Blue Sea Writers

Beware the Unweather

Wed, 07 Jul 2021 12:00:00 Z

The final day of the year of our Lord 726 AD was much like any other day. Across the Kingdom scrawny chickens pecked at grubs on muddy village greens, dogs barked and the border wars raged. A chilled north wind threatened the coming of the January unweather.

* * *

Something was wrong; the village gates were open and unguarded. He held the reins tight as the old horse with its head low, followed the water-filled wheel-ruts into the stockade. No candlelight burned in the windows, no torches lit the muddy village green. He should have heard singing from the small wooden church and a pastor telling the congregation how they were the Chosen Ones.

A Chosen One was not a blessing but a curse. Those who believed they were chosen were arselings. He kept those beliefs hidden, as he did the collection of forbidden objects in his cart. King Aethelred’s men didn’t bother an old man with a guitar, a limp and a clapped-out cart. He was safe enough.

Where were the excited children who always ran out to greet him? Why were there no Elders waiting with their pompous authority? Wherever he travelled, his songs and stories were rewarded with food, drink and a bed for the night. They had precious little other entertainment. Sometimes there would be a few shillings if the King’s tax collectors hadn’t got there first.

He pulled hard on the reins, the horse’s neck jerked up and the cart creaked to a halt by the first row of deserted huts. A waning gibbous moon doused the village in a sickly yellow light. His horse snorted, its harness jangled; the sound echoed between the empty huts.

Now he was closer, he spotted a faint glow from a flickering burned-down candle through the window of a hut. He got down from the cart, his back ached and his right leg was stiff and seized up. Twenty years ago on the borders, a Scottish lance had gone through his thigh without touching an artery. God’s will, the army pastor had said. It was a pity God hadn’t the will to save the hundreds of dead and mutilated on the battlefield. That reply went unsaid. It doesn’t do to question authority.

He tied his horse to a post and limped to the door. The walls of the hut were sealed with dried London clay. London. So much was named after the mythical city, even the mud.

He rapped once on the door and it swung open. “Hello?” he called, peering inside. The crack of a dying ember in the fireplace his only reply.

He shuffled in. A line of thin smoke rose towards the hole in the roof from the fireplace ashes. A dark wooden chest lay on its side, the drawers out and their contents tipped onto the hard-packed earth floor. He walked to the table in the centre of the room, split leather boots crunching on the spilt items unseen in the gloom.

The candle he’d seen through the window was almost extinguished. Thick wax had hardened over a small slim glass bottle that served as a candlestick. There were two plates with partially eaten cold pork and boiled potatoes. His ears pricked, his eyes circled the room, checking the shadows. A tingling rose along the base of his neck.

Several fresh candles were scattered across the tabletop and on the floor. He lit four one by one from the dying flame. He melted the ends and stuck them upright on the table. The room was a mess of broken furniture and smashed objects.

His eyes fell on the glass candlestick with the now dead candle. The bottle was smaller than a wine bottle and curved like the lower half of a buxom woman. He’d never seen anything with this exotic design before, perhaps it was from Frankia? Maybe it was a forbidden object? Hardened wax followed the lines of something shaped beneath it. He dug his thumbnail in and scraped it away.

He fished under his cloak and in the pocket of the heavy woollen tunic. His fingers wrapped around round metal-framed reading glasses. He pushed them on his nose and peered at the bottle, now cleared of wax. There were two embossed words in a strange cursive style joined by a dash symbol. It was difficult to read in the low light. He brought the bottle closer to one of the candles and traced the script with a calloused fingertip: Coca-Cola. These strange words confirmed it: this was a forbidden object.

He put the bottle in his pocket for the collection. He lifted a candle from the table and knelt to the floor, knees and right leg fighting back against him. His ears and mind were still sharp and alert. He held the candle to the floor; it was covered in a carpet of smashed objects. He recognised some, never understanding what they were. He picked up a hand-sized slim rectangular object with a shattered glass face, SAMSUNG S9 inscribed in silver on the back.

