LIKE A JEWEL, by Pauline Fisk

The rocket man said no way.  There were some things he wouldn’t stoop to, and bagging moon dust for sale on earth fitted into that category, especially sale by some company operating out of Jersey, calling itself Planet Earth Holdings. 

The company texted, phoned and emailed him, not only at Space Control UK, but at home. He declined to reply.  Even after he’d been launched, they were still trying to make contact. It was as if they imagined mobile phone masts up in space. All they got back, however, were engaged beeps that went on and on.

After this, Planet Holdings’ PR people started a grass-roots campaign raising public awareness to the value of moon dust, cosying up to the right journalists and paying hard cash to a couple of useful blogsite. The idea was taken up too fast for a tipping point. It caught like wildfire. 

Suddenly everybody was blogging about the properties of moon dust and what they called its ‘distribution crisis’.  Pride in the achievements of the UK Space industry turned to discontent. All this messing around with rockets, paid for out of the public purse - pound for pound that moon dust belonged to the man and woman in the street.  Their rocket man, funded by their taxes, had a public duty to bring it back.

People started phoning Space Control UK.  God alone knows how they found the number. The story made it onto the radio, and then TV.  Phonelines filled up with indignant callers demanding moon dust as their human right. Some wanted it sold to raise money for good causes. Others reckoned it should be administered directly to those causes, others that it should be divvied up by Lottery.  There were arguments about what would happen if the EU laid claim to it. Some subtle voices whispered that the safest hands were the good folk at Planet Earth Holdings – a company nobody had heard of before, but whose shares[on the subject of sky rocketing] were now aiming for the stars.  

Questions were asked in Parliament.  The government had crippled itself, accused the Labour front bench, attempting to prove its position on the world stage.  Its ridiculous space programme had brought the country to its knees - and were they now denying its citizens access to what effectively was their own moon dust?  A nationalized industry needed setting up, making it available on a basis of need. No way, announced the Tory front bench.  Moon dust should be privatized. Already discussions with Planet Earth Holdings were under way.

At this, a mob took to the capital’s streets. The matter was discussed in Cabinet.  Riots kicked off around the country and a COBRA meeting was convened. Rumours abounded about moon dust’s properties. The Government’s Chief Scientist was called in. Air Force chiefs advised. The people from the UK Space Industry were called in.  The Americans had something to say. So did the Russians and Chinese. The Pope issued an edict. So did Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. All three agreed that it wasn’t ethical to remove dust by rocket-load from the moon.

Everybody had an opinion, but no agreement could be found as tis often the way.  The Cabinet was split.  The Prime Minister was prevaricating. The Deputy Prime Minister was no fool.  He appraised the situation and seized his chance.

Up on the moon, the blackness of infinity was so intense that the rocket man could not just hear it, but actually see it sing.  Dust lay like fallen stars beneath his feet.  The earth shone like a jewel. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

[copyright©Pauline Fisk 2013]

THE SIDE EFFECT OF WAVES, by Nathalie Hildegarde Liege

He lives at night. 

Breakfast at 2.00pm, lunch at 5.00pm, dinner listening to midnight radio. 

So many hours on his Nexus 7 tablet too.

His optician told him that he had to start eye muscle exercises using cards with patterns including circles, and that a grey film in his lenses would ease the side effect of waves in screens he uses.

His home is a small rented flat, top floor, opened to the world as well as to every sunset through a wide window. The curtains are of a flat green material, closed all day as he sleeps.

He has read many books, made of not the simplest sentences, and now attempts to share with people his writing. 

He wishes they will perceive that in his studies, his eyes are like the rays of dawn.

 © Nathalie Hildegarde Liege  2013

JOINING UP, by Liz Lefroy

Sometime in late May, I woke to the sound of the van door slamming. A few birds were at full dawn throttle.   I looked at the clock on my desk and rolled over pulling a pillow over my head.

When the birds had quietened down to something more civilised, I went down for my Weetabix. There were two chunky KitKats on the kitchen table and a folded piece of paper.  The note read: ‘I am going to join the French Foreign Legion.  Give my stuff to Oxfam. Au revoir.  Ian.’  

I thought of Ian’s £136 debt to the kitty.  I thought the French Foreign Legion was a thing of the past – like Opal Fruits and Leningrad.  A thing involving broken hearts and underfed men wearing caps with flaps on the back to keep the sun off in deserty places like Algeria.  I thought of Steph.

