Tombola E-Book

Paul Purnell

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 397

Beschreibung

When a storm sweeps a stranger into the inn on the moor, the locals, seeking refuge, wonder who he is and why he is there. When a second stranger seeks shelter, a mystery begins to unravel with dreadful consequences. (The Storm) A prisoner's first day of freedom spirals into a series of pitfalls he can hardly escape, leading him into desperate trouble. (Day One) Escaping from Syria a brave man faces danger and a life changing decision. (Escape from Syria) In this medley of stories, the scene shifts with every tale. Some are exciting, some dramatic and some humorous, but the reader is gripped every time. This collection contains some stories from prize winning entries, some published before and many new ones. The author's talent at setting the scene, creating authentic characters and convincing plot lines is evident in this fascinating collection. A perfect book for all readers who love a well fashioned yarn.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

By the Same Author

Introduction

Day One

The Tango Lesson

In The Beginning

Artist At War

The Hireling

I Should Have

Harlequin

Play The Game

Sacrifice To Kali

Incident At Casa Verde

The Club Tie

Escape From Syria

Lady Bellamy’s Dilemma

She Loves Me

Marcellus In The Forest

Tea And Sympathy

The Storm

Many Happy Returns

Circumstantial Evidence

Three Shepherds

Bitter Choice

The Dark Lake

Health And Safety

Thank You Mr Rotherstein

A Letter To Alice

The Broccoli Debate

Take My Pulse

Blighted Exile

Urn Return

Izzat

The Earth Moved

Ithaca Regained

Peace Deal

All Souls Day

A Countryman

Dewi Morgan

West Bay

Live The Dream

Warrior Wolf

Count Fosco

The Pecking Order

Star Shine

The Mariner’s Spell

About the Author

Copyright

Also by the same author

‘The Hireling’

‘Scaramouche’

‘The Storm’

‘Dangerous Cargo’

‘The Kazak Contract’

(First of the James Ballantyne series)

‘The Tontine Trap’

(second in the series)

INTRODUCTION

I have called this book of stories ‘Tombola’ because it is a medley of differing styles and subjects. You can dip into it and find something interesting every time.

Despite what my publishers tell me, I firmly believe there is a demand for short, punchy fiction. Every commuter, parent and bedtime reader needs a short read for their enjoyment. The iPhone, iPad and Kindle have changed the landscape of modern living. Reading requires a new ‘espresso’ format to satisfy the impatient reader.

If I am right, a large potential readership has no convenient format to boost their imagination and enjoyment. If one of these stories does not appeal to you, I am sure the next one will.

Paul Purnell

paulpurnell.com

DAY ONE

Wayne collected his gear and waited at the front gate. The winter air was bitterly cold and he shivered in a skimpy T-shirt and jeans. His bony frame showed through the thin material.

“Right! Pick up your gear and follow me,” said the senior Screw, as he took the main gate key from his chain. The wicket gate swung open. Wayne stepped through carefully. He wanted to savour his first steps to freedom.

Two years had passed since the day he stood in the dock at Old Bailey and was sent down. Two years to pay for a stupid mistake. That was the day he vowed never to carry a knife on a job again.

He checked the cash they gave him on release: a twenty-pound note with no change.

Very handy! he thought. How do I get a ticket from the fucking machine with this?

White City tube station was a half-mile walk and he dumped his gear in a bin on the way. He began to breathe more easily as he got further and further from The Scrubs, but the noise of traffic and the speed of the vehicles came as a shock.

When he got to the tube station, there was no ticket office – just a ticket machine. He jumped the barrier and climbed up to the platform.

Clocked up one already, he mused, still it’s their fault – no way to pay anyhow.

Soon the train ran underground and from then on he found it hard to sit still. The gloom and the noise plus the crowd pressed in on him. He could feel the pulse in his temple throb, his throat felt dry and he crossed his arms as if warding off an attack. He could stand it no longer, so he jumped off at Queensway, pushing through the barrier after the person in front. This part of London was unfamiliar and it was a surprise to see the green of Hyde Park just a short walk away. Its bright open space made him blink and he paused on the pavement and looked around.

“Watcher looking for, darlin’?” A voice behind him made him turn and a girl with a pale face and dark red lipstick was walking up to him. He tagged her – peroxide blond hair – leather bomber jacket – torn jeans – for what she was.

“Saw you wanderin’, and felt you needed a little company sweetheart.”

“That’s true. How’s business?”

He was curious and felt glad to be speaking to her though he had no money to spend on her.

“Never mind that, it’s cold, just let’s chat and ’ave a cup of tea. I live around the corner so you can make your mind up after that.”

