her. The faces bring her comfort. For even though they have no names, she knows that they love her, and that she loves them in return.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She feels herself breathe. Slowly. In and out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The faces eclipse her vision, one at a time. Unknown words fall from lips. Tears fall from sad eyes. She breathes in each face and it soothes her. Last is a face that feels familiar. Its shape is familiar – its gritty texture as a cheek presses against her cheek. Familiar lips touch her forehead. She watches this face and realizes that while all information has been stripped away, emotion has remained. Untouched.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The face fills her with security, and she finds she has the strength to fall backward one last time.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She is in the womb, surrounded by warm water. In the water, there is no need to breathe. So she stops. Her eyes slide closed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She sees George in front of her. He is far away, but he has made the bend. She knows they won't be together for some time, but that is fine. His head is bent down and he has begun the climb up the long hill.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(For Joann and Clyde)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Source</b></span></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-8892513596293535452011-04-18T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-18T00:00:04.351-07:00The Plot - Luke Thompson<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eL_hw_QLWJA/TaV405rPrpI/AAAAAAAAAKo/V22HXt89hUA/s1600/Plot881F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eL_hw_QLWJA/TaV405rPrpI/AAAAAAAAAKo/V22HXt89hUA/s1600/Plot881F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In the morning I said 'Do you want to come to the garden centre?' She said 'Are you going now?' I said I could wait if she wanted to come. So I waited. We'd never grown anything before. We spoke in the car. She said Charles Dickens had invented Christmas, I said it was rubbish, then we didn't speak. At home we ask each other if we want tea, or who should cook tonight. She says 'I want to watch Whitechapel.' I say 'I'm going to do some work.' Or she sits at the computer in the corner, her back in the room, hunched. I sit in another corner, my head hung, reading about Agarttha, or something. We keep in one room, except when I'm working, or when one of us needs the toilet. We keep in one room to save money on lights, but it means the whole house is dark, and it feels dark. It was Anthea's idea, and I like it. I don't mind saying I'm afraid of the dark a little. I'll say it's natural and it shows an open mind when you can't say what's there. Anthea's always been good at that. She has an idea, like out of nowhere. That's why we sit like that, her facing the wall, me in a book, the other rooms all in darkness.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We went to the garden centre to buy secateurs for cutting back thorns and pruning the cypress. I had in mind to buy another birdbox and some seed and a sack of nuts for them. I told her 'I'd like to get something that's going to flower or smell pretty,' and she looked at what seeds we could sow in February while I looked at birdfeeders and nuts. There was a long sparrow house the size of a rabbit hutch, some small boxes for tits and wasps, one open-faced for robins, wagtails and wrens. I liked the house and I like robins, so I took both, then the nuts and two kilos of seed for a birdfeeder I found with suckers on it to stick on a window. She brought poppies and compost, then we looked at the vegetable seeds for when we'd finished the plot. We could plant parsnips and spring onions today, leeks, carrots and mange tout in March, then maybe squashes and courgettes in April. 'No point getting beans, is there,' she said. 'We never eat them.' Then some more flowers; sunflowers, lupins, some funny-coloured foxgloves – all sorts. We spent a fortune. We loaded it in the back then bought port at the Spar by Ann Summers' for while we worked. We didn't have to drive anywhere again until dark.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> First thing we opened up the shed, let the door hang wide open, which made gardening a little more of an event, kind of challenged our orbit, if you see what I mean. Then we opened up the port, drew the few tools we had, Anthea said 'Do I just turn it all over with the fork?' I said 'I'll take back these brambles.'</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I knelt in the dirt. I said 'Mind these buds, if you see them.' 'What are they?' 'I think they mean to be crocuses.' 'Cool. Okay. Look, there's more over here. I'll use my hands when I get to them.' 'You can see that one's got a little purple in the middle there. See?' Her hair fell out from behind an ear and hung heavily, swinging. She was looking at the bud so intently she seemed almost cross-eyed, like she was fascinated by it, like she was figuring out how it works, the cogs and wheels inside. 'Yes.'</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> After I'd finished I took a gulp of port and said I'd work on the tubs around the shed, and the rock garden there, which was nothing but leaves and hollow sticks and some plastic bits from somewhere. I moved the bird table in here, and nailed up the box for robins, about head-height. Anthea was still digging the plot. She had her gloves on, so she never replaced her hair once it fell, but she swung it over to one side of her head, where it curled around her neck. She leaned forward a little awkwardly. Her trousers made her arse a funny shape. They always did that. I remember when she first took them off, her skin was cold and her pubic hair pale orange and sparse. When we were back in the flat. After, I remember, in the morning we woke early, and she walked over to the window, naked waist down, and her hips moved, and she opened the curtains, the shape of a nymph, and she stood upright, her pubic hair now twisted into a single curl.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She could tell I was watching, and she stood the fork in the ground and walked her long-legged walk, bowed and robotic, to fetch her drink. As she poured it down she stood like she stood at the window again, pale fingered, her hips forward, the line of her leg. 'Am I doing it right?' she said, then I showed her what I was doing and the dirt I'd cleared. 'See how dark this bit is compared to that.' Then we watched the kites over the field and the chimney on the house over the road oozing smoke.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Around the crocuses Anthea went to her knees and crawled, pulling out small shoots. She made a pile of them, weeds and dirt, tiny roots like blood vessels, over my thorns.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We were out until dark. The geese flew overhead and we came to. Eight of them, calling. Stupid birds. We really felt the day go. 'Shall we go out to dinner?' I said. She said 'So long as we're back in time,' taking off her boots. I cleared away the fork and gloves and the secateurs and locked the shed. Anthea took in the empty bottle and glasses. There were footprints in the earth where Anthea and I had pressed down the compost over the parsnip and spring onion seeds. There was nothing else we could do now until March. Inside, Anthea said 'I'm going to change.' I took off my socks and trousers at the door, put them straight in the basket. I heard her lock the bathroom door and turn the shower on. No point putting any other clothes on yet, so I stayed as I was. I picked up my book. I turned the light on and drew all the curtains, and sat in the settee and waited for her to finish.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></b></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-78777606606542263412011-04-17T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-17T00:00:08.625-07:00Gradation - Geoff Peck<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lMo2cPmcoPU/TaV38udAVWI/AAAAAAAAAKk/lMwccW9JyYE/s1600/Grad882F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lMo2cPmcoPU/TaV38udAVWI/AAAAAAAAAKk/lMwccW9JyYE/s1600/Grad882F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Just a mile outside the city limits of Council, Oklahoma, a man in dirty jeans and a soiled gray sweatshirt stood above Interstate 40 on the Route 81 overpass. It was an early November morning, the sun just becoming visible in the East, and he rubbed his hands together in an attempt to alleviate the chill in his bones. Eighteen wheelers were starting to fly by in both directions. Trucks headed east went on into Oklahoma City, from there who knows. They could meet up with I-35 and travel south to Dallas or Houston. North to Kansas City, Omaha or maybe all the way to the Twin Cities. Possibly keep driving east over to Memphis or Nashville. Might take I-44 and go straight on to St. Louis. Be there by mid-afternoon.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He decided he'd follow the westbound road. There just seemed to be fewer options that way. Trucks heading west had to go all the way to Amarillo for a decent stop. He'd gone that far west with his family once. It was years before at the age of thirteen when an uncle was married in Dumas, Texas. That had been nice. He remembered how when they reached Amarillo they went north up into the panhandle. Even though there weren't any mountains, he could still feel them climbing into higher altitude, but when they rolled into Dumas it was just as flat as western Oklahoma. "High plains," his father said from the front seat. He hadn't thought of there being a higher kind of flat.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Walking with his head down along the interstate, his heartbeat rose whenever he caught sight of a plastic bottle, only to be let down when it didn't contain urine. He knew truck drivers used meth to stay awake on cross country drives. Knew that many of them would rather piss in a bottle and throw it out the window than lose fifteen minutes with a truck stop. Recycled meth wasn't as pure a dose, but a batch of good urine still got him five hours once.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He found himself picking at the scab on his left hand as he continued walking. A nervous tic that had gotten out of control. He shoved his hands into his pockets, but kept thinking about the sores on his body, causing him to bring a hand up to his face and run it over the rough patches on his forehead. He wondered what he looked like. Probably homeless, and at that point, he supposed he kind of was. His girlfriend left the week before, less than a day after they shut off the electricity. Shut the water off a few days after that.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She had gone to stay with her folks in Hobart, which had its conditions. One, that she couldn't see him anymore – her parents never had liked the fact she was eight years younger than him. And two, that her father the cop would administer a drug test every two weeks. She was a fool. So were her parents. He knew it would end badly.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> With his headache becoming more acute, he contemplated crossing the interstate to search the other side. He thought about the dynamics of driving – how the driver was on the left side. Would they really lean across the passenger seat to toss out a bottle of piss? The stretch of grass separating eastbound and westbound was more likely.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He was wondering if a highway patrolman would stop him for walking in the median when he caught sight of a plastic bottle lying in the grass. The unmistakable golden color was nearly concealed by the lifeless grass surrounding it. He slid down to his knees and picked up the bottle. It wasn't warm. He wondered if that mattered. With thoughts of separation and reconstitution he shook the bottle up like juice. He twisted the cap off and brought the bottle to his nose, wishing there was some way to know if it contained meth. He didn't think there was.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">This story was originally published in Foliate Oak.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Source</b></span></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-22006416205825273202011-04-16T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-16T00:00:11.159-07:00End of the Line - Alison L. Randall<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="font-size: 0.8125em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="font-size: 0.8125em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"></span></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VIx4ActtMXs/TaV2ib-wRUI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Oy6aqVI3F2w/s1600/EndLine871F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VIx4ActtMXs/TaV2ib-wRUI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Oy6aqVI3F2w/s1600/EndLine871F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When Frank and I stepped through the post office doors, there was a crowd gathered, gawking at the new fixture on the wall like a chorus of wide-mouthed frogs. I had to get closer, and that was where being a girl that's scrawnier than a wire fence came in handy. Fortunately, Frank, my twin of eleven years, was just the same.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Come on." I said, grabbing his hand, and we slid through the cracks between people until we spilled out in front.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Finally I got a good look. It was fixed to the plaster next to the postmaster's window, the place of honor usually reserved for the Wanted posters. Beady-eyed Zedekiah Smith, the bank robber, still hung there, but even he had been pushed aside for something more important.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> A telephone. The first one in town.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How's it work?" Noah Crawford called out. Noah's the best fix-it man around, and I could tell he was itching to get his fingers on those shiny knobs.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Don't rightly know," answered the postmaster, and he tugged at his goatee as if it might tell him. "I do know the sound of your voice moves along wires strung on poles. It's sort of like the telegraph, only you hear words instead of dots and dashes."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Ah," the crowd murmured, and I felt my own mouth move along.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I gazed at that gleaming wood box and something happened inside me. Something — I can only guess — that might be like falling in love. The thought of talking into that box — of making my voice sail through wires in the sky — it took over my brain. I couldn't get it out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Frank," I whispered to my twin. "I have to use that telephone."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Five minutes later, Frank towed me up Main Street, toward home. "Liza — " he began, but I cut him off. We two thought so much alike, I had Frank's questions answered before he even asked.