Back upstairs, I pushed open the door to Ian’s bedroom and flicked on the light.  No shade.  No bloody shade.  3 ½ years, and still no shade.  The West Bromwich Albion curtains were closed.  

Whatever Ian had packed and taken had hardly made an impression on his stuff.   His blue and black striped duvet lay at half mast down the side of the king-size bed.  Three mugs stood on the pine chest of drawers amidst cans of Lynx.  The black leather IKEA recliner chair was piled with dark T-shirts and what looked like every one of his Angry Birds socks.  The Homer Simpson boxers he’d been given by Steph for Christmas lay on top like a conquering flag.  All the precious stuff, in other words, left.  I switched off the light, and reversed out.

From my desk, I could see the empty drive.  I Googled French Foreign Legion.  Wikipedia says that the process of recruitment has four stages.  The first lasts up to a week in a centre where the preliminary information sharing is carried out before transfer to Paris.  The second involves confirmation of motivation.  Selection takes place over one to two weeks in the Centre in Aubagne.  I Googled Aubagne and found out that it’s 11 miles east of Marseilles and that the HQ of the French Foreign Legion is located there.  The final stage is the signing of the five year contract.  In as few as nine days, or four weeks maximum, Ian could be signed up as a trainee Legionnaire.  I wondered if Steph knew.

I heard a key in the front door and looked at my watch.  I went downstairs, met Rob in the hallway.  His face was grey.

‘Bad shift?’ I enquired. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’  He followed me into the kitchen.

‘Ian’s gone,’ I said.  

‘What do you mean, gone?  Did he pay his £136?’ I showed him the note.  

‘French Foreign Legion!  Idiot.’  

‘He left you this.’  I chucked Rob a chunky KitKat.   Rob peeled back the red wrapper.  

‘Bastard,’ he said.  ‘Idiot.’  Then:  ‘How much d’you reckon his stuff would fetch on eBay?’

© Liz Lefroy 2013
For Tristan

Seamus Heaney, Vaguely, by Barry Tench

I only ever close my kitchen window when it’s really windy. The frame is so ill-fitting there seems little point, so it rests at ninety percent rattling on its metal arm. Occasionally a pigeon will land on the sill and look in over the ceramic white sink. I live in the centre of town, so garden birds are rare. This morning I come face to beak with a crow sheltering from the 8.00am drizzle. It doesn’t fly off or even flinch as I enter the kitchen barefoot. It tilts its head and shifts its weight leg to leg.

Mid-morning I’m sitting on the 41 as it rumbles up the Wyle Cop over the cobbles. The November grey is dense enough for the shop lights to be on. The 41 comes to a halt on the High Street and lit and quivering it waits as passengers alight. The bus pulls away leaving a man standing in front of HSBC in a crumpled grey suit; he looks like Seamus Heaney, vaguely.  I cross the road to the coffee shop, order tea and think about a young Chinese woman I met at an interview for catering college in 1974. There is an advert for willow pattern china in the glossy newspaper supplement. I project her onto the blue bridge that arced across a plate. I want to fall in love with her all over again, even though I only knew her for three minutes thirty years ago. 

I wipe the case of a CD I had just bought – Otis Span, just for the track “Country Boy Blues”. I flick through the pages of a translation of the poems of Sappho that I’d bought at a second hand book shop as I sip my Earl Grey.

The doors of the coffee shop bang open. In flows a pink mother and a buggy steered by an enthusiastic five year old, his sister clutching the sides of the buggy as he hits the door frame for the third time. The father follows, bearded, directing the traffic. The Heaney-man has bought breakfast tea and sits puffing a macaroon on the table in the window.

I think about bridges, bridges over rivers, over roads, over valleys. We constantly cross over bridges. I plot a route from home into town avoiding crossing a single bridge.

Afternoon I’m looking through an anthology of Greek verse. I listen for the rhythm, dig for half remembered lines from grammar school days. The washing up seems to wobble having reached its limit of haphazard stacking. The Greek poets parade across my brown and beige linoleum. I search the classics for love but find only academic dust. One hour is linked to another. The clock ticks on. Is there a bridge between the minutes? Time is continuous but each second separate from the next. The phone rings in the flat above.

As the sun sets behind the multi-storey car park I perch precariously on my window seat. 