It was amusing to chat to this brassy tart and he could spend a few bob on a cup of tea – no worries – he’d break it to her later he was no punter. She put her arm through his and he felt the warmth of human contact run through his body. He realised how much he’d missed it for the last two years.

They walked a few yards to a workmen’s cafe on the corner of Queensway. Inside, he went to the counter to get their teas and she sat at a corner table. The men eating at the counter watched her as she sidled into her seat and crossed her legs, dangling a shoe from one of her feet.

“It’s a bit early for trade isn’t?” – Wayne was no chat-up master – “I mean, how often do you get fixed up at this time of the morning?”

It was half past nine. He felt as if it was later but realised he’d been up since five getting ready.

“Depends,” she said looking him defiantly in the face. “The Arabs stay out all night and come around at any time.”

Wayne bit off the remark which came to his lips: What sheikh was likely to go for a brassy cheap blonde? So he just nodded.

She began to gain confidence.

“So what’s your line of business then?”

“I’m between jobs at present but I do a bit of this and that, you know.”

He looked down and watched her reaction with a sidelong glance. She bent her head to meet his gaze.

“You’re just out of the nick ain’t you?”

Again, he nodded.

“There’s that look about you. I missed it when I spoke to you, but I can see it now.”

“Then you know I’m skint and you’re wasting your time!”

She smiled and to his surprise she looked almost pretty but the hard lines around her mouth and eyes returned quickly.

“Don’t fret yourself. It’s too bloody cold for business anyhow.”

He smiled at the reality of her life and thought to himself: I’ll never be brought this low – I’ve got to get some bread somehow.

“What’s so funny?” she bridled at his grinning face. “You’re not so clever, doing time. I never been inside and don’t intend to neither.”

He wiped the trace of his smile away.

“You don’t understand, I’m thinking of the life I’ll lead when I get a break.”

“What sort of break are you talking about? Your chances of a good job are nil.”

She’s no optimist, he thought wryly.

“No, I mean when I can get into a good deal with no questions asked – if you get my drift.”

He looked at her to see if she really understood what he meant.

She sipped her tea and looked around. The other customers had all gone, only the fat man behind the counter remained and he was deep in The Mirror at that moment.

“Happens I know someone who could help you out, if you like.” She looked him in the face.

“Depends if you can cut it with ’im to keep your end up.”

Wayne sat back in surprise. Was this tart well connected? Walking the streets in the morning and well connected?

He took a long sip at his tea.

“How come you know someone on the go?”

She stared at him and he noticed for the first time how green her eyes were. It had been a long time since he’d felt the kick of sexual feeling.

“Well, maybe a friend has jobs going, but not for strangers.”

He realised at once her “friend” was more than a pimp – maybe connected with the drug trade – they usually were.

“Is he about?”

“I could give ’im a bell if you want. What’s your name?”

“Wayne,” he didn’t feel like giving out more info, “tell him I’m fit.”

She smiled at this. “Yes,” she said, “I can see that.”

He grinned and cadged a cigarette from her while she tapped her iPhone. After a short wait, she spoke to somebody and he couldn’t quite make out what she said as she held her hand over the phone.

“He says wait here and he’ll find you.”

“Fair enough, I’ve nowhere to go at the moment. How will I recognise him?”

“Just ’ave a guess.”

They talked a bit about how life had changed in the last two years and he noticed how she glanced at the door every few minutes.

Ten minutes past and the door pushed open. She looked up and said, “You took your time… this is Wayne I was talking about.”

Wayne took a keen look at the man who walked in. A big black man about six three – his skull shining in the fluorescent light – broad features and heavy brow – a look of malignant power. He was dressed in a dark double-breasted suit and wore a silk T-shirt – no collar. On his fingers were two big gold rings like knuckledusters.

He sat opposite Wayne and turned to the girl dismissing her with, “Cherie, get us a coffee will you?” She slid out from the table and went to the counter.

After a pause, Wayne took the first step.

“Maybe you need some help on a job? I might be interested.”

The big man frowned. “What makes you think I’d take you on? Cos she says so?” He nodded towards the girl. “Who the hell are you?”

Wayne shrugged. “I’m just a workin’ man who likes the good life and can get a job done, if you get my meaning.”

The black man scrutinised Wayne’s getup – old T-shirt and jeans. He grinned. “Sure, I can see you live the high life!”

Wayne frowned. “Look, if you want to talk business, go ahead – but don’t take the piss. I’m just out of the Scrubs and looking for work, so if you ain’t got some, then say goodbye, drink your coffee and shove it.”