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You're right," I said. "It costs five cents and I don't have it. But look." I pulled him over to the window of Poulson's Variety Store. "You see those?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I pointed to a handful of shimmery rocks spread on black velvet. Some were a shiny gray shot through with gold streaks, others yellow as cheese curds. And one, clear and jagged, sat like an icicle, leftover from wintertime.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Frank's eyebrows screwed up and I could tell he wasn't following.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "If I found one of those, I bet they'd pay me for it." I explained.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> With a shake of his head, Frank hooked two thumbs under his suspenders. "But Liza — "</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I held up a hand — he couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know. "I've got that figured, too. I'll bet we could find some at North Creek — in the mine."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Frank shrugged, pretending not to care, but I knew better. He wanted to explore that old mine, same as me. Besides, Frank knew he had no choice. Twins stick together, especially scrawny ones, 'cause it takes two of us to make one of most people.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We spent half the morning on the dusty road to North Creek. Ma packed a lunch but said she couldn't understand walking all that way for rocks. She thought we were off to search the dry creek bed, and I didn't correct her.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I felt a bit guilty about fooling my ma, but whenever a pang hit, I conjured up the vision of my voice dancing along wires in the sky. It looked a lot like me, my voice did, only wearing a pink tutu and carrying a frilly umbrella.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We reached the old mine around noon. The hole in the sage-covered hill had been shored up by timbers. They were weathered and splintery, and looked like a picture frame around nothing.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I stepped inside, my arms turning to goose bumps from the chill. The air smelled of mildew and rotted beams, but also of horse sweat and wood smoke. Strange. That mine had sat empty for years.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Once my eyes got used to the dim, I gazed around, hoping to see shimmery rocks littering the floor, but dust was all I saw. Frank walked past me to where the walls narrowed, then disappeared around the curve. I followed fast.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I'd come up right behind Frank when, t<i>ing</i>, his boot connected with metal. He stooped, grabbed, and when he stood, his palm held more than we'd hoped.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> A gold coin. Frank's eyes nearly popped.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Where did that come from?" I whispered and reached out a finger to touch.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Just then, voices sounded in the next cavern over: "Zed, hold it higher." Two men stepped through a gap in the far wall.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> They weren't miners. I could tell that from one glance. They were dressed for riding, with leather chaps and spurs. One held saddlebags over a shoulder and had a mustache that hung past his jaw. The other wore a battered hat, his face hid in its shadow. When he raised his lantern, the light shone full on those beady eyes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> It was Zedekiah Smith, the bank robber.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I plastered myself to the wall, hoping to disappear into shadow. Frank hunched over, hiding his head in his sleeves. But for once, we weren't scrawny enough.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey!" The mustached man pointed, then dropped his saddlebags and ran for us.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I tried to run, too, but met up with Frank's backside. The next thing I knew, Frank and I were on the ground, being hauled to our feet by a sharp-nailed hand.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Lookee here, Zed," our captor cried, "a couple of spies."</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No," I said, brushing myself off. "We're not spies. We were looking for rocks to sell. There's a new telephone in town, and I just wanted to — Ow!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The mustache man yanked my hair. "Does she always talk this much?" he asked Frank. Frank — the traitor — nodded.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Looking for rocks, eh?" Mustache Man pried open Frank's fingers. The gold coin glowed warm in the lantern light. "Lookee here, Zed. Musta fallen out."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Zedekiah Smith strode over and picked the coin out of Frank's palm. "You don't want that, boy. That's dirty money."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You made it that way," I told him. "You stole it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Zedekiah Smith narrowed his eyes, turning them even beadier. "Caleb's right. You do talk a lot."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Five minutes later, Frank and I were back to back on the ground.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's what you get," Caleb said, as he tied our hands behind us. "Shouldn't go poking your noses in bad places."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It wouldn't be bad without you," I said, and Frank twitched.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Sure it would," Caleb said. "Old mine's a dangerous place. You could've got caught in a cave-in, or bit by rattlers. Lucky you got us instead. He, he!" He tightened his knots then stood straight. "Someone will find you in a day or so. We'll be long gone by then. Right Zed?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's right." Zedekiah Smith stood back, watching Caleb do the dirty work, his eyes shaded again.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Just let us go," I begged. "We won't tell."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Ha!" Caleb shouldered the saddlebags. "I'd like to see you keep your mouth still."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Zedekiah Smith took up the lantern and without looking back they passed through the opening in the rock wall. I listened until the jingle of their spurs faded.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We were alone in dark so thick it stopped up my nose. Caleb was right. This was a bad place. I wouldn't last a day. And worse, when Ma found my lifeless body, she'd know I was a liar.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I was about to sink into despair, but Frank distracted me with more twitching.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "There," he said. "I'm free."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I couldn't believe it when the ropes went slack. Jumping to my feet, I rubbed my wrists, trying to figure how Frank had managed to surprise me so. It wasn't that he'd worked his bony wrists out of Caleb's knots. That was plain Frank. The real surprise was that he'd come up with the idea without my help.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Phew," I said, relief washing over me at my second chance at life. Ma wouldn't have to find my lifeless body after all. And as for the liar part, well, I'd work on that.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> But first, I had another good deed in mind, the best way to begin my new life. I was about to turn in that outlaw.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I grabbed Frank's arm and towed him toward the exit. "We need to get to town and report Zedekiah Smith." Then something else occurred to me. "Think of the telephone calls I could make with that reward money."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> 'Liza — " Frank started up, but I knew where he was heading.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Of course we'll split it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We rounded the wall and ran smack into another, one with chaps and a hat. Zedekiah Smith was back. Before we could move, he had us trussed in his arms like two pigs for slaughter.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Let go!" I cried, pounding his chest.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Shh," he whispered. "Caleb thinks I forgot something."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I froze. "But . . . "</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I came back to cut you loose."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> For once, I had a hard time filling my mouth with words.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Now, you stay hidden until I get Caleb away," he whispered. "It won't do to have him telling people about my weak stomach."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Are you feeling poorly?" Frank asked and Zedekiah Smith laughed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No, but I've got no stomach for hurting people." His arms went limp, releasing us, and he took a step back. "You'd better do your duty and report me. But take this in case that reward money's long in coming." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pale yellow rock studded with honey-colored crystals. "I saw it out in the dry creek bed. Might be worth a telephone call."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He dropped it into my hand and gave a wink. Then he turned and walked out into the sunlight. Frank and I gawked, like a duet of wide-mouthed frogs.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> We didn't make it to the Sheriff's office until the next morning. I reported Zedekiah Smith, just like I should, but for some reason, it didn't feel like a good deed anymore.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Our next stop was the Variety Store. Old Mr. Poulson's eyes kindled when he saw the crystal rock. Twenty-five cents went to Frank, who wasted it on candy. I saved mine for something monumental.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The post office wasn't crowded anymore. Still, there were a few lookers as I walked to the counter and laid down my nickel.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'd like to make a telephone call," I announced.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How about that," the postmaster said, stroking his goatee. "You'll be the first. Who would you like to call?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Who?" I echoed. And just like that, my vision dissolved. Pink tutu and frilly umbrella, both drifted off like a dandelion in the wind. My voice couldn't dance along wires — it had no place to go. Nobody I knew had a telephone.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I turned to Frank and found him grinning.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You saw it all along," I accused.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He shrugged. "I tried to tell you."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You did?" I thought back to the day before and realized that maybe he had. I'd been too busy using my own mouth to notice.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> After taking one last, loving look at the telephone, I turned away from the counter. Maybe candy would be a good use for that nickel after all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Frank," I said, pondering those thoughts he kept having without me, "next time you have something to say, speak up. I'll try hard to listen."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The poster of Zedekiah Smith seemed to nod at me as we passed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></b></a></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-5799553648101781892011-04-15T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-15T00:00:02.006-07:00The Cubelli Lagoon - Fernando Sorrentino<div class="title_text" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 24px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-74KulM8cb1I/TaVxRXaD8CI/AAAAAAAAAKU/wvWF7JjXApw/s1600/CubeLago873F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-74KulM8cb1I/TaVxRXaD8CI/AAAAAAAAAKU/wvWF7JjXApw/s1600/CubeLago873F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px;">Translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth</span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In the southeast region of the provincial plains of Buenos Aires, you might come across the Cubelli Lagoon, familiarly known as the "Lake of the Dancing Alligator." This popular name is expressive and graphic, but — just as Doctor Ludwig Boitus established — it is inaccurate.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> In the first place, "lagoon" and "lake" are distinct hydrographic occurrences. Secondly, though the alligator — <i>Caiman yacare</i>(Daudin), of the <i>Alligatoridae</i> family — is common to America, this lagoon is not the habitat for any species of alligator.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Its waters are extremely salty, and its fauna and flora are what you would expect for creatures that inhabit the sea. For this reason, it cannot be considered unusual that in this lagoon a population of approximately 130 marine crocodiles are to be found.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The "marine crocodile," that is, the <i>Crocodilus porosus</i>(Schneider), is the largest of all living reptiles. It commonly reaches a length of some seven meters (23 feet), weighing more than a ton. Doctor Boitus affirms having seen, along the coasts of Malaysia, several of them that were over nine meters (30 feet) in length, and, in fact, has taken and brought back photographs that supposedly prove the existence of such large individuals. But, as they were photographed in marine waters, without external points of reference, it is not possible to determine precisely if those crocodiles were truly the size attributed to them by Doctor Boitus. It would of course be absurd to doubt the word of an investigator with such a brilliant career (even though his language is rather baroque), but scientific rigor requires that the facts be validated by inflexible methods that, in this case, were not put to use.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Well then, it happens that the crocodiles of the Cubelli Lagoon possess exactly the taxonomic characteristics of those that live in the waters around India, China, and Malaysia; hence, they should by all rights be called marine crocodiles or <i>Crocodili porosi</i>. However, there are some differences,which Doctor Boitus has divided into <i>morphological traits</i> and <i>ethological traits</i>.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Among the former, the most important (or, better said, the only) is size. Whereas the marine crocodile of Asia can be up to seven meters long, the one we have in the Cubelli Lagoon scarcely reaches, in the best of cases, two meters (6 feet 6 inches), measuring from the tip of the snout to the tip of the tail.