Fuel, by Adrian Perks

When we listened to the not Allen Ginsbergs spout their song

we misbehaved.

Their political drone drove us mad.

In the smoky cellar we talked

and exchanged words

on each other’s notepad.

Your song tasted like camembert and wine.

Every time I read a little I die.

I looked for the perfect line.

The evening was saved by post-industrial guitar.

A beautiful man with stunning hair experimented

with sound, his ringlets getting sweaty in the heat.

A tall woman stood still with her bass guitar.

Everything was long.  She looked like a goddess

dying from the street.

They played white noise.  My body hummed.

We talked about music.  You smoked

your Lucky Strikes and made me feel cool.

The DJ put on the song you liked.

You looked like a 1960s vision.

CLIFF, by Adrian Perks

I had been here before.  I’d been here with you. On this cliff, this ocean, with its rocking waves crashing against the shore.  And my heart beating so fast you would think I would die, thumping against my chest so hard that you would think it would explode.  And the tears that I knew would come started streaming down my face, mixing with the salty spray that hit me from straight ahead.

Why had I come?  I had come to find out something, to find out who I am.

And so I stood and looked, my feet toppling at the edge, the waves crashing below me, ominous in the darkening evening.  The black slowly replacing the light that used to be here: the green grass going; the white frothiness of the sea fading from my sight.

And soon it would be night.

I closed my eyes and dreamed.  I remembered the beach where we took the kids for donkey rides.  I remembered your smile beaming its way across your face as you opened your mouth for the first time and opened my heart.  I remembered the feeling of getting the job that thrilled me, and how you greeted me with opened arms and summer kisses.  I remembered the alcohol that failed me, being trapped by the warm feeling in a glass, and my repeated search to find that warmth once more in every drop.  I remembered our rows and the scared look on the faces of children.

It had been a while since I had seen you smile.

My eyes reopened.  Gone now was all the light.  All I had was my non-sight: the tease of the spray thrown against my face; the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks; the fishy smell of the ocean; the taste.

I was on the edge.

Why had I come?  To change the lives of the ones I loved.

The ones I loved.

I closed my eyes.

The cold wind blew salty spray against my face.  I saw your smile.

BREATHLESS, by Carol Caffrey

The girl ran through the dunes, the sand sinking beneath her panicked feet.   Her muscles ached with the effort of the climb, and several times she had to stop herself screaming as she tumbled, losing nearly all the ground she had gained.  She could hear the sea on her left, and the occasional screech of the gulls, but it had been several minutes since she had been able to catch sight of the water.  She had lost her sandals several hundred yards back and the torn strands of her tee-shirt flapped in the wind as she ran.

She knew she was losing ground, but forced herself onwards.  Surely she would come within sight of other people soon?  Where were the day-trippers who had crowded the pavements earlier that morning?  The children who had poured out from the train station into the fairground?  The dog-walkers and kite-flyers?  She took a moment to look behind her and saw her pursuer calmly descending a sand dune she had slid down not a minute before.  Had he seen her?  Gasping with fright, she launched herself once again into the desperate bid to outrun him. 

The next dune gave her a sight of the sea.  Her shocked gaze took in the fact that the tide had come in, cutting off her escape route that way.  She spun around, trying to spot the shortest way back to safety.  With a whimper she headed for where she thought the path lay, oblivious to the marram grass tearing at her shins.  There!  Surely she couldn't be wrong?  Wasn't that the faint strain of the hurdy-gurdy?  

Suddenly she heard a grunt behind her and realised her pursuer was almost upon her.   Almost crying with relief she recognised the  hollowed-out patch of burnt grass that signified the beginning of the path back to the road and threw herself into it. 

"Den!" she cried in triumph, and laughed as her brother threw up his hands in defeat.  "Ok, you beat me to it this time, but admit it, I had you scared, didn't I?" "Not even for a second," she lied.   

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, by Carol Caffrey

Laurita loved the desert at night.  Bristling with life, it sang of the infiniteness of things.  As she sat under the Joshua tree she sometimes believed the nocturnal rustlings were the sounds of her ancestors, returning to Avikwa’ame, the Spirit Mountain. She pictured Mastamho as he drew a line in the sand which became the Colorado River and saw the mud from its banks become the mountains.   