He had found several of these objects before and stored them with his other forbidden objects. Some carried the picture of an apple with a bite. The soldiers would make him disappear if they ever found them on him.

He picked up a ripped tunic made from no fabric he’d ever touched before. Smooth and light like silk but without the rich texture. It weighed less than a bag of peacock feathers and was in the colour of the evening sun. A large silver tick symbol on the front glistened in the flickering candlelight.

A broken golden chain caught his eye, glinting from the floor. He picked it up. A heart-shaped locket the size of an arrowhead hung from the chain. It had a hinge on one side and a lip on the other. He pushed the candle into the floor and picked at the locket catch. It popped open and he held it to the light.

He threw it across the room and it hit the wall with a clink. This was witchcraft — the miniature face of a smiling young man had stared back at him from inside. What sorcery was this? He waited for his breathing to calm and his heart to stop racing. There were so many things the priests could not explain; saying God moves in mysterious ways offered no enlightenment.

It was time to leave, he could not be found in such a place, too many forbidden objects.

A faint shout broke the silence; his body went rigid. He pulled himself up using the tabletop. He returned to the front door. Another shout. A man’s voice. It had come from the other side of the deserted village stockade. He touched the handle of his sword.

He limped out of the hut. More shouts, the sound of a horse braying. It must be the villagers but why were they outside the stockade after dark? Wild animals prowled at night: the big cats, hyenas and wolves. He hobbled to the open gates and staggered around the perimeter wall, slowing as he approached the source of the noises. He heard muffled voices and a horse breathing, it’s lips vibrating together.

He peered around the corner of the twelve-foot-high stockade wall. Moonlight glinted on iron helmets of two of the King’s soldiers. They waited on impatient mounts next to a huge overgrown patch of undergrowth. He pulled back behind the corner, heart pounding. Soldiers. Not good. His legs were weak with fear.

“Let's go,” said one, an accent from the northern counties. “I have no wish to be in this godforsaken treacherous village a moment longer.”

The other grunted in agreement and looked to the northern sky.

"The storms of the January unweather will be here tomorrow, Selwyn.”

They turned their horses and kicked their heels. He waited for the darkness of the forest to swallow them before peering back. The old man moved towards the bushes. Why had two of the King’s soldiers been hanging around on the edge of the forest on New Year’s Eve?

The north wind whipped up against his cloak, the promise of the storm stronger by the minute. Fork lightning lit up the horizon, the rumble of thunder followed several seconds later.

He should leave but inquisitiveness interfered. He trudged to the undergrowth to see why the soldiers had been waiting. Someone had cut a narrow path through the thick brambles. He limped along the cleared channel as dark clouds raced over the moon. An animal moved a few feet away, it sounded small, a fox or a badger. An owl called. No voices, no horses. That was good.

The end of the cleared path was in blackness. He blinked, trying to get accustomed to the darkness, it was as if the path ended in a back hole. He reached out, shaking, palm forward. His hand rested on a smooth surface. Glass. He stared for a few moments more, the clouds passed, the moon glistened once again. He faced a door of glass, over seven feet high. Behind it there was blackness. The door to hell, this village was bewitched.

Above the door, behind some uncleared brambles, a blue sign hung down from a rusted screw. He stretched up and pushed the brambles away with the tip of his sword. He twisted his head to one side and read aloud. "Welcome to London Heathrow Terminal 5." London?

That’s why the soldiers had come, the villagers had uncovered a forbidden building. They were now with the disappeared.

“Hey, you.”

He spun around. Six soldiers on foot stood at the entrance to the path, swords drawn. He backed against the glass.

“We missed one.” An officer pointed at him with the tip of his sword. “Go and get him sergeant and put him with the others.”

The burly soldier approached him, an enormous club in one hand. The old man cowered and blackness came.

* * *

The first day of the year of our Lord 727 After the Death was much like any other day. Chicken pecked, dogs barked and the border war raged. The unweather arrived that morning.