The man’s features relaxed and the fixed, hard look faded.

“Cool it,” he said, “just playin’ wiv you. What was the crime you didn’t commit?”

His mouth opened in a grin as wide as a piano keyboard.

“I got involved in a heist from a supermarket. Did two of a four-stretch.”

“So what was your job?”

This is like a fakkin job centre, Wayne thought, next he’ll be askin’ me for my national insurance number.

“I was backup outside but got caught with a knife. I’m never goin’ tooled up again.”

“Depends,” said the man and looked out of the window.

“Max!” the girl called out. “Want a slice with it?”

The black man got up and said to Wayne, “Hang on a minute while I sort somethin’ out.”

He walked over to the girl and Wayne could see he was questioning her. She nodded her head and he came back over to the table.

“Look, till you get your own gaff, you can camp out at the flat, watch the punters and check ’em out for me. OK?”

Wayne realised this was a check-over. Fair enough, he thought, I’d do the same, and it suits me.

He nodded and went to pay the bill at the counter.

The blonde was still there. She nudged him. “Well? Set you up alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He felt small taking a favour from her.

“Suit yourself,” she said and shrugged.

The big man never drank the coffee. He got into a big four-by-four Jeep and blipped his horn as he steamed away.

They left the café and walked a hundred yards to a large block of flats just off Queensway. He began to regret dumping his gear as they reached the front hall. His scruffy outfit gave the game away in this posh area.

To his surprise, the flat was not at all what he expected. It was on the first floor and they walked up the carpeted stairs into a large apartment which looked over a private square. The furniture was modern and clean.

“Max says you can stay if you watch the punters for me. Is that OK with you?”

Wayne felt a bit of an apology was needed; she was not such a scrubber after all.

“Fine,” he said, “I was a bit off just now, got to get used to things again.”

She smiled briefly and showed him a small bedroom where he was to stay.

“I’m goin’ to get changed and meet a client. I’ll be back about one I reckon. So I may need a bit of a cover when I get back.”

He didn’t quite understand what she meant, but nodded.

As she disappeared into another bedroom, he took the time to have a good look round. Outside in the square were several big cars, BMWs and Mercs, even a chauffeur in a cap waiting for some big shot.

Off to the city, Old Chap? he mused. Still, plenty of cash about in this place.

The bedroom door opened and Cherie walked out, a different woman. His eyes registered the shock. She wore a smart black suit and her hair was dark red. Her high-heeled shoes gave her inches in height and made her legs look a mile long.

“Whoa! Now I know how you can afford to live here!” he said.

She smiled, pleased with the remark,

“A girl has to work – the place belongs to Max.”

She took a last look in the hall mirror and told him:

“I’ll be back about one, maybe with a feller. If you hang out in the small bedroom that’s best.”

“Understood,” he said and watched her as she tip-tapped out into the hall.

The phone in the living room was tempting, so he dialled up his brother in Liverpool. They chatted for some minutes but Wayne never said what he was up to – just said he was chilling in London.

“Look, do you know anyone down here who needs a bit of help? Cos I need a start, if you get me drift.”

His brother knew exactly what he meant and promised to give him a heads-up if a job came along.

Reckon I’m stuck here for a while, he thought, could do a lot worse.

He snoozed on the leather sofa and it was the buzzer at the main door that woke him. Instinct kicked in and he dived for the small bedroom door just as the front door key was turning in the lock.

It was a humiliation he’d never experienced before: to be listening to a whore and her mark. They said very little as money changed hands and within minutes he could hear moans from next door as Cherie worked her magic on the punter.

God! She’s a good worker! he thought. She deserves an Oscar.

But he covered his ears to muffle the sound; somehow it was hateful to hear Cherie having sex with a stranger. He never asked himself why.

Then, from the bedroom, there was a commotion. Cherie shouting – a man’s voice raised – the noise of furniture being shoved aside.

He pushed open the door. A dark-skinned man was wrestling with Cherie and grabbing at her purse and shouting in some foreign language.

Wayne took him from behind in a double armlock and frogmarched him to the door. The man was in his shirt sleeves and his jacket lay on the big bed.

Cherie threw it after him as he fell out into the landing, still shouting. Wayne gave him a kick and slammed the door.

He looked at her face. It was puffy with a bruise forming under her right eye. Lipstick smeared her face and the red wig she had worn was on the floor.

Wayne said, “You have a tough life, girl. How often does this go on?”

She didn’t reply but ran to the bathroom and began to bathe her face in cold water.

“Bastard tried to fleece me. Look at me now! Can’t go to work like this!”