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Regarding its ethology, this crocodile is "fond of musically harmonized movements" according to Boitus (or, to use the simpler term preferred by those in the town of Cubelli, "dancing"). As anyone knows, as long as crocodiles are on land, they are as harmless as a flock of pigeons. They can only hunt and kill when in the water, which is their vital element. They trap their prey between their toothy jaws, then rotate rapidly, spinning until their victim is dead; their teeth have no masticatory function, being designed exclusively to imprison and swallow a victim whole.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> If we go to the shores of the Cubelli Lagoon and start to play music, having previously chosen something appropriate for dancing, right away we will see that — let's not say all — almost all the crocodiles rise out of the water and, once on land, begin to dance to the beat of the tune in question.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> For such anatomical and behavioral reasons, this saurian has received the name <i>Crocodilus pusillus saltator</i> (Boitus).</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Their tastes are varied and eclectic, and they do not seem to distinguish between esthetically worthy music and music of little merit. Popular tunes delight them no less than symphonic compositions for ballet.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> These crocodiles dance in an upright position, balancing only on their hind legs, reaching an average height of one meter, seventy centimeters (5 feet 8 inches). In order not to drag on the ground, their tails rise at an acute angle, roughly parallel to their spines. At the same time, their front limbs (which we could well call hands) follow the beat with various amusing gestures, while their yellow teeth form a wide smile, exuding enthusiasm and satisfaction.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Some townspeople are not in the least attracted by the idea of dancing with crocodiles, but many others do not share this aversion. It's a fact, every Saturday when the sun goes down they put on their party clothes and gather on the shore of the lagoon.There the Cubelli Social Club has set up everything necessary to make the evening unforgettable. Likewise, people can dine in the restaurant that has arisen not far from the dance floor.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The arms of the crocodile are rather short and cannot embrace the body of their partner. The gentleman or lady dancing with the male or female crocodile that has chosen them places both hands on one of their partner's shoulders. To achieve this, one's arms must be stretched to the maximum at a certain distance; as the snout of a crocodile is quite pronounced, one must take the precaution of standing as far back as possible. Though disagreeable episodes have occasionally occurred (such as nasal excision, explosion of ocular globes, or decapitation), it must not be forgotten that, as their teeth may contain the remains of cadavers, the breath of this reptile is far from being attractive.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> According to Cubellian legend, occupying the small island in the center of the lagoon are the king and queen of the crocodiles, who it seems have never left it. They say they are each more than two centuries old and, perhaps owing to their advanced age, perhaps owing simply to whim, they have never wished to participate in the dances organized by the Social Club.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The get-togethers do not last much past midnight, for at that hour the crocodiles begin to tire, and maybe to get a little bored; in addition, they feel hungry and, as their access to the restaurant is prohibited, they want to return to the water in search of food.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> When no more crocodiles remain on terra firma, the ladies and gentlemen go back to town, rather tired and a little sad, but with the hope that, maybe at the next dance, or perhaps at a later one, the crocodiles' king, or the queen, or even both together, might abandon their island for a few hours and participate in the party. If this were to happen, each gentleman, though he takes care not to show it, harbors the illusion that the queen of the crocodiles will choose him for her dance partner; the same is true of all the ladies, who dream of dancing with the king.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"La albufera de Cubelli" was originally published in <i>Cuadernos del Minotauro</i> (edited by Valent'n Pérez Venzalá), Ano IV, No. 6, Madrid, 2008, pp. 117-120. The present English version was translated from a slightly modified text.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Source</b></span></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-13312958914828799312011-04-14T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-14T00:00:11.342-07:00Swimming Away - Clare Reddaway<div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RKjJhd4ncC0/TaVuysrfsaI/AAAAAAAAAKM/C_TrG6O9nno/s1600/SwimAway855F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RKjJhd4ncC0/TaVuysrfsaI/AAAAAAAAAKM/C_TrG6O9nno/s1600/SwimAway855F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She is sitting on the beach, alone. Her legs are curled under her, and her hands are feeling the pebbles at her side. They are smooth, like ducks' eggs. They fit snugly into her palm. The kind of pebble David used to kill Goliath, she thinks. She looks out over the sea. It is pewter, it is lead. The waves are bloated and sullen. They clutch at the shore and rasp as they retreat, surly as a kicked cur. The wet shore shines with the slug trail residue of the waves. The cliffs, honey and butter in sunshine, are the grey of gravestones and loneliness.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She turns the pebbles over and over, rhythmically, rocking. The wind has turned her long hair into whips which lash her cheeks red and raw. She does not tuck it behind her ears. She does not look at the bag that squats beside her. She thinks back, to the time before. She can't help it. Then, the sun was shining and the beach was innocent.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Mum!" The child's voice is high and excited. "Look!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Rosie is holding up a strand of bladder wrack as long as her whole body. It is wrapping itself around her legs and slapping against her plump little tummy encased in its white, poppy-splattered costume.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Great!" says Rosie's Mum. "The mermaid's tail." She is busy fashioning the stones into a face and body: dried seaweed for hair, razor bills for earrings, limbs a line of carefully chosen white pebbles. Together they place the bladder wrack under the limpet-shell belt and curve the tip towards the sea.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "She's taller than me," says Rosie, and she lies flat on her back, arms outstretched, to demonstrate the exceptional height of the mermaid with her weedy tail.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "When the waves come in, will she swim away?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Maybe," says her Mum. "Maybe she will."</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She starts to dig. At first, she is careful. She lifts the pebbles out, one by one, and piles them to one side. They form a cairn. As she gets down below the first layer, the stones are smaller, spikier, wetter, with more sand in the mixture. She scrabbles at them but, as she scrapes, the sides cave in on top of her hands. The hole remains shallow. The fingernail on the middle finger of her left hand jangles with pain as a flint drives under the nail. Pleased, she presses down on the stone. A drop of blood falls into the mix. It is deep enough. She begins to widen, lengthen and shape the trench.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Hand in hand they skip down the beach. The waves are big today, topped by white horses whipped up by a summer breeze, but they are clear and clean as they slap on the shingle. The sea has left a sandy strip which snakes the length of the pebbly beach. Rosie and her Mum want to see their footprints: two big, two small. The sand sucks at their feet as they leap.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Look how far I can jump, Mum!" cries Rosie, and leaps so high and so far that her Mum thinks she will reach the sun.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Look how far Mum can jump!" cries Mum, and it is not so very far, really, but she laughs and hugs Rosie and the sun catches her daughter's hair and turns it into mermaid gold.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She has finished. There is a shape gouged out of the pebbles. A human figure. A head, two arms, a torso, legs, no tail. Recognisable. Carefully she selects a pebble, white, round, a duck's egg, and places it on the edge of the shoulder. She finds a second, pure white, and lays it next to the first, not quite touching. She is drawing an outline. Like a murder victim at an American crime scene, she thinks, but the bubble of laughter does not rise in her throat. She does not know why she glances up, at that moment. A man is standing on the edge of the cliff. To her, he is the size of the middle finger of her left hand. Panic sweeps over her like sweat. He is too far away to hear her when she screams, to far to feel the stone she throws, David at Goliath.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"When's Daddy coming back?" says Rosie.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "In a while," says her Mum, but she's been wondering too. He's gone for ice-creams and a stroll. He doesn't like the beach. He says the cliffs make him claustrophobic. That the stones dig into his feet.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I want to paddle," says Rosie and she grabs at her beach shoes. They are at the bottom of the basket, under the picnic. As she pulls the shoes out, the Tupperware box with the sandwiches in it breaks open and the ham and the cheese and the wholemeal bread slices fall into the sand, butter side down.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Rosie! Watch what you're doing!" Her Mum is sharp, harsh. Rosie shrinks, crouching to pull on her shoes, head bowed, face concealed. Her Mum sighs.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Never mind. We'll be mermaids when we eat it. I bet they're used to sand in their sandwiches." Rosie lifts her head and grins.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "D'you think mermaids' bread gets soggy underwater, Mum? D'you think they have Weetabix for breakfast? Can I stick seaweed on my legs to make a tail?" Rosie chatters as her Mum picks up the food, carefully brushing the sand from each piece to make it clean.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The man has gone. She is alone again. Alone with her shape, white-rimmed, bleached. She smoothes the body, strokes the face. Arms and legs splayed, it is like the sand angel a child makes when she throws herself spread-eagled on to the first beach of the summer. She wonders whether it is a comfortable shape. Should she have formed a curled figure, foetal, protected, warm? Is the sand angel too exposed? Or does it feel wild and free?</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The mobile trills. Rosie's Mum scrabbles through the beach bag. <i>I can c u</i>, the text reads. Her heart thuds as if they were still new lovers and she looks up and around, smiling. There are families on the beach, throwing balls, eating, lying in the sun. She can't see him. She looks further up. She shades her eyes against the sun with her hand. There is a man, the size of the middle finger of her left hand, standing on the top of the cliff. He is waving. She laughs, and stands up, waving back. He is still waving. Now, he is waving with both arms. She waves back, with both arms, amused. His arms are flailing, urgent. She is puzzled. Is he pointing? She turns around.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> On the top of the nearest wave bobs a white swimming costume splattered with poppies. It disappears from sight.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She reaches into her bag, lifts out the tin canister and stands it on the pebbles. She hesitates before she unscrews the lid and her hand trembles as she reaches inside. There is not much in there, considering. She takes a handful of ash. The flakes are large and sticky. She starts with the head. She trickles the cinders into her outline, filling it in, turning it pale grey.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Running in slow motion. She must go faster, her legs are rocks, she is dragging them and then she is in the water, diving, gasping, down, under, eyes open, arms out stretching, searching, empty, up for air, screaming ‘Help!', swallowing and choking, then under again, into the swirl of the waves, the water thick, roaring in her ears, blocking her but clear and clean and she sees floating down a flash of white and thrusts towards it, grabbing and pulling, bubbles coming from a tiny mouth, hair weed flowing from a tiny head and out of the water bursting, gasping, holding her daughter in her arms and crying and hugging and struggling to the shore, she puts the little body flat on the sand and wipes the hair from the face.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Rosie's eyes open and she smiles.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I was a mermaid, Mum, swimming like a mermaid!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She is laughing and crying and hugging and kissing the beloved cheeks, still shiny salty wet. Rosie has held her breath. No water in her mouth, no water in her lungs, no damage, the smile wide and warm. Alive.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Her breathing slows and her heart calms. She remembers. She looks up, expectant, to the cliff edge, a wave and a smile hovering. There is no-one there. At the bottom of the cliff there is a huddle of people, their backs to the sea, bending over something, staring. A woman is running away from the group, towards the café at the end of the beach. All the families on the beach are staring at the group at the bottom of the cliff.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> As if it belongs to someone else, she hears her heart begin to pound and the blood rush into her ears.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The shape is coloured in. The ash covers the body in a thin layer from the top of its head to the tips of its fingers and down to the heel, instep and toes. She pats it down into a thin paste layer. She had wanted to lie down beside the body, to close her eyes and feel the length once more, but her creation chills her. It is lifeless, flat, colourless. No muscles, no skin, no sinews. No blood. She takes a step back.