Once, the Mohave Indians were known as the Aha Macav, the people who live along the water.  Laurita supposed she was more Mexican than Native American, whose tribes had moved between camps in the vastness of the desert.   But wasn’t that what she, Raul and the little ones had done for years, following the work as one mine closed, then another?  Well, the niños were not so little now, and there would be no more wandering. 

Ai-ee, enough of this wool-gathering, she decided; time to go home.  Creaking a little, Laurita swung herself into the family’s ancient jeep.  It’s a good job my backside has plenty of meat on it, she thought, as the jalopy bounced along the arroyo.  Soon, if the Gods were kind, the rain would come, and the cracked, dry bed would overflow for a few precious days.

“Gabriela, are you there?”  Laurita whispered, as she rattled the door handle of her little home.  She’d forgotten her keys again and didn’t want to waken Raul if he’d managed to sleep.  Where was her daughter?   “Gabriela? Open up!”

“Momentito!”

Laurita stared at her husband in surprise as he opened the door. “Raul! What are you doing up?  Where is Gabriela?”

Raul smiled at her.  “Come sit by me.”  He patted the couch.  Laurita, still puzzled, sat down gingerly beside him.

“Gabriela is in bed, fast asleep.  She was tired after the concert.”

“What?  She went?  I told her she couldn’t go.”

“I know.”

“I told her to stay here and look after you until I finished work.”  Laurita clenched her hands in dismay. 

Raul picked up a piece of paper and gave it to her. “I know, but I had a good day, querida.  I told her you’d changed your mind and said she could go.  Here, read her note.”

Laurita unfolded the paper: Mama, I had the best time.  Thank you.  I love you.

“Oh.”  She smoothed the paper and held it to her breast.  “She hasn’t said that in a long time.”

“I know.  But she does love you, you know.”

Laurita smiled at him.  “Not too much pain today?”

“No, I told you, a good day.”

“Yes,” she breathed thankfully, “a good day.” 

Outside the wind chimes sounded in the quickening breeze. 

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.

IT HAD TO BE YOU, by Carol Caffrey

He had to have her.  It was as simple as that.  Consumed by her beauty, he thought of nothing else for days on end.  He forgot to sleep, eat - even to wash - and spent his time devouring her image and planning their time together. 

He arranged his courtship with military precision.  The accidental brush against her in the coffee shop, a contrite offer to replace her spilt drink, some light-hearted banter followed by a coincidental meeting at the theatre later in the week.  Then, a lunch or two at the tennis club, the occasional film or gallery opening and, finally, an intimate dinner, cooked to perfection at the best restaurant in the city.

It was a faultless campaign, but their time together always ended on her doorstep.    She did not invite him across her threshold, nor could he lure her into his lair.  Always, always, he was kept at a distance.  What was the matter with her?

Then one day, and then another, he saw her with someone else.  He could not believe his eyes.  Such betrayal, and with someone so unworthy of her, so unworthy of taking his place.  Long-haired and unkempt, what could such a foul creature offer her that he could not?  He, who was so much more deserving?  Consumed with rage, he planned his revenge as meticulously as he had planned his wooing.  

The attack was swift and deadly; a dark street, a powerful car and he was gone from the scene without being noticed.  Day after day, he watched as the people came and went to her apartment; the police, friends, the funeral undertakers.  He forgot to sleep, eat - even to wash - and spent his time planning how he would comfort her and devour her with his love.

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.

A TIME TO EVERY PURPOSE, by Lisa Oliver

Nell nuzzled her head against me.  I rubbed her nose. Her eyes fixed on me and I swear she knew. It was barely dawn.  Everyone but Jim was asleep.  He insisted the night watch suited him but I think he likes to watch out for us.  He says us young ones are the hope for the future but I don’t know.  We’ve lost too many. 

He came to meet me at the gates.  ‘You taking her out?’  He nodded his approval and patted her neck.  He turned the winch and the metal barricades opened.  Nell stamped her feet, anxious to get going.  It hadn’t affected the horses or the dogs.  For some reason our natural companions had been spared, and we were grateful for this small mercy. 

I rode without a mask.  I breathed in a sharp lungful of sweet air, aware of the risk as I did so.  In the freedom of the morning with a horse beneath me and an open field ahead of me, it was one I was content to take.

Jim nodded at me to go on.  I felt fear run through me.  No-one ventured out unless they had to.  Not after Simon had returned, barely alive.  