There was nothing he could say, except: what did you expect from rough trade? So he said nothing and stayed out of her way till she had done her first aid.

Back again in the living room, she had changed into a tracksuit and her hair was tied in a scarf. Wayne could see the real woman and it was pleasant. She looked softer somehow and more sensual.

“Shall I go for some beers?” he said

“No need, there’s plenty in the fridge.”

So he brought out a six-pack and handed a can to her.

They sat quietly for a while just sipping the beer and he felt light-headed after just two cans.

Just shows you what two years in the pit can do to a man, he thought wryly and waved away the third can she offered him.

Outside, the weather was clear and bright.

“Do you mind if I get a bit of sunlight? It’s what I’ve missed most inside,” he said and she nodded looking up from the magazine she had been reading.

“Treat yourself. I can’t work today anyhow.”

Stepping out into the street, Wayne felt a keen wind blowing down from the park and again wished he’d not dumped all his kit in that impulsive way. He tucked the T-shirt into his jeans but felt the keen wind slicing through the thin material. Outside the tube station was a charity container for discarded clothing. He rummaged inside until he pulled out a sweater and an old vest which smelt OK. He pulled on the vest and the dark blue sweater and strolled down the street. No one paid any attention to him. It was good to be out and invisible. After twenty minutes, he returned to the flat; he climbed the stairs to the apartment feeling good.

As he reached the first floor, a scream echoed along the corridor and he saw at once that the door to Cherie’s flat was wide open. In two strides, he was in and could see that backs of two men manhandling Cherie. Her legs were bare and one of the two was ripping her tracksuit from her body. The second man turned to face him and he recognised the disgruntled punter he’d tossed out.

The man held a knife in his hand and the blade gleamed in the soft light. He uttered something in a foreign language and moved in to use the shim on Wayne. They grappled as the knife was aimed at Wayne’s gut but he managed a wrist hold and prevented the blade from reaching his stomach. They were face-to-face and a moment came when Wayne’s instinct kicked in. A “Liverpool Kiss” broke the man’s nose and the force of the blow spurted blood over the man’s face. He reeled away and that gave Wayne time enough to grab the nearest object – a lamp – and smash it down on the sprawling body. The man cowered on the floor, blinded and semi-conscious.

The knife had dropped to the floor and Wayne grabbed it without thinking. A surge of energy ran through his body as if it had been stored for two years and now burst out of control.

He stabbed at the second man once – twice – again and again, till screams penetrated his brain and he stopped.

He was panting and his heart pounded rapidly. He registered Cherie was screaming and looked down at the man on the floor. He lay writhing on the beige carpet, then he lay still. A slow stream of dark blood snaked across the floor as if searching for a way to escape.

“What ’ave you done? What can we do?”

Cherie’s hysterical words broke into his mind and he began to think.

She stood in the doorway of the big bedroom holding her torn clothing to her body. Scratch marks tracked across her bare shoulders and her face was white as alabaster. She looked at him for a long second, eyes wide with shock.

“Get Max quick! He’s got to do something!” she said.

Wayne grabbed the phone before realising he had no idea of the number. He handed it to Cherie and she fumbled with the numbers, eventually getting through.

“Max! Get here quick! Something has happened. No! Wayne’s here, but you gotta come!”

She put the phone down and pointed to the man near the door.

He was shaking his head and beginning to stir. Wayne took the cord from the lamp and tied his wrists behind his back tightly. The man sank back onto his back, blood oozing from his damaged face.

Exhausted, Wayne slumped into the nearest chair and wiped his hands on the front of his ragged jumper. He trembled with the nervous effort from the fight but his mind was clear. He was in a desperate situation. He could not trust the big man and he had no mates down here in London to call on.

However, the black pimp would have to help because the fight had been on his pad; he couldn’t have police nosing into his business – could he?

Cherie had shut up by now and sat hunched on the bed in the big room. She did not change out of the torn tracksuit and Wayne figured she wanted to show Sam how badly she had been attacked.

Blood had seeped into the pile of the carpet but did not spread very far. Wayne pulled the body of the dead man into the kitchen and dumped it on the vinyl flooring.

He closed the front door and then checked the wire binding the second man. The man’s face was puffy and masked in dried blood; the eyes half closed.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs and then Sam burst through the door.

“Jesus! What you been up to? You silly sod!”

“Don’t blame me! These two tried to rape your woman. What was I to do?”

Sam’s eyes bulged. “You didn’t ’ave to slice ’em up did you?”

Wayne spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness.

“Listen! I come in and two guys are bustlin’ your girlfriend – what am I to do? Join in?”