</span></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Holding her child clasped close to her body, Rosie's Mum runs up the beach. She screams, demanding to know what has happened, has someone fallen, but she doesn't need to ask. As they turn towards her, their faces greyed by shock, she knows. They part to let her through. They try to take her child but she clings on even as she falls to her knees beside a body, limbs awkward and misshapen, head broken like a duck's egg.</span></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">*</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She sits at the base of the cliff, watching the waves. They are coming closer now. Licking and biting at the shore, they have almost reached the body. It lies, a grey, cold smudge. The waves are nibbling at the fingers. Soon they will swallow the whole shape, and the ash will be absorbed by the water and swept out into the ocean, a thousand particles floating apart and away, dissolved. All that will be left tomorrow will be some of the outline in white stones. A mother will come to the beach and show her daughter. They will copy, laughing as they lie like angels and draw their outlines in the sand. Next week, next month the white stones will have gone, scattered back into the thousands already on the beach.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Her mobile rings.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Mummy? When will you be back?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Not long now, Rosie. I'll be home soon." And she stretches her legs, stiff with cold, as she waits for the waves to take away her love.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Source</b></span></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-33340677219478702832011-04-13T02:31:00.000-07:002011-04-13T03:38:00.948-07:00Occupation - Charlie Taylor<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div class="story_text"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrSRX9N77_0/TaVsYAgt-7I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/kOQjN49GVMY/s1600/Occu868F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrSRX9N77_0/TaVsYAgt-7I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/kOQjN49GVMY/s1600/Occu868F.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">1</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It was late morning when the soldiers came knocking on the door. Such a polite knock. A bit like Mr Marsden from the Pru used when he came to collect his money every month. "I'm here again," he would say to Jimmy's mother, laughing. "Doesn't time fly!" And he would collect his half a crown which he would put into the small leather bag he carried around his waist before stooping to refit the bicycle clips around his skinny ankles, mount his sit-up-and-beg Raleigh and pedal off to knock on Mrs Hutcheson's at number 143. Two-and-sixpence here, five bob there, a tanner from old Granny Baxter at number 79 for her funeral insurance! She was determined to have a good send off was old Granny Baxter. She'd never hold her head up if there weren't ham sandwiches for all followed by fairy cakes and Jammy Dodgers.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The soldiers knocked again. A firm knock but not one designed to alarm. <i>Knock, knock, knock</i>, as if by a gloved hand, which was the case.</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy knew it was the soldiers. He had seen them walking along the road, past the troop carriers, six of them in uniform, carrying guns.</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dad," Jimmy had shouted up the stairs, "they're outside our gate. They've stopped. They're looking at our door. I think they're going to come here, to our house. Dad!"</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He heard a frantic scuffling from the landing. He heard the trapdoor to the roof space being moved and he saw his father's feet on the top of the banister for a second before they were drawn up into the loft behind him and the trapdoor scraped back into place.</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Get away from the window, Jimmy," said his mother, all hard-voiced and urgent. "Get away from it. Now! Come into the kitchen with me. Jimmy, do as you're told. Now!"</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> There was a third knocking on the door, a more insistent knocking, an offended knocking, a you'd-better-be-opening-this-door-now sort of knocking, before-we-get-angry sort of knocking. Jimmy scuttled backwards towards his mother who clasped him to her pinafored bosom.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's alright, Jimmy," she said. "Everything's alright. Don't say anything to them, love. Just keep quiet and let me talk?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy looked up at her face, her frightened face. He nodded.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The knocking became a slapping-banging, as if with the flat palm of a gloved hand, and then there began a firm kicking at the bottom of the door. Not enough to damage it but enough to suggest damage would be done if it wasn't opened. A voice shouted, superfluously: "Open the door!" One of the soldiers came to the window and peered into the room, trying to see through the net curtains. Jimmy's mother turned to the kitchen and saw more soldiers, three of them, standing in the back garden, hands on guns. Her trembling transmitted itself through to the boy. He felt her arms shaking, her body shaking, her legs shaking.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> There was a moment's silence before the front door burst open, the remains of the Yale lock spinning down the hallway to fall with a <i>ting, ting, ting</i> on the hard red tiles. The soldiers walked into the house, guns cradled, faces set, hard. Two stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up towards the landing, two quickly searched the living room, dragging the sofa out of place to check behind it, two pushed past Jimmy and his mother and glanced around the kitchen pausing to acknowledge the soldiers in the garden.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> They gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Two climbed to the landing and stood guard while the others pushed past them to search the bedrooms, the bathroom. Nothing. The soldier in charge looked up at the loft entrance. He nodded to one of his team who climbed up on to the banister and poked the trapdoor with the muzzle of his gun. It moved. He poked it harder and it shifted a foot to his left. He moved it aside with his hand, pulled a torch from his pocket, switched it on and eased his head into the opening as he shone the light into the roof space.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The single shot made Jimmy's mother sag at the knees. Her grip on her son tightened. He felt she was almost dragging him to the floor. All was confusion. He felt, rather than heard, the soldier's body fall from the banister and thump down the stairs before the gunfire overwhelmed his senses. He tore himself away from his mother's arms and ran to the hallway. The soldier lay on his back, legs up the stairs, head on the red tiles, blood pooling underneath him, eyes wide open in apparent astonishment at the hole on the centre of his forehead.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He looked up to see the five soldiers crowded onto the small landing, all firing their automatic weapons into the ceiling, the plasterboard being ripped apart as the bullets' path weaved left and right, around and around, spraying the whole area.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "DAD!" shouted Jimmy, starting up the stairs and as he did so one of the soldiers turned around, swinging his gun to bear on the ten year old, reacting, not thinking. His finger tightened on the trigger. Above him, the plasterboard disintegrated. A body fell through it onto the soldier, knocking him to one side as the first bullets slammed into the wall on Jimmy's left.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "DAD!" shouted Jimmy.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">2</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Both bodies were removed within the hour. Jimmy and his mother were taken in a black Humber Hawk to Maghull Police Station which had been commandeered by the soldiers as their headquarters for the West Lancashire area. Jimmy was made to sit in an office which was empty except for one desk and two chairs. A woman in uniform sat with him, behind the desk, but didn't speak to him at all, not even to ask if he was hungry. His mother was taken along a corridor by the soldiers and into a room at the end through a big, heavy steel door with bars across the small glass window. Jimmy sat in the chair for two hours. The uniformed woman read a book, occasionally crossing and uncrossing her legs. She smelled of talcum powder and Coal Tar Soap, Jimmy thought. Like his Aunty Freda.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Never, ever speak to ‘em, son," his dad had told him. "Not if they ask your name or where you live or whether you'd like a piece of chocolate. Tell ‘em nothin'. Don't talk to ‘em on the street, don't tell ‘em you're my son, don't listen to anything they say ‘cos it'll all be lies and it could get someone killed."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy had blinked at that.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And that someone could be me or your mum. You hear me?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy nodded and imagined his parents dead. Tears formed.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Stop that!" his father had said. "Stop that now! And don't you let ‘em make you cry, ‘cos that's what they'll want to do. They'll want to frighten you ‘cos you're only a kid. They'll want to frighten you so's you'll tell ‘em things about me and your mum. Don't you say a word, you hear! You don't want us dead now do you! Tell nobody nothing, son."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy nodded, then changed his mind and shook it and tears trickled down his cheeks.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Stop that, I said. Here!" And his dad gave him a handkerchief, all bundled up and dirty, to wipe his eyes.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> So Jimmy sat in the chair for two hours, hardly moving except when pins and needles started in his legs where the chair cut in under his thighs. Then he would wriggle his legs slightly, one at a time, trying to ease the feeling back into them. He sat there and tried not to cry for two hours. He wouldn't let his dad down, no matter what they did to him. He wouldn't say anything. He would tell ‘em nothing. Nothing. He tried to be brave. Like his dad.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He searched his memory. Had he ever talked to them? There was that young one he'd said thanks to who'd kicked his football back to him across Southport Road, away from the traffic. But that was all. Surely that wouldn't have got his dad killed? But what if…?</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The door opened and a soldier, an older man with fancy badges on his uniform, came in and whispered something in the woman's ear. She looked at Jimmy. "Come!" she said and walked out of the office, out of the police station, with Jimmy at her side, her hand on his shoulder. They got into the black Humber Hawk again and drove back along Southport Road into Lydiate until they passed Jimmy's house on the left hand side, the front door still hanging open, a soldier on guard outside, others searching the gardens and wandering around inside the building. They turned right 250 yards further on, into Lambshear Lane and stopped outside the primary school. A woman was waiting for them, standing at the school gate.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hello Jimmy," she said, opening the car door. "Come with me. You're safe now. She nodded at the woman in uniform, a curt nod, a necessary nod but one devoid of any civility.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My mum?" Jimmy said. "Miss MacIntyre! My mum? They've got her at the police station."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He threw himself into the waiting woman's arms and sobbed, hours of pent-up fear and frustration breaking through. Miss MacIntyre looked again at the uniformed woman through the open car door. "So, this is what it's come to. Waging war on ten year old boys? You're scum, the lot of you," she said, turning on her heels and leading Jimmy by the hand into the school playground. "Come on, Jimmy. You're safe now with me."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Miss MacIntyre's little bungalow in Dodds Lane was as neat and pleasant as the headmistress herself. Tall privet hedges, clipped to within an inch of their lives, fronted the driveway where her grey Morris Minor stood gently dripping oil onto the swept tarmac. The front garden was paved except for diamond-shaped patches of well-fed soil within which pruned, spiky rose bushes displayed their blooms. Jimmy's Gran loved roses and early summer. "That boy came with the June roses," she said every year to her daughter when buying something for Jimmy's birthday. The thought of his birthday made him cry. His present this year was to see his father murdered and his mother taken away from him. He rolled over on his bed in Miss MacIntyre's spare bedroom and cried and cried until he could cry no more. In the lounge, his new guardian cried too on his behalf, and patted the head of her ageing Springer spaniel. "What a cruel world, Shandy. What a cruel world," she murmured. "Who would do this to a child?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She looked out of the French windows leading to a long, narrow lawn with a neat wooden fence at the end, separating her little world from the flat farmland beyond with Maghull and Aintree and Liverpool in the distance. It was quite some time since she had sat there at night-time watching the explosions light up the sky as bombs rained down on the docks. It was peaceful now, for the most part. Defeat had its advantages. But not for everybody. Not for Jimmy's father and others like him who refused to accept defeat, who fought on. Not for Bob Mitchell and Harry Scrivener and Ted Maughan who had all just disappeared. And that was from this small village alone. And not for those caught up in the aftermath. Not for Jimmy's mother, and Jimmy himself. Not for wives and mothers and the children of those who fought on. "It might be better if they just accepted the situation, Shandy? What do you think?"</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> And now she had acquired a boy. <i>In loco parentis</i> during the day at school for all her charges, and now <i>in loco parentis</i> at home for Jimmy. What else could she do? The poor boy had no relatives in the village, travel for those living elsewhere was restricted, so who else would look after him? Miss MacIntyre sighed. She had regretted not having children of her own but the death of Stephen on a Normandy beach twelve years before had committed to her to spinsterhood. A life lost, lives ruined, futures destroyed, children unborn. And for what?</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> She had heard Jimmy crying and thought it best to leave him to exhaust his emotions. But enough was enough. Boys, she knew, needed to be kept occupied. And so did dogs.