I kicked at Nell’s flank and felt the sudden jerk of movement.  We were away, kicking up clumps of damp earth, a faint mist cooling my face as she galloped on.  I saw a pack of dogs in the distance.  They looked well nourished.  There were clearly pickings to be had.  Pickings I didn’t want to dwell on.  One of them approached me, its tail up, expectant.  We needed dogs, good ones. He trotted along beside me, looking up at me every now again, panting a smile.  Today was not the day though.  When I paid him no attention, he gave up on me and ran back into the wastes. 

 I pulled on the reins, turning Nell onto the road south. It was the road Eve and I had ridden in on all those months ago.  When we’d found the settlement, they’d welcomed us.  We both knew it was because of Nell.  What use was there for a half-ruined man and his pregnant wife?  But one horse had carried the vote for both of us. 

*

The metal groaned as Jim opened the gates.  ‘It’s alright lad, I’ll take her now.’  I dismounted.  I didn’t look at Nell again.

*

Eve was in the communal room, nursing our son.  He pulled at her nipple, his fist slapping at her breast in frustration.  I sat down next to her, putting my arm around her fragile shoulders.

‘Is it done?’ she asked.  I nodded.  We would eat well tonight.  Her eyes filled with tears.  Then she looked down at our son.  ‘Good,’ she said.

copyright©Lisa Oliver

MISSING BILL, by Lisa Oliver

Hannah says sometimes the voices are loud and clear, other times she only hears whispers, hints of a presence.  Hannah hasn’t heard his voice yet, but says she’s sure Bill’s there. She says she can see a man with a thick head of white hair. Well, that’s Bill to a T.  He was always so proud of his hair, it never thinned.  And Hannah says he is very smartly dressed.  He did look lovely in a suit.  I used to be so proud of him when we went out.  He liked to treat me to Sunday lunch every week.  Even when he couldn’t drive any more he’d treat us to a taxi down to the White Lion.  He said I shouldn’t be cooking on a Sunday; it was a day of rest. Oh, I do miss him.

Hannah says he is with me still, he’s never left me.  He’s just on a different plane.  One that I can’t, now, what was the word?  Oh yes, one that I can’t ‘connect’ to.  It’s hard to understand, but she’s ever so clever. Really puts it in a way that makes sense.  She can connect you see.  She’s got a gift.  I’ve been seeing her for a while now and she says Bill’s presence is getting stronger all the time. My friend Lizzie has been going to see her for years.  She lost her daughter you see.  Hannah’s been a great comfort to her. 

I never expected Hannah would be able to help me too.  I was ever so sceptical the first time I went.  Lizzie persuaded me, she said if it wasn’t for me then at least I’d given it a try.  She knows how much I miss Bill.  Well I would, wouldn’t I after being married to him for so long.   Lizzie said I couldn’t carry on like this.  She was right too. I did feel so much better after I saw Hannah.  I felt like I had a little bit of Bill back with me.  She said he was there next to me, resting his hand on my shoulder.  I couldn’t feel anything mind, but she’s such a nice girl; she reassured me he was right there. 

Our Sandra thinks I should leave well alone.  She says it’s an expense I can’t afford.  I don’t mind though, it’s worth it.  And I don’t mind cutting back a little bit if it means, well, if it means I might hear from Bill.  I do miss him.

copyright©Lisa Oliver

SUMMER KISSES, by Lisa Oliver

It wasn't her world

it was mine

The only pebble on the beach

Her replica

running for the sea

Looking for pebbles 

but finding me

A name I'll never know

because I didn't ask

My other self

walked away

A found poem from the short story, 'The Only Pebble on the Beach' by Pauline Fisk.

Poem found by Lisa Oliver. Title taken from a piece of flash, 'Cliff' by Adrian Perks.  

Copyright©Lisa Oliver

THE ONLY PEBBLE ON THE BEACH, by Pauline Fisk

Nothing prepared me for it.  It was not an exceptional day. We were on my favourite beach - that’s as special as it got - me and my friends having a good time. 

They were the ones who saw her first - a woman down at the water’s edge who looked just like me.  I became aware of the nudging, and glanced where they were pointing. Dear God, it was like looking at myself. The shock broke over me like a wave. It wasn’t only the clothes that did it – the black t-shirt and sawn-off jeans that were just like mine. It wasn’t even the hair turned white prematurely like mine, or cut like mine, or the jutting chin or cheekbones. 