“So tell me what you were doin’ outside in the first place?”

Wayne saw it was useless to argue with him in that state, so he called to Cherie, who was still sitting crouched on the big bed in the main bedroom. She came in slowly making the most of her appearance.

Christ! What a diva! Wayne thought. Better than Eastenders.

The big man put his arm round her and patted her back with his huge paw.

“Calm – calm – I’ll sort this out, babe.”

Turning to Wayne, he said, “You! Fetch some black bin bags and give me a hand.”

The two of them stooped over the body and wrapped the hands and head in plastic.

Wayne could scarcely credit what he was doing, but it needed sorting, so he obeyed. Then they cut away the stained carpet and wrapped the body in it.

Cherie stood immobile at the bedroom door, her hands over her mouth; her white shoulders still visible in the torn tracksuit.

“Sam, what you goin’ to do with him?”

She gazed at the wounded man, inert on the floor. His eyes were wide with horror but he was unable to speak.

Sam looked at Wayne and his eyes gave no hint of what he meant to do – the stare as cold as a cobra. Then he shifted his gaze to the helpless man on the floor.

“Don’t fret. We’ll think of something”

It was still mid-afternoon; there was little traffic in that quiet, respectable quarter of London. They carried the carpet-wrapped body down the stairs and into Max’s Jeep, struggling under the weight of the dead body.

“Tinted windows – very handy,” said Wayne.

Sam ignored the remark and slammed the rear door shut.

One of the residents passed at that moment, looked at the pair and the flashy car, then moved on, shaking his head in disdain.

Back upstairs, Cherie at last began to recover her senses. She wiped up the face of the injured Arab and did her best to clean up his clothes. His hands were still tied and he began to speak in some foreign language. It was plain he was pleading for his life as a babble of words poured from his mouth, interspersed with tears.

Sam pulled him upright and frogmarched him down to the vehicle.

Wayne hesitated on the stairs, hoping he could stay out of it, but the big man turned and looked at him.

“Get yourself down ’ere. You caused this fuck-up and you’ll see it through.”

He was in no mood for an argument so Wayne followed down.

Sam drove west till he reached Shepherd’s Bush then found his way to the motorway. Wayne sat in the back next to the cringing Arab. Not a word was said – even the wounded man stopped babbling. As they drove along, Wayne had plenty of time to reflect bitterly on his first day of liberty.

Christ! I had it good in the Scrubs compared with this. How can I get out of here?

The thought stayed in his mind as the car reached Heathrow. Sam turned off the motorway and joined the stream of cars and vans heading for the airport. It was getting dark and the November sky was like a grey blanket. Further on along the slip road, he diverted into a service area where several large containers lined the road. They had the names of airlines printed on their sides and Wayne recognised them as the old baggage boxes used to load passenger luggage on long-haul flights.

The car pulled up level with the third one. They both got out and Sam pulled the cadaver out of the back of the Jeep. It fell to the floor with a thump.

“Give us a hand.”

They both managed to heave the body into the container. There were other bundles and bin bags in there and a stench of rotten material. They quickly shut the lid and backed off.

Wayne began to doubt whether he would survive much longer. Life on the outside had taken a wicked hold on him. He trembled. Was it just the cold? Or was it fear? For a moment, he longed for the rigid normality of prison life. He was far from the mean streets of Liverpool that he knew; he had no cash, and now he was flung into a crime scene he had not foreseen. The lure of a pretty woman and a cushy life had put him at greater risk than he had ever faced before. He had to think quickly to exit this nightmare.

Back at the Jeep, he searched the wounded man. His wallet was in his back pocket and he pulled it out, it seemed bulky. Carefully shielding it from the big black man, he counted the notes. The man was loaded. There was more than five hundred pounds in fifties in there.

Life was looking up! A plan was forming in his mind.

Wayne went round to the driver’s side of the car and spoke to Sam,

“Look, give me twenty minutes with this fucker and we can forget about him.”

Sam studied his face. Wayne put on his hard man stare and pulled the knife he’d taken from the dead man.

“It’s a dead end and the noise of the planes covers everything.”

As if to confirm what he said, a 747 roared overhead, drowning out both speech and thought for a few seconds.

“You up to it?”

Wayne nodded and put the knife away.

Sam stared out of the windscreen for a minute, turning over the idea in his mind.

Come on you fucker, make your mind up! Wayne was racked with suspense. Would he agree?

At last, the big man nodded.

“OK. Take him down there and do it. But don’t come back here. Get back somehow to the flat and I’ll settle with you there. Got it? Change your clothes too.”