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Jimmy!" she called. "Jimmy, I'd like you to take Shandy out for a walk, please. She hasn't had any exercise today… and neither have you. Come on now, quick's the word, sharp's the action!" She lifted down the spaniel's lead from the coat hook in the hallway and knocked on Jimmy's bedroom door. "Jimmy, come on now. Shandy needs you to look after her. Dry those tears and try to be brave." Try to be brave, she thought as his tear-streaked face appeared at the door, eyes red, face pale, snotty-sleeved. A ten year old boy, trying to be brave. "Wait a second, Jimmy," she said, bustling into the bathroom and re-emerging with a wet face cloth in her hand. "Can't have you looking a mess, can we now." And she scrubbed at his face in such a fussy way that he almost laughed through his misery. "There, now," she said. You're fit to face the world. Off you go with Shandy for twenty minutes while I get you both some dinner ready. Try the fields past Ormerod's farm," she suggested. "Off you go and make your parents proud. You're almost a man and you'll need to behave like one."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> And Miss MacIntyre, wondering whether her words were ill-advised or not, watched the little man in his short pants walk off down the driveway with a bouncy, pulling-at-the-lead, liver and white Springer spaniel, looking to all the world like a waif and stray. She was glad when they turned the corner onto Dodds Lane. She could cry, then, without embarrassment, without showing her own weakness to a ten year old boy.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy was hardly conscious of Shandy's excited pulling. His head was full of sadness, confusion and homesickness. But the dog's insistent ignorance of all things connected with human stupidity gradually drew his attention. He stopped and pulled Shandy up short. "Sit!" he said in his most authoritative voice. "Sit!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Shandy stopped, looked at him as though he was mad and then, grudgingly, sat, mouth open, panting, eyes wide with excitement. Jimmy knelt down and put his arms around the dog's head, burying his face in her neck, nuzzling her floppy ears, wallowing in the unmistakeable scent of a scruffy spaniel which, when he mentioned it to Miss MacIntyre later, drew from her the comment: "Not so different from the smell of a ten year old boy, then! Time for your bath, I think."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The spaniel licked his ears and his face and his arms and anything else she could reach, shifting her weight from leg to leg, impatient to be running. She nibbled his arm and, in spite of himself, Jimmy smiled. Miss MacIntyre had been right to prescribe a spoonful or two of spaniel medicine to the boy.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The row of neat little bungalows stretched ahead of him on his right for a half a mile, and then it was fields. Across the road was Ormerod's farm and then, again, it was fields. Dodds Lane stretched away into the countryside towards Millbank Lane and the village of Aughton. The roads were quiet. Even without the occupation's stifling effect, cars were few and far between. His mother had said it reminded her of wartime rationing. "Which war?" his dad had asked with a sour laugh.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "This isn't a war," she'd said, "it's just a military takeover. We never fought this time."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How could we?" his dad had said. "We had nothing left after '45. Twelve years on and we'd nothing left. No wonder they simply marched in after a few well-placed bombs. Like taking candy from a baby, as those Yanks used to say. And where are <i>they</i> when we need them? Sitting at home, chewing gum, like in '39."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "C'm on, Shandy," Jimmy said, standing up and squaring his shoulders. "let's go find some rabbits."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The sound of gunfire rattled across the fields from the direction of Aughton. Jimmy crouched low in the field of barley. He could see where Shandy was running by the path she was making through the crop, chasing imaginary rabbits. "Shandy, here girl!" he hissed. She came running, scenting him out, and he grabbed her by the collar, pulling her down to lie on the ground with him. The gunfire continued, sporadically, but heading Jimmy's way. He raised his head. He couldn't see who was firing but started scrambling away, dragging Shandy by the collar as he went, the barley stalks whipping him in the face, the spiky ears catching him and sticking into his jumper. He reached the edge of the field where Millbank Lane met Dodds Lane and Park Lane. He inched forward and slid down into the drainage ditch, peering over the edge. There was a man on a bike, pedalling furiously down Millbank Lane from the direction of Butchers Lane and Aughton. His head was down as he crouched over the handlebars, barely looking in front of him, weaving all over the road. Jimmy recognised him. He'd seen him talking with his dad in the street in Maghull but didn't know his name. Jimmy raised his head and, as he did so, Shandy lunged forward, breaking free from his grasp. She dashed out into the road, almost under the wheels of the bike, barking and yelping in excitement. A good game for a spaniel. The man crashed off the bike in a flurry of gravel and scraped skin, cursing and swearing at the ‘bloody dog', before he saw Jimmy.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey!" he shouted. "Don't run. I know you. I know your dad." He looked around, looked over his shoulder back towards Butchers Lane. "Here," he said, fishing inside his jacket. "Do us a favour. Hide this." And he flung a heavy object wrapped in sacking at Jimmy's feet. "Hide it and don't tell anyone," he shouted, mounting his bike again and pedalling off towards the little housing estate on Kenyons Lane. "Hide it! In memory of your dad!" he shouted. He skidded across the road and onto the pavement before turning down a ginnell between two houses. Shandy chased after him</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Shandy! Shandy!!!!" Jimmy screamed at the dog. "Come here!" And then he heard the vehicles approaching down Millbank Lane, from where the cyclist had come. He kicked the sack bundle into the ditch and dashed across the road to where Shandy was standing, sniffing at a fence post and wagging her tail. He slipped the lead onto her collar as the first car full of soldiers drew up alongside him.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Which way did he go? The man on the bike! Which way did he go?" The soldier levelled his gun at Jimmy. "Answer me! Which way did he go?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Trembling, Jimmy pointed along Park Lane and the vehicles roared off in a haze of exhaust fumes. As soon as they were out of sight, he slid back into the ditch, dragging Shandy with him, picked up the sack bundle, stuffed it under his jumper and set off down Dodds Lane again, towards Miss MacIntyre's, looking over his shoulder every few seconds, hurrying but not running.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> When he got to Ormerod's farm he stopped. "I can't take this back to Miss MacIntyre's," he announced to the spaniel, "not without knowing what it is." He looked around, trying not to give the impression he was doing anything out of the ordinary. "Come on, Shandy, let's go and investigate."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The pair crossed the road and sidled along the outside of the barn which edged Dodds Lane. Pausing at the farmyard entrance to check there was nobody about, Jimmy slipped around the corner and into the barn, pulling Shandy with him. "Shhhhhhh," he whispered as a low growl rumbled in her throat at the sight of a couple of chickens strutting about on the bales of hay. "Shhhhhhhhhhhhh or I'll leave you here!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He clambered to the top of the stacked hay bales, urging Shandy to follow him, and then he pushed several bales apart to create an enclosed space, a den for himself and his new pal, out of sight of any passer-by. The pair of them sat for a while, the dog sprawled across Jimmy's legs, panting and giving the unwarranted appearance of intelligence by cocking her head at him every time he murmured to her. "We're best friends, you and me," he said. He smiled and ruffled her floppy ears.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The package was heavy and was making Jimmy's jumper sag. He pulled it out and laid it on the straw. Shandy sniffed at it. "What do you think it is, Shandy?" He stared at it a while then started to unravel the bundle until the mouth of the sack was open. He stared into it and his eyes widened. There were two guns. One of them was covered in a sticky goo. He pulled them out of the sack and put them side by side on the bale. He looked at his hand. Blood! "Heck, Shandy, we're in trouble now, you and me."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">3</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"I was worried to death about you two," said Miss MacIntyre as she and Jimmy sat at her dining table, scrambled eggs on toast before them. "Did you not hear the guns?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "They were over at Aughton," said Jimmy, slipping a piece of toast crust to Shandy who sat under the table shifting her weight from paw to paw in anticipation of treats.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I wonder which poor soul's being hunted now?" she mused. "Another slice of toast, Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No thanks, Miss MacIntyre, I'm not too hungry."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, I know, but young boys must eat. It's one of the things they do best."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Miss MacIntyre?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Jimmy? And you don't need to put your hand up to speak to me when you're here… just in class like all the other children."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, Miss MacIntyre… do you know when I can go home? Do you know where my mum is, what's happened to her?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Miss MacIntyre put down her knife and fork and looked at the ragamuffin sitting across the table. Five feet nothing of an unruly mop of dark hair, skinny legs, skinny shoulders, cheeky face. Her heart almost broke for him.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Strange as it may sound, Jimmy, you'll have to accept that even teachers, even headmistresses, don't know everything. And the answer to both your questions is, I don't know."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy stared at her, eyes wide, waiting. What else could a ten year old boy do?</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But," she said, "you're safe here for the moment… you're safe here as long as needs be… and tomorrow, after you've had a good night's sleep, I'll see what I can find out. The least I can do is call at your house and pick up some things so that if you have to stay here with me a few days, you'll have some clothes and some of your own possessions. And I'll try to find out about your mum too."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy stared at her.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And as a special treat for both of us, no school tomorrow for you or for me. I'll ask Mr Downing to take assembly and look after the school while I'm away… while we're both away. There are more important things to do at the moment than go to school, don't you think, Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre." He almost smiled at the thought of no school. He reached under the table and patted Shandy on her head and the dog nuzzled his hand, looking for more toast. "Miss MacIntyre?" he said again, half-raising his hand until she frowned at him.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes Jimmy?" she said, sensing a coming request by the wheedling tone of his voice.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Miss MacIntyre, if I'm going to spend the night here… in that bedroom," he said pointing at the spare room… can, erm, can Shandy stay with me in the night? Please, Miss MacIntyre? I'll look after her and take her out in the morning and feed her and brush her and…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Well, Jimmy, I wouldn't have it any other way. The very idea, a dog and boy sleeping in separate rooms. It's never been known. Of course she can stay with you. But you must promise to look after her and take her out in the morning and feed her and brush her and…" She smiled as Jimmy threw himself onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Shandy's neck.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Did you hear that, Shandy? You can stay the night with me! Isn't that great!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> And Shandy certainly did think that was great.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Miss MacIntyre returned after lunch the following day carrying bags full of Jimmy's clothes. "I couldn't manage any more than this," she said, "and the soldiers are still searching the place. They're digging in the garden now. The one in charge said they'd board up the house once they'd finished and that one of his superior officers would be in touch about your mother. He said he didn't know where she was. That's no surprise."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "They won't find anything," said Jimmy. "Dad was always careful."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Miss MacIntyre looked at the boy. "It's better you don't tell me anything, Jimmy. It's better you don't tell anybody anything. You can trust me, you know that, but a secret's a secret if only one person knows it."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Dad told me never to talk to them, and I don't."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, he was right, but it's not just them. You shouldn't talk about this sort of thing to anybody, anybody at all, even to your friends at school. It's important, Jimmy, that you understand how dangerous it is."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre. I know that. They killed my dad, didn't they, and others in the village. And yesterday they were shooting at…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's enough, Jimmy. I don't want to know. If you need to tell anybody, tell Shandy. She'll understand and she'll not give you away. Here now, you and Shandy go to your room and put all your clothes away. We'll assume you're staying for a couple of weeks at the moment and hope we get some news of your mother in the meantime. Off you go, the pair of you. And then I'd like you to take her for a walk. When you get back I have a little schoolwork I'd like you to do given that you've missed today's lessons.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre," said Jimmy, pulling his face as he dragged the bags away to his room.