Missing Inaction

Wed, 02 Jun 2021 12:00:00 Z

William Morris was always home at 6 pm on Mondays. The train pulled in at 5.55 pm and it was a five-minute walk home. When his train was delayed, which was often, he always called to let her know so she could have everything ready for him at his new arrival time. It was now 6.15. There had been no call. That was not like William. He always called.

Karen stared out through the backdoor window. A low sun glowed across the neatly trimmed garden lawn to the shed at the bottom. She stared a few moments more before picking up her phone and calling her husband’s number.

There were more modern models, the battery didn’t last and the screen was cracked. William said it was a waste of money to buy a new one as she didn’t go anywhere important. The tech companies only wanted to sell
more units by giving them shinier covers, fancier names and apps no one needed. His model was the latest but that was different, he went to important places.

A muffled ringtone came from upstairs.

She hung up, waited a few moments, and rang again. The muffled ring sounded. She strode out to the hall and up the stairs grasping her old phone. Her free hand slid up the white bannister, a fine layer of dust stuck to her fingers. William hated dust and she didn’t miss the constant smell of lavender polish. Her swollen lips throbbed in pain from the faint smile at seeing her blackened fingertips. Small victories but no less satisfying.

The ringing got louder as she approached the landing; it came from their bedroom. It was like a hotel room on arrival. The vacuum cleaner lines from a couple of days ago were still faintly visible like random train tracks across the cream carpet. The ironed bed-cover was sharp, starched and as white as the plain walls. White was William’s favourite colour, as was grey.

Matching pillows lay on either side of the double bed, his smooth and wrinkle free as he expected every night, hers lined and with a head-sized dent in the middle. Built-in oak-effect wardrobes went over the bed head with floor to ceiling units on either side: an effective use of wall space. According to William.

The ringing was loud and from William’s bedside shelf. He preferred the side closest to the door as he needed to get up to pee at least twice during the night. Problems for men of a certain age. He’d been annoyed when she’d used the word prostrate. It was unclean, crude. He told her through gritted teeth and a red face to say, men’s problems. She breathed out hard and slow, shaking her head, her legs weak. She’d paid for that transgression.

His latest model Smartphone stopped ringing and went to voicemail.

“William, where are you?” she said into her phone and hit the red screen button. She picked up his phone, missed call Karen 18.17. Her knuckles knocked over the bedside lamp and she moved to pick it up. William expected everything straight and ordered. She stopped and left it on its side. That felt good, small victories.

It was odd to hold his phone, as if she was breaking a law. She guessed she was in some ways. She pressed her fingertips around the case then put his phone down, trotted downstairs and opened the front door.

She paced along the black and white Victorian-effect tiled path bordered by short clipped hebe shrubs. The plants were practical: waxy evergreen leaves
and flowers all year round. He liked practical. The garden was her job, the decisions his.

William said there were man jobs and woman jobs; men went out to work, women did everything else. It didn’t pay to debate. Sometimes it didn’t pay anyway. She touched her swollen eye with a delicate touch and winced.
She leant over the barred gate and looked past their box-square front hedge.

At the end of the street commuters were streaming away from the station to their homes like a swarm of escaping rats from a docked ship. She spotted a face she’d seen in the neighbourhood before.

She raised a hand, waved and forced a smile. “Hello, how are you?”

He looked back without recognition.

“Any problems with the trains this evening.”

The commuter shook his head, looked down, and walked on.

She called after him. “My husband hasn’t come home, he’s missing.”

From the corner of her eye she saw her next-door neighbour walking out of the front door, a large white bag for life hooked over a shoulder. Karen didn’t know her name, they’d never spoken. William hadn’t liked them from the moment they’d moved in last year. He thought they were ‘stuck up’. He named her Queenie and her husband, Prince.

Karen cleared her throat to attract ‘Queenie’s’ attention; she couldn’t exactly call out, Hello Queenie.