They pulled the man out of the car and Wayne grabbed him as he nearly fell into the road jittering with fear. Half pulling, half carrying the man, he walked him down into the obscurity beyond the meagre security lights. The Jeep started up and pulled away at speed.

Wayne stopped as soon as he saw the Jeep was well away. He kicked the wounded man and brought him down to the ground.

The man squealed with fear, but Wayne didn’t wait to explain.

Like a greyhound, he was away down the dark passage towards the lights of Terminal One. Clambering over a wire fence, his ragged clothing ripping as he went, he reached the departure terminal. Running upstairs he scanned the departure board.

The check-in queue for Liverpool was not a long one but every second stretched out into minutes as he stood in line. When he reached the counter, the check-in girl took in his grubby torn clothes and asked coldly, “What do you want, sir?” The “sir” had a wealth of scorn in it.

“Give me a ticket for Liverpool – quick.”

“Would you fly First Class or Economy?” She was amusing herself on a dull evening.

Wayne pulled out the wad of fifties and said, “First Class, you Muppet!”

Her mouth shut like a cat-flap and she tapped the details into the computer with heavy strokes and shoved the ticket across the counter. He gave her a sarcastic smile and ran to join the crowd filing down the passageway towards the departure gate. Just before he boarded, he found a phone stand and rang his brother.

“Hey, Ryan. I’m on my way home. Tell Mum I will be back in an hour and get some brew in. I’m out.”

He climbed the steps to the plane and sat in the big leather seat with a sigh.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” The pretty hostess smiled.

“No thanks, just get me home quick!”

Looking out of the window, the sun shone briefly above the clouds then sank out of sight, the day was over. Wayne glanced at his reflection in the glass. Staring back at him was a slick young criminal. He hated him.

THE TANGO LESSON

George sat on the top deck of the bus. His seat was level with the windows of a pub. A woman in a scarlet dress leant out of the window peering down into the street. He could see the room behind her lit by a bright glow, as if a party was in progress – music played and couples flitted past behind her. Before he could make sense of it, the bus moved on and the incident was over. He slumped back in the seat and rubbed his eyes feeling all of his forty-two years at the end of another workday. Next evening, he took the same route at the same time but the bus went past in a second and the pub window was shut.

He put the scene out of his mind.

When he got home, his mother put the tea on the table as usual and sat down opposite him. She wiped her wrinkled hands on a tea towel and looked across at him.

Here we go he thought, another bleeding lecture.

“Why don’t you go out a bit more Georgie? You’re always under my feet and yet you’re earning a good wage. Enjoy yourself!”

Her voice had a piercing tone and it grated on his nerves.

“Do you think a packer gets a good wage? Working from eight a.m. to half past five in a grimy warehouse? It’s a treadmill, I tell you. I’m fagged out by teatime.”

She rumbled on for a few minutes but he didn’t listen anymore. He read the Evening Standard, and switched on the telly. But when he went up to bed, he found himself thinking back to the mysterious window and the lady in the scarlet dress. What was going on that night?

*

The following Tuesday, he decided to find out. He jumped off the bus a few yards down the road from the pub. It was the Wheatsheaf, one of the big Victorian pubs with Assembly Rooms upstairs. Outside the Saloon a notice read: “TANGO CLASSES TUESDAY 6 PM”. He climbed the stairs and heard unfamiliar music coming from the room above. It had a slow beat and an accordion played the melody in an extravagant way. Through the swing door, sound poured out from a loudspeaker. Dazed a little by the noise and the swirling couples, he stood in the doorway wrapped in his old mac and holding his cap in his hand.

The music stopped and a little woman came bustling over to him and took him by the arm. Her black hair, obviously dyed, was pulled back into a bun,.. She wore a tight blue dress and very high heels so she tottered as she led him to a table.

“You’re a little bit late, but Gloria will look after you.”

He could see the lines round her mouth wrinkle up like parchment as she smiled. Her body was as fragile as an old china doll in an antique shop. George had no time to explain that he was just curious. Everything moved so fast he couldn’t keep up.

“Hello, I’m Gloria,” said the lady sitting at a desk, a petty cash tin in front of her. “That will be five pound for the first lesson.”

Her mouth was a cherry but the outline of her lips seemed a bit blurred. Her eyes under their long false lashes were lost in dark pools of mascara.

He was too embarrassed to protest; she expected him to pay, so he got out his purse and selected five coins carefully.

“Just sit down, dear. Take off your coat and Doris will be over presently.”

He wondered what his mother would say when he got home late for his tea.

He pushed the thought out of his mind.