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The dog-walking took Jimmy directly to Ormerod's farm and into the barn. He climbed the bales and ducked into his den with Shandy, safe in the knowledge he couldn't be seen from the ground. "Shhhhhhhh, girl" he said to the spaniel, patting the straw by his side and, obediently, she lay down quietly. He dug down between two of the bales and pulled out the sacking, checking that the guns were still there. "What do we do with them now?" he murmured. "They can't stay here for ever. These bales will have to be moved some time. What do you think, Shandy?" She sniffed the sacking, drawn by the scent of the blood. "Leave it!" he hissed. He pushed her away and forced the bundle down between the bales again, then lay back, pulling the dog into his arms for warmth and comfort, and listened to the sounds of the barn. The wind gently eased through the slatted side with a swishhhhhhhhhhh and the wooden structure creaked gently. Now and again he would hear the scratchy scraping of a mouse or rat as it scampered about the bales, no doubt looking for food, wary of boys and dogs. He lay there for almost an hour, day-dreaming, whispering to his doggy friend, stroking her, calming her whenever he heard a noise from the farmyard. Everything was at one and the same time strange and yet ordinary, fantasy and yet strikingly real, unlikely and yet guaranteed certainty. One day his life was that, the next it was this. For a ten year old boy with a spaniel friend, everything was true, everything was here, everything was now. He and Shandy weren't very different. Not really.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy left the barn carefully, crossed the road and turned back into Miss MacIntyre's driveway. "Ah, there you are, you two," she said from the front door. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to. Long walk?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre. I think Shandy's tired now. Is it alright if I walk down to the school to play out with Robert till teatime, please?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Are you sure you'll be fine on your own? It's not far and you know the way. I can't see any harm coming to you. Off you go then. Back by six at the latest! Oh, and what about that school work you were supposed to ...?"</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Thank you, Miss MacIntyre," Jimmy shouted over his shoulder, already running down Dodds Lane. "I won't be late."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Robert Weldon was red-haired, freckly, snub-nosed and built like a mini-weight lifter. He was Jimmy's best friend and the two were inseparable, in or out of school. They were possessed of a fierce brand of mutual loyalty that only innocence can support, and they made a formidable team. Kick one and the other limped too, and then there was trouble. So nobody kicked either of them.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Half past three, the school bell rang and Jimmy sat on the low wall, facing the playground, feet dangling, heels kicking against the brickwork, rhythmically scuffing his shoes to within an inch of their lives. The doors were flung open and the new, flat-roofed buildings disgorged their juvenile contents into the arms of waiting mothers, aunties or neighbours, or to make their way home in dribs and drabs if they lived not too far from school. Robert lived in Haigh Crescent, just around the corner. His house backed onto the playing fields which Robert regarded as part of his back garden.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey, Jimmy!" shouted Robert, charging across the narrow strip of grass between playground and Lambshear Lane and leaping at his friend on the wall, both of them falling backwards in a tumbled heap. "Sorry, Jimmy. Didn't mean to do that," Robert said, picking himself up and sitting on the wall again, rubbing his elbow where he'd scraped it. "Ouch!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Where'd you get to today. Why weren't you in school?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My dad got shot yesterday," Jimmy announced with a child's matter-of-factness. "He's dead. And my mum got taken away by the soldiers so I'm staying at Miss MacIntyre's. She said I didn't need to come in to school today. She's got a great dog. It's a spaniel called Shandy."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yeah, heard about your dad. I'm sorry, Jimmy. Sorry about your mum too." He fixed his face in a suitably sorrowful expression. "But that's good about the dog. And staying with old Miss MacIntyre! Hey, what's that like? I bet it's scary."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "No, she's really nice and kind, but I miss my things. My bike and my games and my football. I need my fishing tackle too."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hey, how're you going to manage without your fishing tackle? Can't you go and get it from your house?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Miss MacIntyre said the soldiers were still searching it…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What're they searching it for?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Never mind… I can't tell you… but they're still searching it and then they're going to board it up, Miss MacIntyre said."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Bet they're searching for guns and ammo. Bet that's what they're after!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Can't tell you. Miss MacIntyre says I mustn't talk to anybody about things like that."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You can tell me, Jimmy. I'm your best friend. Anyway, everyone knows your dad was a fighter. My dad used to say he'd get himself shot one day, and he was right. I'm sorry, though. I liked your dad. My dad says the fighters are brave fools. That's what he calls them."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "My dad wasn't no fool," said Jimmy, standing up and rounding on his friend. "You just take that back!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Robert looked at his friend who, according to his mother, was ‘about as far through as a piece of lettuce', looked at the fierceness in his eyes and, for a ten year old, felt something approaching sympathy for another human being. "I'm sorry, Jimmy," he said. "I don‘t think he meant it in a bad way. He just thought the fighters didn't know that they were beaten. I liked your dad. I thought he was great."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy sat down again, tears forming in his eyes.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Robert put his arm around Jimmy's shoulders. "Tell you what, Jimmy, let's me and you go round to your house, sneak down the canal bank and see what they're doing there. If we can, we'll get your bike and fishing tackle. What do you think? I don't need to be home before mum gets back from work. What do you think? And if we see any soldiers, we can ask ‘em what's going on? What do you think? Come on, let's do it."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Alright," said Jimmy, "but I've got to be back at Miss MacIntyre's before six. Have you got a watch on? Right, come on, let's go."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> And they walked down Lambshear Lane, past the school main gates where mothers and aunties and neighbours were gathering their young about them, and some of the adults stopped as the boys made their way along the crowded pavement, nodding at Jimmy, faces set in socially acceptable expressions of concern and sympathy and fear for their own.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Come on, Jimmy," said Robert as they zigzagged through the shifting mass, "you can tell me, you know. What're they searching for?</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="section_break" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">4</span></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">167 Southport Road, Lydiate, was a small semi with a postage stamp-sized front garden, a narrow driveway along the side and a long, thin back garden running down to a very large sycamore tree, behind which was a raggedy wooden fence. Beyond the fence the Leeds-Liverpool Canal drifted its way at right angles to the garden, left to Liverpool where it emptied into the Stanley Dock, and right a meandering route via the famous Wigan Pier, eventually to Leeds. The canal at Lydiate, its banks, its fish, its bridges, the houses backing onto it, the allotments nearby, the farmers' fields in the background, the copses, the ponds, the towpaths, the derelict buildings with smashable windows – all these were known by Jimmy and Robert. They knew things about the area that only ten year old boys could possibly know. They knew the best hiding places, the secret pathways, the hollows where tramps sat and drank, the undergrowth where teenage girls allowed teenage boys to do things that they didn't want their mothers to see, they knew where rubbish was dumped and what could be scavenged from it to make huts, they knew where the rabbits burrowed and where foxes hunted them, they knew where the water rats lived and why fishermen couldn't catch roach near to Bells Lane Bridge. They knew all these things and yet hated classes in school, as is the way with boys who learn things best by playing Cowboys and Indians or Cops and Robbers… or war games.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The boys turned right into Bells Lane before reaching Jimmy's house, down to the hand-operated, wooden swing bridge over the canal, past the shop where they had bought many a lolly-ice. They crossed the bridge and turned left along the towpath, wandering idly along as though they were just boys doing boyish things, until they were opposite the back of Jimmy's house. They slid down the banking at the side of the towpath into familiar games territory, hidden behind bushes and brambles.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Can't see nobody in the garden," Robert whispered as he separated the twigs in the bushes that hid them to peer across the canal. He was in Commando mode.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy's head rested on his friend's shoulder as he took a look too. "They must have gone. They didn't find nothing."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "How do you know that?" Robert asked.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Can't tell you," said Jimmy. "I just know."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Are you going to tell me what they were searching for or not? I'm your best friend, remember!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I keep telling you, I can't, Robert. I just can't." He paused, looked again across the canal. "Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you. Alright?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Alright," said Robert, boy-loyalty and pester power rewarded at last.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But you've gotta promise you'll not tell anybody else. Not your mum or your dad or your sister, God strike you down dead if you do."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I promise," said Robert, spitting on his hand and holding it out to his friend. Jimmy spat on his own hand and they shook on it. The promise was sealed and binding, even under threat of torture or death. For little boys, with the certainty born of ignorance, are convinced that such threats are bearable.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Do you think they've gone?" Jimmy asked, peering through the twigs again.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Looks like it," said Robert.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Let's go round the front and check."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Just a sec," said Robert. He turned and stood up close to a chestnut tree, unzipping his shorts. "Bet you can't piss this high," he laughed, squirting his jet of urine up the trunk to almost chest height.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Bet I can," said Jimmy, joining him, both trying hard not to splash themselves when standing on tip-toe, giggling as drops spayed sideways onto their legs.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Beat you, beat you, you dirty little bugger!" shouted Robert, laughing and running out onto the towpath, zipping his shorts as he went. "Race you to the bridge!"</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">They turned right out of Bells Lane onto Southport Road, idling their way along the footpath that was separated from the roadway by a grass verge about six feet wide. Every few yards, Robert would find something interesting in the grass – a stone, a piece of wire and, sometimes, a decent-sized cigarette butt which he'd slip into his pocket. They wandered past number 167. The driveway was empty, the rusting wrought-iron gates left open and the house was deserted. Three crudely cut lengths of wood crossed the front doorway at random angles, their ends nailed into the door surround, their middles nailed into the green-painted door itself through blocks of wood underneath.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You'll never get in there," said Robert. "Not without taking all that wood off… and then how would you close it again after?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Don't need to get in," said Jimmy. "Don't want to get in the house. Come on, quick!" and he scampered down the driveway, followed by his burlier friend.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> They kept low as they rounded the corner of the house where the wooden shed stood, door ripped off and left swinging, and Jimmy crouched even lower, almost on hand and knees as he made his way down the garden to the tree and the rickety old fence. Robert followed, even more in Commando mode than before. Jimmy slipped through the fence where a couple of palings were broken. Robert squeezed through, ripping a hole in his jumper with the end of a rusty bit of wire sticking out across the gap.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Down!" said Jimmy, and both boys flattened themselves in the long grass behind the fence. Stinging nettles brushed their legs making them both flinch, but stinging nettles were easily dealt with once you could find a dock leaf. Neither boy made a sound as old Mr Watkinson in number 165 put some rubbish in his dustbin. They watched him rattle the lid back on the bin then hawk and spit, and bend over to blow his nose through his fingers onto the ground, long strings of snot hanging from his nose for a moment before gravity got the better of them and they fell to join his gobbet on the crazy paving. He wiped his fingers on his trousers before going indoors.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Ewwwwww," said Robert. "Wonder if he does that in the house?" They both giggled at the thought and the giggles grew wilder under the strain of the situation, threatening to become hysteria as they tried hard not to look at each other, red in the face, choking for breath with the effort of laughing quietly.