No, it was the way that other person carried herself.  It went through me like a knife, separating blood from bone. If that ever happens to you, you’ll know what I mean. She came slowly up the beach, fishing for pebbles with her eyes, picking up her choices, pocketing the special ones, throwing away the rest. She was lost in a world of her own. Except that it wasn’t her world.  It was mine.  

By now, our entire party was riveted, looking from her looking like me to me looking, I guess, exactly the way I felt - which was overwhelmingly embarrassed. This was worse than any possible public dress malfunction. If my soul had been revealed to the world's gaze, I couldn’t have felt more exposed. Never have I felt so vulnerable.

Only when that other person drew level did she raise her eyes. Instinctively I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. I could have asked who she was, but I wasn’t curious.  I hoped she’d walk on. I didn’t want her asking who I was. Didn’t want to find I had a secret twin. Didn’t want to wonder what my mother, all these years, had kept hidden from me. Dear God, hidden from us.

That other person saw, of course. I didn’t have to see her seeing me to know she saw her replica.  Her shock broke over me like another wave. I swear I felt the two of us being sucked down the beach like pebbles running for the sea. Each had thought she was the only pebble on the beach, special and unique.  Now here I was, making less of her whilst she made something ordinary of me.

So, there you have it. Not much of a story you might think.  Just some person looking for pebbles but finding me, skirting round the subject whilst I hid my face, then sauntering on, emptying her pockets as if something had been spoiled. 

But there are secrets here that will never be revealed. A hidden truth set in cheekbones, chin and hair. A name I’ll never know because I didn’t ask, enthroned on my beach, surrounded by my friends, missing my chance, whilst my other self walked away, wearing her solitude like a crown.

Copyright © Pauline Fisk 2013 

www.paulinefisk.co.uk

WHO'S CRAZY? by Pauline Fisk

We found the hand on the cliff-path at four o clock in the morning. We’d been up all night looking for Abe. The sky had turned from black to blue. Stars had melted, taking with them the night shadows. The sun had risen - and there it was. 

          We knew it was Abe’s because of the ring. Julia had the other half.  They were, in all senses, the perfect pair.  We found Abe’s other hand on the beach, and a foot on the shoreline as if thrown out to sea but washed back in.  Other bits appeared. We even found blood.  You don’t expect to encounter blood on a beach as beautiful as that one, the sea a strip of silver, not a sound but breaking waves.

 As in all detective fiction, there were coincidences. Huw happened to be a forensic scientist, able to date Abe’s death from fingernails and gums [yes, we found his head]. Pete was a retired detective inspector.  Bluntly he announced what we all knew – that the evidence pointed to one of us. 

 This beach was private, he said, impossible to access except by boat.  The entrance through rocks was known only to the beach’s owner, and his special friends.

 Well, it couldn’t have been Pete. He was the one who’d raised the alarm. Besides, policemen are upholders of the law - and you can’t dismember your own brother without breaking the law.

 But it couldn’t have been Huw.  Noble Huw, whose life was built around the truth - the dedicated scientist people trusted to a fault. Life was his subject. He’d too much respect to ever take it away [though according to rumour he had a thing for Julia].

 And that brings us to the gorgeous Julia. It couldn’t have been .  Not Abe’s wife.  His right hand gal, he always called her, and she’d always mock-sigh and answer, ‘Yup, that’s me.’

 So that leaves yours truly.  Could it have been me? Stalking through the night, cleaver in hand, chopping up and disposing of my best friend? We’d been through school together, everything. He knew my secrets and I knew his.  Could I once have sworn to get him, and now I had?

 As it turned out, police work solved the crime in record time.  The murderer was a man of foreign accent discovered sleeping rough down the beach.  He protested his innocence, but Huw said forensic evidence pointed to him, Pete said that murderers always gave themselves away and Julia said she’d disturbed him shortly before the first hand. There’d been a moment when their eyes had met. ‘I thought then that he was crazy,’ she said.

              And what do I say? What do I care? Abe was a beast. We three know that. One of us killed him. One of us lied – and to expect murder to be solved in just five hundred words makes this author crazy too.  The truth lies unrevealed, and I've just hit five-one-two. Which means it’s over to you.

Copyright © Pauline Fisk 2013

www.paulinefisk.co.uk