The neighbour stopped a moment, looked up, glared and walked on. Queenie had accused William of being responsible for the disappearence of her two cats a couple of months ago. He didn’t like cats. Or any animals. Cats serve no purpose. Like rats, he used to say, we need a cat cull around here.

“William’s late home from work this evening, I think he’s missing,” Karen said as ‘Queenie’ passed by.

‘Queenie’ stopped, hitched the bag higher on her shoulder and held a glare. “Maybe the evening’s looking up for all of us then.” She walked on.

Karen suppressed a grin.

She went back indoors, sat on the sofa and scrolled through her phone for her
husband’s boss’s number. William said his boss was one of them. William never elaborated about what that meant apart from his tone suggesting one of them was not a compliment. Karen knew not to ask.

She pressed call, inclined her head and tucked the phone under her brown
supermarket brand dyed hair.

“Armstrong.” William’s boss picked up before it rang.

“Hello Mrs Armstrong, it’s Mrs Morris here.”

“Ms.”

Karen frowned. “No, I’m a Mrs.”

“I meant me.”

A long moment passed.

“What can I do for you Mrs Morris?” Ms Armstrong hit the word Mrs with a heavy emphasis.

Karen heard nails clicking on a keyboard and then a hand scraping over the microphone. Ms Armstrong gave sharp muffled orders to someone Karen assumed was a cringing underling.

“I called to find out what time my husband left the office today.”

“I’m sorry?” The typing stopped.

“I called to find…”

“Yes, Mrs Morris, I understood what you said but I don’t know why you said it. William sent me a text this morning to say he was unwell and staying at home. I hope he’s better because he’s got a lot of work to catch up on tomorrow.”

Karen didn’t reply.

“Mrs Morris?”

“Are you sure, Mrs Armstrong? William wasn’t ill, he went to work this morning as normal. He hasn’t come home and he’s missing.”

“It’s Ms.” The typing restarted. “I suggest you have a word with him when he turns up from wherever he is and inform him I don’t allow shirkers in my team.” The call cut.

Karen’s hands shook and she placed the phone beside her. She breathed in a giant gulp of warm air and let it out slowly. She wrapped her hands around herself, feeling the pain in her arms. It would go away.

She googled the local police station and called. It rang for several minutes.

The line clicked and she heard shouting before a strained female voice answered. “Police, how may I help you.” It sounded like the last thing the officer wanted to do.

Karen cleared her throat. “Hello officer, my name is Mrs Karen Morris and I want to report my husband, William Morris, as missing.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Morris.” She heard a finger tapping on a keyboard.

“How long has William been missing?”

“About thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“Yes, it’s most irregular, he always calls when he’s late.” There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Karen added. “Aren’t you going to put out an APB or something?”

Karen heard a long sigh. “Mrs Morris, maybe you should check the pub.”

“He doesn’t approve of alcohol, officer. He’s missing and didn’t go to work today. I’m Mrs Karen Morris, 69 Acton Drive. It’s near the train station.”

She heard a keyboard clacking. “OK, call back in twenty-four hours if you haven’t heard from him. Good day. Madam.”

The line clicked dead.

Karen went to the kitchen, got a bowl and filled it with milk. She took it to the back garden and put it down on their paved patio. The neighbour’s two new cats watched her from the top of the fence as she backed away from the bowl. They leapt down and ran to the milk, tails erect, mewing. A faint smile crossed her lips.

She went back in, poured a long glass of the rosé she’d left to chill in the fridge and carried it through to the living room. She settled on the sofa. She picked up the remote and flicked on the TV. It had been a long time since she’d been able to choose evening programmes.

She rubbed her sore arms, William’s favourite target when he had time to think about it; the bruises could be hidden under sleeves. Sometimes he didn’t think about it.

She looked back along the living room and out through the patio doors. The small shed stood square and solid at the back of the long garden. William had got builders to put it up over the old submerged oil tank they’d used before piped gas arrived in town. The tank was no longer entirely empty.

Tomorrow, at 6.30 pm sharp, Karen will call the police back. William will still be missing.

