A Dish Best Served Warm

A Dish Best Served Warm
By
Matt Hubbard


Julie would liked to have tipped the taxi driver but she had just enough money for the fare. She winced as she alighted from the old Vauxhall. Then she slowly walked up the short path to her front door and stopped to rest on the low wall by the door. She took her keys from her handbag using her left hand. Julie was right handed but her right arm was in a sling. The keys fell from her grasp and she winced again as she stooped to retrieve them from the doormat.
She paused for a moment then stood up and fumbled to get the key in the lock. Finally she opened the door and walked into her home.
“Craig,” she called, “I’m home.”
A door opened at the end of the short hallway. It was Craig, her husband. Six foot two and eighteen stone. His hair was close cropped and he held a can of beer. Craig rushed to Julie and held her gently, cradling her head to his chest. She shrieked in pain as his arms pulled her towards him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to....”
“Well, you did,” she said. “And you’re drinking. Is that why you didn’t pick me up?”
“I....” Craig didn’t have an excuse ready.
“Did they treat you well?” he said, changing the subject.
“They were lovely. It was a lovely change. They say I’ve got three broken ribs, a cracked cheekbone and my arm’s broken.”
Craig didn’t say anything.
“I want to be on my own for a while,” said Julie. She pushed past him and walked through the hall and into the kitchen.
“I was going to cook you a lovely meal,” said Craig.
“Oh yeah, what?”
“I don’t know yet. Was going to ask you what you want.”
Julie said nothing. She walked to the worktop and picked up the kettle. Realising she wouldn’t be able to fill it with one hand Craig rushed over to help. Julie instinctively drew back.
Craig’s welcoming smile dropped. A momentary look of pure hate crossed his face. Julie took breath.
“Don’t....” he said through gritted teeth, “Don’t do that.”
He filled the kettle, placed it on its base and walked out of the room.

Julie was left standing in the kitchen. She stared at the empty doorway until the kettle had boiled then struggled to open a new packet of teabags.
The kettle boiled and she poured the water into a cup. Whilst waiting for it to brew she noticed three dead flies on the windowsill. She opened the cupboard under the sink, reached to the back and pulled out a small glass jam jar. With some difficulty she took the lid off then took the three flies and placed them in the jar. It was almost half-full with dead flies. She put the lid back on and placed the jar back in its hiding place.
Once the tea was made she stood, leaning against the worktop, and thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow was Craig’s birthday. She always made him a special meal on his birthday. In the fifteen years they had been together only once had she not made him his favourite meal. Four years ago she had tried but ultimately failed. It had been very difficult and painful with two broken wrists but she had tried. He hadn’t been very happy with her that year but she had tried very hard.

Julie walked out of the kitchen and into the lounge.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she said.
Craig was watching football on the TV. Without looking at her he rubbed his hands in glee.
“Lovely. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with roast spuds and all the trimmings. Last year’s was great, I really enjoyed it. Can you get me another beer; this one’s nearly finished.”
Julie stood in the doorway. Craig looked at her then put the can to his lips, tipped it up and drained the contents. He raised his eyebrows and shot her a look that said, “Now.”
Julie shuffled out of the room and into the kitchen. As she walked past the kitchen window her attention was drawn to a movement in the garden. She looked closer. They had a small garden, no flower beds or patio. Just a patch of lawn and a shed bordered by a six foot high wooden fence. But there, next to the shed, sat a rat.
She screamed. Craig rushed into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“There!” She pointed to the rat.
“A rat. You were screaming about a rat. It’s cos of next door’s chickens. Get some poison when you go shopping. Now I’m here I might as well get the beer myself.” He walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer and stormed off.
Julie stared at the rat for two minutes; until it scurried off under the fence. Then she saw another fly buzzing about on the windowsill. She picked up Craig’s newspaper from the worktop and with her good hand swiped at the fly. She missed the first few times but caught it finally. It fell to the floor stunned, and buzzed around on its back. She retrieved the jar from under the sink and placed the stunned fly in with its dead kin. She put the lid on and shook the jar, watching as the helpless creature flew around.
Julie hid the jar again and thought about Craig’s birthday dinner. She made a shopping list. Same every year; a whole joint of beef just for him. She never joined him, just sat and watched as he devoured his birthday meal. She looked forward to this moment every year; but this year would be extra special because she had had an idea. She would really take some time to savour the moment this year.