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy eventually rolled over onto his back, staring at the blue sky through the branches of the sycamore tree where he had spent many hours clambering like a little monkey among its branches. He knew every crook and hollow and foothold in the tree. He had been Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan only the day before yesterday, rescuing Barbara Sharp's imitation of Maureen O'Sullivan's Jane from the cannibal natives of Darkest Africa. They had taken refuge in the sycamore and, as reward, Jimmy had got to see Barbara's navy blue knickers as she climbed above him.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm done," said Robert. "Can't laugh any more."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Me neither," said Jimmy. "I can't move yet though. My sides are aching."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Robert lay on his side, head supported by his left arm. "Come on, Jimmy, tell me. What were they searching for?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Watch," said Jimmy, and he crawled through the grass toward the edge of the canal, paused, checked that nobody was on the towpath and lay in his stomach, arms reaching down into the murky water. He grunted with the effort of stretching, then inched his way back holding the end of a rope. "Here, Robert, give me a hand with this, will you. Pull!" Robert gripped the slimy rope and the two boys pulled. "Slowly," said Jimmy.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The rope refused to move more than six feet or so. Whatever was on the end of it was stuck at the lip of the canal edge. "Keep hold of it," said Jimmy. "don't let it slip back into the water." He inched forward on his stomach, leaned over the lip and with a grunt pulled a small metal drum over the edge onto the grass. Whole bricks were attached to it by ropes wrapped around the drum. No wonder it was hard to pull up. He wriggled backwards with it to where his friend had relaxed his hold on the rope. "Quick, said Jimmy," let's get it over here, under the tree, out of sight."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "What's in it, Jimmy? Open it. Let's have a look. Go on, open it," said Robert.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I can't get into it," Jimmy said. "Dad sealed it and tied these bricks on it for weights so it wouldn't float. I don't know how to get in it without a hammer or an axe or one of dad's saws, and I don't want to spoil it. Come on, we've seen it's there. The soldiers didn't find it so let's put it back."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Wait! What's in it?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I promised I'd tell you tomorrow, not today."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "That's not fair."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "We shook on tomorrow not today so it's fair. Come on, Robert, help me get it back in the water."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Robert pouted and sat looking at the drum. "I bet it's guns. Or knives. Or secret maps."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I'm not telling you today. Help me get it back in the water and I promise I'll tell you tomorrow. I promise!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You better had," said Robert. "A promise is a promise."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Did you have a good time with Robert?" said Miss MacIntyre as she served Jimmy a plateful of sausage and mash.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, thanks, Miss MacIntyre. We played football on the school field."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Ah, I wondered how your clothes had got so grubby. Did you win?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Wasn't a proper game. We did swapsies with Dringo and Sharkey and Stuart Pearson."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Did you see any soldiers about the place? Mrs Evans was telling me there was a bunch of them searching the fields up alongside Millbank Lane. You know, where it runs though on that footpath to Butchers Lane. She thought it had something to do with the shooting yesterday but who knows? Whatever it is, some poor soul's in trouble. Where will it end, where will it all end?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy coughed and choked on a piece of sausage.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Drink some water, Jimmy, and try not to choke yourself in my house. Shandy would miss you and you'd look terribly untidy on the floor here."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Miss?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You know you said yesterday that perhaps it would be better if everybody stopped fighting and accepted the occupation?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I was just thinking out loud, Jimmy, that's all."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But did you really mean that, Miss? Should we let them steal our country? My dad said they were murdering bastards…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Jimmy! Language!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Sorry, Miss, but he did. He said they'd turn us into their slaves, they'd steal all our things. He said this was our country and we had a right to defend it. He said it was our duty to defend it even though they'd beaten our army. He said that any man who didn't defend it was a coward and deserved to be a slave."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Miss MacIntyre looked at Jimmy, still red in the face after struggling with the sausage, made worse by this burst of passion. She reached over and touched his arm. "I don't know, Jimmy, I just don't know. I think about it every night. I think about the waste of lives in the First and Second wars with Germany. I think of all the brave young men slaughtered in France and Belgium. I think about all the wars there have been throughout history as greedy men got their young folk to fight and die for them… and I wonder what good it has ever done."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But my dad says that you've go to fight for what you believe in, that if you don't you're not a real man."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Miss MacIntyre sighed. "It all depends, Jimmy, what you mean by ‘real man'. Sometimes it takes more courage not to fight than to fight. I just wonder how much worse it would be if we accepted the situation we had now, stopped fighting them, and just got on with our lives. Would it really make any difference to the ordinary man and woman in the street? Politicians might say it would, and so might those who would stand to lose lots of money but would it really matter to you and to me? I have this horrible feeling that we'd soon get used to it and, who knows, we might even prefer it to what we have now."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy glared at her. "My dad says," he began, putting his knife and fork down onto the plateful of unfinished food with a clatter, "that anyone talking like that is a traitor and…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The telephone rang. Miss MacIntyre went into the hallway and answered it, grateful to calm the moment with a pause.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Hello, yes," Jimmy heard her say. "Oh no, surely not. Say it's not true. When did this happen? Oh, the poor boy... oh, what a tragedy. I hardly know what to say, Gwyneth. The poor parents. How on earth can I tell Jimmy… oh, Gwyneth, what are we coming to when… is there anything I can do or is it..? Alright, Gwyneth, thanks for letting me know. I'll see you in school tomorrow. I'm heartbroken."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He heard her put the phone down and then sob. "I'll be with you shortly, Jimmy," she called from the hallway, and the door of her room opened and closed.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> For half an hour Jimmy and Shandy played in the garden, rolling around the grass, play-fighting. Shandy always won, signalling her victory with a series of licks to Jimmy's face as she lay on top of him, panting.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He heard the phone ringing again from inside the house.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Jimmy!" said Miss MacIntyre a few minutes later from the French window. "Can you come here a minute, please. I have something I need to tell you." Her face was tear-stained, her eyes were red and puffy. Jimmy walked over to her. "Sit down here next to me on the bench if you would, please, Jimmy. I have some terrible, terrible news to tell you. I'd rather not have to be the one to break it to you but…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Is it mum? Have they done something to her?" Jimmy's eyes pleaded with her.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "It's not your mother, Jimmy. It's Robert."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Robert?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "They just recovered his body from the canal at the back of your house…"</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Who did? At the back of my house? What happened. I only left him a couple of hours ago? What was..?" he gabbled.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Shhhhh, Jimmy, shhhhhhh, take it easy. It seems a soldier went back to your house and caught Robert in the back garden doing something he shouldn't have been doing. Nobody knows exactly what it was but the soldier grabbed hold of him and he wriggled free then jumped into the canal…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Robert can't swim!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "… and he just disappeared. They found him under the Bells Lane Bridge. Oh, Jimmy, I am sorry."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy sat on the bench, stunned.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "And I just had another call from Mrs Evans, the school secretary. She says the soldiers have found some gelignite in the canal at the end of your back garden. Gwyneth is thinking that Robert was caught with the explosive and that's why the soldier grabbed hold of him. That's why Robert was desperate to get away."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy was silent.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Look at me, Jimmy. Look at me now, and answer me truthfully. How did Robert know about the gelignite? Did you tell him? Did you know about it?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "I never told him there was no gelignite there, Miss. Honest, I never." And so literally honest was his reply that Jimmy was able to look his headmistress squarely in the face and appear innocent. "Honest, Miss. On my mum's life, I never told him about no gelignite."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The loss of a best friend can penetrate even a ten year old boy's immediacy in the world. It is true, innocent heartbreak without closure if death is involved, without the satisfaction of childish anger where the parting words are: "I'm not your best friend now." The news was too numbing for Jimmy to cry. He shouldn't have shown Robert the barrel. What did he expect him to do? Wait until tomorrow? Wait as Jimmy demonstrated the power of knowing something Robert didn't? But Robert had betrayed <i>him</i>, had betrayed Jimmy, his head argued. And, as with his response to Miss MacIntyre, he knew he was being literally honest with himself. He went to his room without saying a word and lay on the bed, holding Shandy.</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "He let me down," Jimmy murmured into the dog's floppy ear. "I promised. He promised. We shook hands on it. He got himself killed, not me. Not me. That's right, Shandy, isn't it?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Shandy lay on her side, one eye looking at him. She didn't seem convinced.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Miss MacIntyre was right. I can't trust anyone except you. You wouldn't let me down, would you? You'd keep a promise and not tell?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"I don't want you to go to school again today," Miss MacIntyre had told him the following morning. "I think you should only go back next week." Jimmy nodded, his breakfast toast uneaten. "I'd like you to stay here and look after Shandy again while I go in to see what I can do to help. And please stay in the house or the garden. Don't go wandering, do you hear?" Jimmy nodded again. "Yes, Miss MacIntyre," he had said.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The big black Bakelite phone rang at half past ten. "It's Miss MacIntyre, Jimmy," the voice said. "The soldiers are on their way to pick you up. They just called to ask if you were in school. They want to speak to you about Robert and about Michael Davey. They caught him last night. They say he killed one of their soldiers in Butchers Lane the other day. That's what all the shooting was about. He killed the soldier and stole his gun and he says he gave it to a young boy on Millbank Lane. They must have tortured him, Jimmy…"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy said nothing.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Are you still there, Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Jimmy, was it you he gave the gun to?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Jimmy said nothing.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Jimmy, it must have been you. The boy had a spaniel with him. That's how they know it was you. They've been asking questions around there. Are you still there, Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Yes, Miss MacIntyre."</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Was it you, Jimmy?"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You told me not to tell you anything, Miss MacIntyre."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "But Jimmy, they are driving round to the house now as we speak. Quick, Jimmy, I want you to run round to Mr Waterly's on Northway. Tell him I sent you. He'll know what to do!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He said nothing. He remembered what his dad had said: "Tell nobody nothing, son." He put the phone down, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and ran out through the open French windows, Shandy, barking in excitement, running along with him. He climbed the fence at the end of the garden, leaving Shandy behind with a quick stroke and a kiss to her spaniel face – "Be a good girl for Miss MacIntyre." - and made his way along the backs of the other houses until he came out higher up on Dodds Lane. A quick look left and right and he dashed across the road into Ormerod's hay field, then along the inside of the hedgerow where thrush, sparrow and blackbird eggs had provided fair game for young boys in the past, and into the barn. Leaping up the stacked bales he dived into his hiding place and lay panting, heart thumping in his chest. He'd hide there till dark, then make his way down to his house, force his way in, get some food, his knife and some spare clothes, and he'd use the towpath to walk down into Liverpool. He was sure he'd find someone in Liverpool to hide him. His Uncle Ralph lived there. He'd know what to do.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He sat and waited, hearing the occasional vehicle driving along Dodds Lane, watching spiders on the wooden slats of the barn, listening to the rustling of the hay as small creatures moved about, hiding in their turn.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> The guns! He thrust his hand down into the space between the bales. He pulled the bundle out and unwrapped it. Both guns were there, one with dried brown blood on it, the other clean and old-fashioned, looking for all the world like a gun that Hopalong Cassidy might have drawn in a gunfight at the Albany Cinema on a Saturday morning. It was heavy. He gripped it, like old Hoppy might have done. He put his finger on the trigger and pretended to shoot a soldier on top of the hay bale. "Pachaowwwww," he murmured, imagining the bullet sending his enemy spinning down to the farmyard. "Pachaowwwwww," and another one!</span></div></div></div><div class="pagers" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><br />