Ambush in Arizona

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 19:00:00 Z

The wagon was on its side, one wheel snapped from its axis. Open cases, bags and clothing were strewn over the hard flat sand for several yards. Two bodies lay prone on the bare ground, small pools of dark-red blood soaked into the soil.

Remy August pulled his horse to a stop, grasping at the reins tighter than necessary. The roan stallion reared its head, brayed, and scraped its front hooves and snorted.

Remy patted its neck, “Easy, boy.” His words as much for him as the horse. The morning air was still and silent.

He unholstered the rifle and cocked it with a twist of the wrist; the sharp metallic ratchet sound echoed through the silence.

Remy slid off the saddle, spurs clinking, legs stiff. His eyes darted around the scene ahead, goosebumps over his entire body. He straightened his wide-brimmed hat against the sun and rubbed one hand over a greying stubbly beard.

A light gust rustled through a crop of long dry grasses beyond the wagon. A red-tailed hawk squealed from a line of low dense bushes behind the upturned wagon.

The horse brayed again, teeth bared. “Steady, boy, steady,” Remy whispered, stroking its nose. It calmed. He let the reins drop and moved towards the closest body.

Long dirty-white petticoats flowed out from under a calf-length black dress. The woman’s blond hair was matted with dust, mud and blood. The back of her skull was smashed open. He put a hand against her forehead and over the single bullet hole. Warm. He guessed she had been shot within the past couple of hours.

He knew too much about death; he’d been with the dead at the battle of Pacacho Pass. He touched the raised six-inch thigh scar through his rough black denims, twisted his head, hawked and spat.

He stood and his knees cracked; he rubbed a hand against the small of his back. He stepped around the wagon’s empty horse harness, the ground crunching under his dusty black boots. There was no sign of the animal that had once pulled the wagon; the harness straps had been undone. Someone had taken it.

The second body lay on the other side of the wagon. A blond man with a sunburnt face and five red-rimmed bullet entry wounds grouped around his chest. Empty blue eyes stared at an empty blue sky. Probably settlers from northern Europe.

Several bullet cases were spread over the ground around the body; there had been a short fierce firefight. A straightforward case of ambush and robbery. There were plenty of criminal gangs in Arizona and natives fighting back against the settlers’ encroachment. The promise of free land meant it was worth the risk for some. These two had lost that gamble.

Remy crouched on his haunches and touched the ground around the dead settler. His eyes weren’t what they were and up close he noticed a series of small footprints around the body.

He shuffled back to his horse and took his binoculars from the saddlebag. He put them to his eyes with one hand, his other on the rifle. He peered into the distance. Nothing but the thick bushes, patches of dead grass and flat desert plains. The landscape shimmered through the lenses. The natives were welcome to this land: hot, dry and never-ending. In a couple of days, he’d be out of this godforsaken place forever.

A metallic click sounded behind him. His skin prickled cold.

“Hands up, mister.” A small voice. One of the dead couple’s children?

He raised his hands keeping the rifle in one hand. Footsteps crunched around him. A small teenage girl and a younger boy. Two pairs of grey-blue eyes looked up at him from light-skinned chapped faces. Their unkempt blond hair was almost white. Brother and sister. Each held a revolver in both hands that shook and waved. They pointed at his face.

“You’re safe now, kids,” he said, lowering his aching arms.

The girl raised the barrel of her revolver. “I said hands up, mister.”

“It’s OK, kids. I’m real sorry about your folks.” He nodded his head towards the two dead adults.

The children stared at him, guns pointed.

He pulled what he hoped was a kind face and forced a smile. “Lower your guns, kids, I’m not one of them bad guys and you need to be careful with loaded weapons.” He wiped the back of a hand over his sweaty forehead. “I’ll take you to town, we’ll look up the Sheriff.”

“Drop the rifle and keep your hands up, mister,” the girl said.

“It wasn’t me what did this, li’l girl, but I can help you. The Sheriff’ll get a posse together. Hunt down them bad guys what did this to your parents. I know it won’t bring ’em back, but…you know.”