One hour later Julie went to do the shopping. Craig had known this would be difficult with a broken arm so he had been very generous and bought her a shopping trolley on wheels. She just had to drag it along by the handle. “There,” he had said, “Perfect.”
She went to the mini-market down the road and fended off questions about her injuries. She told the nosy woman behind the counter she had fallen down the stairs which, in a way, was true. She then called in at several different shops until she found the rat poison at a small hardware store which had been holding a closing down sale.
When she got home Julie packed the shopping away and left a small bowl of poison next to the shed. Then she made herself a sandwich and went to bed, even though it was still light outside. She tried to read in bed but gave up after a few minutes; it was difficult trying to turn the pages and her injuries ached. As she settled down she heard the front door slam. Craig was making his nightly visit to the pub.

She didn’t sleep very well although she had pretended to be asleep when Craig came home from the pub and joined her in bed. She could only lie in one position without something or other hurting.
At 7am she got up. Ten minutes later, with a cup of tea in her hand she looked out of her kitchen window. The small bowl of poison was empty. She thought about the rat. Did it have a quick death or was it lying in agony as the last vestiges of life drained from it?
She shuddered at the thought and turned her attention to the day ahead. Craig would expect his dinner at 5.30pm. They hadn’t bought each other a present for seven years now but he expected his birthday dinner. She would have to start cooking it at 3pm so she had a few hours to go and see her mum. It would be good to see her mum, although she would be asked the same questions about her injuries. When her dad was alive he had shouted and made threats but her mum just asked questions and offered comfort.
Julie left the house at 9am. Craig was still asleep upstairs; she could hear his snoring through the floorboards.

At 3.05pm she returned. The house was empty. ‘Perfect’, she thought. She turned the oven on and set about peeling the potatoes and preparing the vegetables.

At 5pm Craig came home. He staggered through the door smelling of alcohol. He held a crumpled bunch of flowers.
“For you Julie. I love you Julie. Mmmm that smells good.” He walked over to the oven and opened the door. “Mmmm. Can’t wait for my special birthday dinner.” He pecked her on the cheek, walked into the lounge and turned on the TV.
‘I’m going to enjoy it too’, thought Julie.

At 5.30pm everything was ready. The small table in the kitchen was set for one, with a glass of cold beer and the salt and pepper arranged just how Craig liked it to be. She called him.
“Craig. Your birthday dinner’s ready.”
He walked into the kitchen, rubbing his hands. “Yummy, I’m starving.”
Craig wobbled a little and held onto the chair to steady himself.
“Oops,” he said. Then he sat down. Julie walked to the worktop. The plate was piled high. She stirred the gravy and poured it onto Craig’s dinner. Then, being very careful not to spill anything, she carried the plate to the table and set it down in front of him.
She sat opposite him and watched as he ate. Slice, stab, chew, swallow. Like a dog who is afraid their dinner will disappear, Craig ate at speed. She watched as gravy dribbled down his chin. She pointed it out. He cast her an angry glare and wiped it with his sleeve.
Just as he was finishing the dinner, Julie spoke for the first time.
“I killed the rat.”
“What?”
“The rat. It ate all the poison so it’s probably dead now.”
“Good,” said Craig.
“Yes, good,” said Julie.
Craig nodded his approval and mopped up the last of the gravy with his Yorkshire pudding.
“You know, when I was in hospital. They found something,” she said.
“Oh yeah, what?”
“Cancer.”
Craig dropped his fork and looked at her. She thought he looked angry; but maybe it was confusion.
“What?”
“I’ve got a month to live.”
“Julie, no. You can’t....that can’t be true. Can they do anything about it?”
“No. They can’t. I’ll be dead in a month, maybe less.”
“Where is it?”
“In my lungs. It’s at an advanced stage they say.”
“What are going to do?” said Craig. He looked scared.
“I’m going to spend my time wisely.”
“But....ow.” Craig clutched his stomach. “Ow ow ow. My guts.”
Julie looked at him. She watched him squirm in pain for a few moments then made a suggestion.
“It’s probably indigestion. Why don’t you go and have a lie down on the sofa. The football’s on.”
Craig nodded agreement. He staggered out of the room. Julie cleared his plate away and started the washing up. As she stood at the sink she saw a dead fly. She reached under the sink and pulled out the jam jar. It was empty. Then she pondered for a moment, put it back and left the fly on the windowsill.
After she had finished the washing up she popped into the lounge. Craig was curled in a ball, holding his stomach and sweating heavily.
“I’m just going to the shops,” she said.
“Can you get me something for this,” said Craig through clenched teeth.
“OK. And I saw another rat. I’d better get some more poison. I used all the stuff I bought yesterday.”
As Julie walked out of the front door she smiled broadly. The sun was shining.
For the first time in years she felt good.