</b></span></div></div><div class="story_text" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.31;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He lowered the gun as he heard a familiar bark from the road. Then another from the farmyard. A bark followed by shouts in a foreign language, then running footsteps. He heard yelps of doggy excitement and Shandy appeared on top of the bales in front of his hiding place, panting, wagging her tail. More footsteps clattered into the farmyard and stopped in front of the barn</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Come out from there! We know you're there, Jimmy. Come out before we come and get you!"</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Shandy jumped down onto Jimmy's lap and licked his face.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "You told them, Shandy, you told them were I was! Tears poured down his face. I trusted you and you told them!" He pushed the spaniel away, roughly, with the gun in his hand, catching her on the ear with the muzzle. She cried in pain.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> "Come out, Jimmy. We won't tell you again."</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> He pushed the spaniel out of his den. He stood up, gun in hand and saw the soldiers. Two of them were carrying rifles. He lifted his gun, put his finger on the trigger and pretended to send one of the soldiers spinning to his death as the shots rang out from below.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.short-stories.co.uk/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></b></a></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-25568235525564713942011-03-28T01:08:00.001-07:002011-03-28T01:08:30.184-07:00The High Master and Little Billy Clough<h3 style="font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The High Master and Little Billy Clough</span></h3><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by <strong>John Waddington-Feather</strong></span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the course of a highly-prolific literary career, English writer John Waddington-Feather has written an amazing outpouring of work that includes novels, plays, children’s books, sermons, essays, poems, translations, and hymns.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/waddingtonfeather.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=29"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-85548085421152678582011-03-28T01:07:00.000-07:002011-03-28T01:07:12.401-07:00Coupling<h3 style="font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coupling</span></h3><img class="right" src="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/images/macleod.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; float: right; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 7px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px;" /><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by <strong>Alison MacLeod</strong></span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alison MacLeod was born in Montreal in 1964. She is the author of two novels, <strong>The Changeling</strong> and <strong>The Wave Theory of Angels</strong>.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her short stories have been published by Prospect, London Magazine, pulp.net and Virago.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She lives in Brighton and teaches creative writing at the University of Chichester.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://books.guardian.co.uk/top10s/top10/0,,2196885,00.html" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Read about Alison's top ten stories</span></a></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/macleod2.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=28"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Source</span></b></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-74902244011466143422011-03-28T01:06:00.000-07:002011-03-28T01:06:07.910-07:00The Will Writer<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Will Writer</span></h3><img class="right" src="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/images/macleod.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; float: right; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 7px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px;" /><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>Alison MacLeod</strong></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Alison MacLeod was born in Montreal in 1964. She is the author of two novels, <strong>The Changeling</strong> and <strong>The Wave Theory of Angels</strong>.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Her short stories have been published by Prospect, London Magazine, pulp.net and Virago.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She lives in Brighton and teaches creative writing at the University of Chichester.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://books.guardian.co.uk/top10s/top10/0,,2196885,00.html" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Read about Alison's top ten stories</span></a></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/macleod1.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=27"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-42131999932900710902011-03-28T01:05:00.001-07:002011-03-28T01:05:08.915-07:00The Calm Before<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Calm Before</span></h3><img class="right" src="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/images/mina.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; float: right; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 7px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px;" /><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>Denise Mina</strong></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Denise Mina was born in Glasgow but grew up around Europe as her family followed the North Sea oil boom.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Her first novel, <strong>Garnethill</strong>, won the CWA best first novel Dagger. 'Helena and the Babies' won the CWA short story of the year. After the Garnethill trilogy she wrote a stand alone, <strong>Sanctum</strong>, and then began the Paddy Meehan series.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She also writes plays and comics for DC Comics, recently finishing a year long run on 'Hellblazer'.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/bombs.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=26"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-68812482738316395662011-03-28T01:03:00.000-07:002011-03-28T01:15:25.654-07:00Magic & Childhood: three tales of innocence from Israe<h3 style="font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><h3 style="font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Magic & Childhood: three tales of innocence from Israel</h3><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">by <strong>Etgar Keret</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Israeli writer Etgar Keret has been praised for his surreal, funny and fiercely serious stories, which are collected in<strong>Missing Kissinger</strong>, <strong>The Nimrod Flip-Out</strong>, <strong>The Bus Driver Who Wanted to be God</strong> and <strong>Jetlag</strong>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">He is also the joint author, with Samir El-Youssef, of <strong>Gaza Blues</strong>, an attempt to bridge the Arab-Israeli divide with fiction.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">These three stories were published in Prospect magazine and also appear in <strong>Missing Kissinger</strong>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Download this story</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/keret.pdf">Adobe Acrobat pdf format</a></div></span></span></h3><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=25"><b>Source</b></a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-75374816141099573672011-03-28T01:01:00.001-07:002011-03-28T01:01:54.095-07:00St. John of the Miraculous Lake<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">St. John of the Miraculous Lake</span></h3><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>Rebecca O'Connor</strong></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Rebecca O’Connor was awarded the Geoffrey Dearmer prize for ‘Best new poet’ in 2004, and was shortlisted for the New Writing Ventures Poetry Award in 2005. She received a bursary from the arts council in Ireland to complete her debut novel <strong>He Is Mine and I Have No Other</strong>, and her short story ‘The Mayfly’ was an award-winner in the 2003 Virago/Marie Claire short story competition.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She was a writer-in-residence at the Wordsworth Trust in 2005 (her collection <strong>Poems</strong> was published by them in 2006), and she recently edited a book of Irish women’s short stories called<strong>Scéalta</strong>. She works as a fiction editor at <a href="http://www.telegrambooks.com/" target="_blank">Telegram</a> in London.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/thinkpiece/index.php4?pieceid=12"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Read Rebecca's thoughts on editing Scéalta</span></a></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/oconnor.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=24"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-42813427057564173682011-03-28T01:00:00.001-07:002011-03-28T01:00:59.810-07:00How the Tiger Got Its Stripes<div class="columnheader" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 20px;"><h3 style="font-size: 23px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.1em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">How the Tiger Got Its Stripes</span></span></h3></div><div class="feature" style="clear: both; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 20px; text-align: left;"><img class="right" src="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/images/hogg.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; float: right; margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 7px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px;" /><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>Nicholas Hogg</strong></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Nicholas Hogg was born in Leicester in 1974.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After graduating from the University of East London with a psychology degree, he travelled widely, living in Japan, Fiji and America. He is now settled in London teaching literary skills to refugees.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Winner of the New Writing Ventures prize for fiction in 2005, and twice shortlisted for the Eric Gregory award for young poets, he has recently completed his first novel, <strong>Show Me the Sky</strong><em>.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">More of his work may be read on his <a href="http://www.nicholashogg.com/" target="_blank">website</a>.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/hogg.pdf"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Adobe Acrobat pdf format</span></a></div></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=23"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-57689168866310239552011-03-28T00:59:00.001-07:002011-03-28T00:59:54.038-07:00Smile Mannequin, Smile<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Smile Mannequin, Smile</span></h3><img class="right" src="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/images/newland.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; float: right; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 7px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px;" /><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>Courttia Newland</strong></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Courttia Newland was born in 1973 in west London. He is the author of four novels, has co-edited three anthologies (including <strong>IC3: The Penguin Book of New Black Writing in Britain</strong>) and is a co-founder of the Tell Tales collective, a short story initiative. He was Chair of the judges for the 2005<a href="http://www.booktrust.org.uk/prizes/jlr/jlr.php" target="_blank">John Llewellyn Rhys Prize</a> (awarded in 2006).</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The 12 stories in <strong>Music for the Off-Key</strong> delight in the dark, the grotesque and the uncanny.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">'Smile Mannequin, Smile' is reproduced by kind permission of the author and Peepal Tree Press.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/newland.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=22"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-59852356460698537492011-03-28T00:58:00.002-07:002011-03-28T00:58:53.666-07:00An Anxious Man<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">An Anxious Man</span></h3><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">by <strong>James Lasdun</strong></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Download this story</span></strong></div><div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/anxious.doc"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Microsoft Word document format</span></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=17"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4623995628816216116.post-58141643449383001082011-03-28T00:58:00.000-07:002011-03-28T00:58:01.035-07:00Men of Ireland<h3 style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><h3 style="font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Men of Ireland</h3><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">by <strong>William Trevor</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Download this story</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/ireland.doc">Microsoft Word document format</a></div></span></span></h3><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/index.php4?storyid=16"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Source</span></a></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Articles collected from various sources.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com