The girl glanced for a short moment at her brother, nodded towards Remy’s horse and looked over to the two bodies.

“Those two weren’t our parents, mister. And neither are you.”

Finders Keepers

Wed, 06 Jan 2021 12:00:00 Z

It goes without saying that being drunk, tired and lethargic on a wet winter night is not the recommended strategy for making an instant fortune. But it is how Robert Taylor did it. Maybe.

Slumped on a cold bus-shelter seat, trying to read the evening newspaper while waiting for the night bus, his heel hit against something. He flopped his head forward between his legs and looked backwards under the seat. A large brown leather briefcase sat in a puddle.

He hiccoughed and dropped the newspaper. A gust picked up the pages and pegged them against the illuminated advertising board in the shelter. He had enough problems of his own without the blaring headlines about local drug gangs.

The world was against him. It might have been better if they had fired him, the demotion was worse; a daily humiliating reminder of putting a decimal point in the wrong column and losing the company £20M in a microsecond. It might have helped if Janet had supported him instead of complaining she’d have to find a job and economise on his lower salary. And moaning about what her sister would say. You’d expect a wife to support you through thick and thin. Now was the thin and all she did was moan.

He slid the case out and placed it on his lap. He burped and it carried away on the wind. A solitary black cab with its light on splashed towards him, windscreen wipers flapping. He stood, staggered, put out a waving hand and it sped past.

Robert sat back down and pushed up on the case’s catches: they didn’t give. He squeezed his eyes at the indicator board: N29 — due. He got up and fell against the glass shelter, a gloomy red bus approached and he put out an arm.

He staggered onto the bus, case under one arm and pressed a card on the reader. Multiple times. Each time a red LED and a bleep signalled failure. Strange, he’d topped up that morning.

“It’s your library card.” A world-weary metallic voice came from the driver’s perspex screen. The bus pulled away.

He located his bus travelcard after a swaying search through trouser and coat pockets. He clicked in and tottered to the back of the empty bus. He placed the case on his lap and pushed rebellious thumbs at the catches. It opened with a clunk. He had been pressing up instead of down.

The case was full of neatly packed £50 notes wrapped in bank slips. He slammed the lid shut. He lifted it again. Bundles of £50 notes. His eyes widened and his lips parted into a gormless smile. He looked around despite the vacant seats. An electric buzz fought through his clouded mind.

A yellow post-it note was stuck on one bundle. He pulled it up to bleary eyes: sǝʇou pǝsn ‘spunod puɐsnoɥʇ pǝɹpunɥ ǝʌıɟ. Russian? He frowned, turned the note and squinted: Five hundred thousand pounds, used notes.

He flopped back against the seat. He must be hallucinating, he should never have had those shots. Who leaves £500,000 at a bus stop? Or that bottle of wine. Who cares? He’s rich. Or those beers. Sod the company. Or the double vodkas. Sod Janet’s sister too. Oh dear, the cocktails.

He should call the police. No he won’t. The street had been deserted and the bus was empty. Who would know? 500 grand; this was his chance to change everything. A gift from above. A new life. A wife who wanted him again.

He clutched the case to his chest, his grin grew and the bus rumbled on.

Where was he? What time was it? He ground at sore eyes with the balls of his hands, his mouth like a bowl of dust. He sat up in last night’s clothes and coat. He had one shoe on, the other was upside down on the coffee table. He slid off the sofa and stood and swayed. Something acidic burnt his throat, his head thumped like being hit repeatedly on the head with a shovel by Janet. Janet. Loud bangs came from the kitchen. Trouble.

He staggered to find and placate his wife and to locate the medicine of caffeine. Janet was in her new supermarket uniform slamming cabinet doors.

“Please,” he said, putting his hands up. “Quiet?”