The class was reforming for another dance and the little woman in the tight dress clapped her hands and shouted:

“Now change your partners and let’s try a little harder – just glide – glide.” Her thin voice rose high above the chatter.

The beat of the music began again and George watched as the dancers gathered on the floor. The male dancers clasped their partners tightly and it seemed like the women were trying to keep them away. Some of the men gleamed with sweat as they shuffled about. The women struggled along as if pushing a heavy load.

Several untidy old men sat round the room looking on expectantly, their knees spread out as if claiming a space. It reminded him of musical chairs when he was small and everyone waited for the chance to grab a chair when the music stopped. Eyes scanned the women hoping for the slightest hint of approval.

Then his attention was attracted to a younger woman who came over to him. She was the girl in the red dress he had seen the week before. He remembered her long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and her slim figure.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“Well no, not inside,” he said.

He realised it wasn’t the right thing to say because she frowned and cocked her head.

“What do you mean?”

He stood up and muttered the first thing that came into his head but she paid no attention and took his hand. He felt the warmth of her soft touch as she guided him onto the corner of the dance floor.

At close quarters he reckoned she was about his age yet had worn well. He was amazed at the way she propelled him about like a parcel.

“One – Two – Slide. One –Two – Slide.”

He moved awkwardly. His partner scarcely reached his shoulder but she kept up the chant as they ploughed through the other couples.

One or two avoided them with a quick change of direction but most suffered the crunch of his foot against their heels or toes as they moved around.

When the music stopped she dropped his hand and wiped her palm against her dress in a furtive way.

“That’ll be enough for one session,” she said firmly and walked away to the other side of the room.

He called after her, “Doris!” She turned and seemed puzzled. He stuttered, “I just want to say thank you.”

She walked back. “For what?”

“For giving me a dance,” he blurted.

She laughed and he noticed for the first time that she had a nice smile.

“You’re a funny one! I dance with all the newcomers.”

“Well I mean...” but he couldn’t say what he meant. So he stopped. She smiled again and her eyes smiled too.

“Maybe I’ll see you next week then.”

It was more a question than a statement. George nodded without speaking. He put on his coat and took his cap and went out into the dark.

*

During the week he wondered if it was worthwhile turning up the following Tuesday. He felt embarrassed by his clumsiness and the way she had to push him round the floor. Besides, the other men in the class depressed him; it was like joining a queue at the Job Centre. They were a sad bunch and he would be just the same if he went back. But as the weekend arrived, he kept thinking about the woman in the scarlet dress and how she smiled at him.

On Saturday he bought a new shirt in the market and came home with it hidden under his overcoat. He told himself one last go would be OK, if he kept himself away from the general group of old losers.

On Tuesday, he left home with the new shirt still in its wrapper. He put it on as he left the factory at the end of the day.

At six p.m. he was there. The room was empty. He sat for minutes before he heard the sound of high heels tapping their way upstairs. Through the door came Doris and she seemed surprised to see him.

“O hello! Wondered if you would come back.”

She went to put her coat away, not expecting any reply. He stood up but couldn’t think of anything to say, so he sat down again.

As she came back he saw she wore a different frock – a bluish colour but it looked good on her. He stood up again.

“You know it costs seven pound for every session after the first?” He nodded as if he knew.

“Well, you can pay Gloria when she gets here.”

One or two other older men arrived soon afterwards and clustered near the door. One of them nodded to George but he pretended not to see.

The music started and Doris took his hand and led him into the middle of the floor. When he recalled what she’d done last time, he wrapped a handkerchief round his hand which held hers and she seemed surprised. She smiled and he felt a confidence he’d never sensed before as they moved off in the dance.

There was no one to run into as they circled the open space in the centre of the room. She guided him as before but slowly the rhythm made sense and he began to enjoy himself.

By this time the room was filling up with the usual assortment of eager older men and apprehensive women. When the music stopped she dropped his hand and turned away.

“You need to practise more. Ask Alice,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away. He saw her take the hand of a tall man with slicked-back hair and a sharp grey suit who smirked as she led him into the middle of the floor. She paid no attention to George as she whirled around. George bit his lip as he saw the odious man could dance a bit.

He worked out Alice was the little woman he met the previous time and she was dancing with somebody, so he sat down at the side of the hall and waited.

Gloria waved to him and pointed to her table. He went over and handed her a ten-pound note. He saw a glass of gin stood half empty at her elbow. She gave him his change she said, “Enjoyed your dance with Doris did you?”

“What d’you mean?”