“Had a good night?” She folded her arms. Her impassive face failed to disguise the flames in her eyes. “At least someone here is trying to earn money rather than piss it up the wall.” She looked to the ceiling and huffed. “A supermarket job, really. Do you know what my sister said to me when I told her? Her husband is in line for partner. And how are we going to afford skiing this year and to make the payments on the Mercedes? I need a new dress, a coat, shoes.” She transferred her hands to her hips, face pinched, slitted brown eyes fixed on him.

He loved her in her serious mood and, to be honest, the uniform. It was so…, he didn’t know what it was but it was sexy, even in supermarket blue polyester. He tried to smile but had to swallow back something disgusting.

He shuddered and grabbed her hand. “Bugger your sister, I’ve got something to show you.”

He pulled her to the living room, hobbling in one shoe.

She pulled a face, shook his hand away and stepped back, her face creased. “Smells like an explosion in a brewery.” She folded her arms tight against her chest.

He spread an arm out. “I found a briefcase.”

She pursed her lips.

“Full of money.”

Her disinterested eyes scanned the room and settled on his upturned shoe.

Panic flashed across his face. “Where’s the damned case? Five hundred grand.”

Janet tapped a foot.

He knelt and looked under the sofa, up to the top of the sideboard. Around the room. He was sure he hadn’t left it on the bus, he’d clamped the case to his chest like it had half a million pounds in it.

She raised a single eyebrow.

He rushed around the room, head spinning. He went out to the hall and came back. “It’s not here.”

“So it seems.” She pushed past him. “A drunken fantasy?” She strutted to the front door and picked up a large packed gym bag “I’ve got to get to work. Then I’m enrolling at the gym. I’ll be late.” She hoisted the bag over her shoulder and sloped sideways with the weight.

“But I found half a million pounds.” He scrutinised the floor, avoiding her accusatory eyes. “I think?” His forehead creased into lines of doubt and he looked up. “You hate the gym.”

The door slammed. He clamped his palms to his temples. Where did Janet keep the Ibuprofen?

Robert raced past the pile of free local newspapers at the station entrance, they fluttered in his wake reporting an upsurge in drug-gang warfare over a missing payment drop a month ago. He was running late for a job interview.

Janet had never returned home the day of his drunken dream about finding half a million pounds. She never went to her job at the supermarket that day or enrolled in the gym. Only her passport was missing.

Up on the Roof

Wed, 04 Nov 2020 12:00:00 Z

Roadie Reg dragged the speakers, amps and cables up onto the flat roof. Musically, he was tone deaf and about as creative as a plate of cold mince. He listened to hippy-dippy rock, had long lank hair and wore a Deep Purple tee-shirt, which all proved the point about his creativity. He wasn’t on the cusp of rock and pop stardom like me, or my fellow band members, but he was our mate. So we made him our road manager. Without the manager bit.

Being musicians and creatives, we didn’t do heavy lifting. Of course not, that was Roadie Reg’s role. And a neat alliteration.

I followed Reg up onto the roof with my bandmates. We plugged our guitars into the amps and laid down in the afternoon sun. As Reg hadn’t brought up the drums yet, Gary the drummer was still downstairs. He was watching Saturday afternoon TV, a cowboy series called Bonanza. Gary never had what it took to be a rock star.

Wayne, lead singer; Richard, lead guitarist and I, bass and vocals, laid on the roof in the summer sun with our shirts off. Reg did the things that roadies do, whatever that was. Gary watched TV. We had an hour before our show, plenty of time for a summer tan and a cheeky beer or two. Richard had smuggled up four cans of cheap ale in his guitar bag.

Reg suggested it might be a good idea to do a sound check. He was too serious, which is why he was the roadie (not manager) and we were the soon-to-be-mega-star musicians. Did you ever see John Lennon or Mick Jagger saying one-two, one-two into a mike?

While Reg set things up and Gary watched TV, we discussed the 3/4 beat, the E flat minor scale and classmate Susie Ford’s boobs. We decided to include Get Back by the Beatles in our set list for today. It was pretty easy to play which, on reflection, was the main criterion. We hadn’t ever got round to practicing it, but really, how hard could it be?