She smiled thinly and said nothing but he knew there was something in her smile which was hostile. She didn’t look at him again. When he had sat down nearby, he saw she was using a stick as she limped away

The man sitting next to him leaned over and said, “Poor old Gloria – such a queen.” He chuckled and wiped his mouth with a grubby handkerchief.

“What d’you mean?”

“She was the number one teacher till she had her hip done.” George studied the man. He was bald with long wisps of grey hair brushed back along the sides of his head. The tips of the hair just reached each other at the back. He needed a shave.

George said, “How long have you been coming here then?”

“On-and-off about three years.”

“So you got the hang of this tango thing by now.”

The man pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, his eyes gleamed and he smirked at George.

“More or less,” he said and turned to watch Doris as she twirled, hugging the figure of the tall man as he moved her round the floor.

The music stopped and before the dancers had moved off the floor, the man was up and walking over to Doris to speak to her.

She stood for a moment and glanced at George. She gave a wan smile and George leapt to his feet pushing the older man aside.

“You said I could have the next lesson,” he lied

“Yes, that’s right. Do you mind, Tom?”

The bald man grunted but George grabbed her hand and stood waiting for the music to start. He forgot about the handkerchief. Then they were away, moving together to the beat.

He held her close, feeling her body moving with him to the rhythm of the dance. The soft warmth of her back and her lithe movements sent a surge of excitement through his body. He couldn’t believe it when the music stopped. It seemed unfair.

“That was much better,” she said letting go of his hand. “You are relaxing more now.”

“It’s only because of you,” he blurted out.

She looked away and didn’t smile.

“Maybe you should dance with Alice next time.”

“No! I want to dance with you!”

His outburst startled her and she drew back a pace.

“You can’t,” she said, “it’s the rules, I only teach the new ones.”

For an instant, he wanted to protest. He wanted to tell her that he had never felt so happy in his life when he danced close to her. Then he saw her turn and smile at the old man she had rejected and take his hand for the next number.

He got his mac and walked to the door. Doris whirled by, turning the greasy old man in time with the music.

“See you again next week?” she asked.

He didn’t reply but pushed through the swing door and went out into the dark. Outside, a drenching rain had begun, seeping inside his mac and soaking the collar of his new shirt. He felt for his cap but he couldn’t find it. He waited at the bus stop and when it arrived, he sat upstairs as usual. He saw his reflection in the glass, a damp figure with his scant hair plastered down across his forehead.

But he was smiling.

IN THE BEGINNING

I don’t know what He was thinking. I’ve lived in that garden for quite a while on my own but He thought it would be a good idea to make another creature like me, except I have a willy-ma-jig and “she” has none.

Surprising, because he said to me that I would have free will and all that stuff. I thought He meant I could decide things for myself. Instead he has landed me with a WOA-Man so that most of the things I want to do are made difficult.

For example, I like to do a bit of gardening so I built a nice little shed and put a few things in it like a comfy chair made out of sheeps’wool and a jug made out of a gourd so I could have a little drink on occasions.

Oh No! WOA-Man said “What do we need a shed for? We need a shelter when it rains and a store room for food.” Forgetting that we have acres of fruit trees and dozens of farm animals roaming around, so we can get what we want with a snap of the fingers.

And another thing, who does she think she is, bringing that snake into my shed? I had a word with HIM about that.

I said:

“What is that slippery thing doing here in the first place?

He gave me that patronising smile and said “The Lord knows best and I have made the earth and all things in it, and it is good”

Does He realize that she encourages it to sit with her under the big tree outside my shed?

I caught them whispering the other day and when I asked what about, the reptile just slipped away without a word. She said it was just a joke but I felt they were plotting something to upset me.

Then that night she snuggled up to me and asked me what I wanted most? I said “you know what I want but you’re never in the mood.”

She simpered and cuddled up to me so I couldn’t resist could I? But when it was over, she told me that I was too timid and I could get a lot more out of Him if I showed a bit of spirit.

“I like a man with a bit of spirit “she said in a meaningful way.

I wondered what man she was talking about because I was the only man about in these parts as far as I could tell.

Two days later that damned snake was round again coiling about her neck and whispering in her ear. Worst of all, he had picked one of the apples off the big tree.

It was a beauty, large as a pomegranate and red as a ruby.

The serpent rubbed its surface with his slinky skin and it took on a shine like a mirror.

“Now you’ve done it “I said “You know it’s off limits to eat them.”

“No it’s not” He simpered “He said we should not eat the fruit on the tree so I’ve picked one off and that’s ok”

“Of course it is” chimed in WO-Man “Anyone can see that”

That did stop me in my tracks. I recall His warning that we should not eat the fruit, but was it “ON” the tree or “Of” the tree?