We looked up into the hazy sky from our rooftop position. The thin high clouds were wisps of white vapour across a light-blue sky, not a breath of wind disturbed the stillness. I passed the beer cans around and we drank the thin warm yellow liquid. It reminded me of something else. I chose not to share my observation with the others.

Chimes from an ice-cream van became louder as it turned into the street. It was playing a classical piece. I recognised the tune, but I didn’t know the title. Naturally.

“Anyone want an ice cream?” Gary’s dad bellowed up from the front garden.

We sat up. Did rock stars eat ice cream? We weren’t sure but to be on the safe side Wayne shouted down, “Yes please, Mr Day.”

He passed up four cones, a cold chocolate flake bar protruded from each swirl of soft white ice cream. We let Reg take a break before it melted.

Gary’s dad told us the tune from the ice cream van was Fur Elise by Beethoven and we might want to learn it.

“Beethoven needs to roll over,” Wayne said and the three of us doubled up in a fit of giggles.

Gary’s dad rolled his eyes and went back down the ladder. Reg looked at us, his face blank. Being a hippy-dippy, he didn’t understand Wayne’s clever musical allusion to Roll Over Beethoven by Chuck Berry. It’s why Reg is the roadie and, most definitely, not the manager.

We soon had to move, the sun was burning our chalk-white hairless chests and the tar from the flat asphalt roof was melting. It had stuck to our backs. Reg brought the drums up while we wiped the sticky black gunge from each other’s backs with a handkerchief and spit.

Gary followed Reg up, full of enthusiasm about a cowboy called Hoss and Sheriff Coffee. The time was fast approaching when we would have to find a new drummer; someone cooler and with a better name. Gary — I ask you, what kind of rock-star name was that? We’d advertise for someone with a funky name like: Ringo, Ginger Baker or Keith Moon. Drummers needed great names to make up for having no musical ability whatsoever. I mean, all they did was bash things with a couple of sticks. And watch Bonanza.

It was time to start. We got up. I jumped in the air, hit an opening bass riff and landed legs apart, one arm waving like a broken windmill sail. Nothing. Not a sound aside from a car passing in the next street and two little kids splashing in a paddling pool two doors down. Reg hadn’t put the plug in.

Once fixed, we began our roof-top concert with Get Back. Or I did. Richard started with Proud Mary. We probably should have discussed it. Gary hadn’t noticed the conflict in song choice and was busy bashing the drums. Wayne put his hands on his hips and waited for us to sort it out. Our audience down below also waited. It consisted of three girls from school who fancied Wayne and next door’s dog who wouldn’t stop barking.

Richard and I compromised on Maggie May and we were off. Richard couldn’t do the lead guitar solo, it was difficult to be fair. We did some la-las instead. I don’t think anyone noticed. Or cared if I’m honest.

We played two more songs, more or less in tune. Gary’s mum came out into the front garden and stared up at us, a hand shielding her eyes from the low sun.

“Would you boys like some lemonade and ginger biscuits”

We looked at each other. That sounded pretty good. We delegated Roadie Reg to bring it up. Let’s face it, you didn’t see Paul McCartney or Keith Richards serving lemonade. It’s not just about the music, it’s the attitude too.

Reg went to climb down.

“Oh no boys, you’ll all need to come down.” Gary’s mum said.

We unplugged our guitars and clambered down the ladder. Gary’s mum carried five tall glasses on a tin tray with the reproduction print of a thatched cottage. Lemonade bubbles fizzed up from a single point near the bottom of each glass.

Gary’s mum sniffed the air. “Have you boys been drinking beer?”

“No, Mrs Day,” we said in unison, looking at the parched brown lawn beneath our feet.

She told us to stop being silly boys and sent Gary in to do his homework. Our first (and as it turned out, last) roof-top concert was over. Wayne, Richard, Reg and I went to the park to play football.

We made Reg the goalkeeper because he was useless at football. But he was our mate.