A Writer's Life

The phone never rings
My only email is spam
There’s nothing in the fridge
But curled up ham

My back aches from sitting
Because I type all day
I’m thinking what will happen
And what my characters will say

My book’s been rejected
By every agent in town
It gives me a headache
And the need to lie down

One day in the future
I’ll send an agent my plot
And they’ll read it and say
We like it, a lot

English language after the Norman invasion

I have been watching the BBC series The Normans and, as a writer, a particular section fascinated me.

After the Normans conquered Anglo-Saxon England, the ruling (Norman) elite spoke French whilst everyone else spoke English. Most Norman nobles married English women and the children spoke English, interspersed with French words. But this was engineered so the Anglo-Saxon words usually stood for raw, dirty items whilst the French words described more refined or masterly subjects.

Nowhere is this more pronounced than in food. The animals, standing in their fields were named with English words whereas the food that came from them was described with French words. Hence, sheep, cow, pig are English words whilst mutton, beef and pork are French.

Also, the English language often uses more than one word to describe the same thing because there is a word from either language to describe it. Royal is French, kingly is English, country is French, land is English whilst amorous is French and loving is English.

And during the course of the 11th century, William became the most popular name in England

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00tfdsk

Originality when writing fiction

Will Self wrote this on the subject of writing fiction - "Stop reading fiction – it’s all lies anyway, and it doesn’t have anything to tell you that you don’t know already (assuming, that is, you’ve read a great deal of fiction in the past; if you haven’t, you have no business whatsoever being a writer of fiction)."

Others disagree. AL Kennedy said - "Read. As much as you can. As deeply and widely and nourishingly and ­irritatingly as you can. And the good things will make you remember them, so you won't need to take notes."

There are plenty of other opinions and points of view on what, or what not, to read and to take from what you have read before, and during, writing fiction.

My own take on this is twofold.

First - I read whilst writing a novel, but not of the same genre. At the moment I'm reading Terry Pratchett's Nation whilst writing a novel that at the moment I can only describe as a modern day western, set in Manchester (and Wiltshire).

Second - Music. All musicians steal from music they have previously heard. No music is absolutely original. Led Zeppelin were dismissed as derivative blues copyists by the BBC in 1967, yet they are now hailed as one of the greatest bands of all time. Their own work has been recycled by many, many bands. The refrain from Kashmir can be heard in at least five different songs recorded over the past thirty five years.

Writing differs from music in that writers have available to them a much wider range of raw material; but still originality suffers. Misery memoirs, fantasy fiction, chick-lit, vampires. All genres suffer from a copyist mentality from time to time.

The key is to take on board what matters. To see how a skilled author uses words to convey feelings, places, actions, people; and try to do it better.

To take an already successful product and write a slightly different version in the hope that the author can hang on to the coat-tails of other's success is to write a re-hashed cover version of Kashmir; and call it something else.

The Day That Went Downhill - short story

It’s like a sauna in here, thought Geoff. No, hotter than that. It’s like hell. A hot, sweaty, clammy hell. He pulled at his collar. Despite the heat The Boss had not allowed him, or any man in the office, to take off their tie.
“Casual dress? Over my dead body,” was The Boss’s catchphrase.
Geoff turned to look at his colleague at the next desk. Mary. Her desk was the one next to the window because “I have to have me air or else I come out in a sweat rash and prickly heat.” Mary had shown Geoff her prickly heat before and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. She made no bones about pulling up her jumper to show the prickly heat and sweat rash that developed all over her back and arms and God knows where else.
But she didn’t have prickly heat today.

Three years ago when they had installed the air-conditioning they had locked the windows. This had been a small victory for Geoff; a real triumph. He remembered ‘the day they locked the window’ with glee. Mary had moaned and moaned and moaned until eventually she got her way. The air conditioning vent in the ceiling had ploughed cool air down into the central walkway that divided the open-plan office. But Mary had complained that it didn’t reach her. And what with her ‘conditions’ and her ‘problems’, getting too hot was bad for her health.
So she had pretended to faint. After showing Geoff her sweat rash for the third time that day she had collapsed at her desk. He should have felt sorry for her but after ten years spent working next to her he had built up enough enmity that he hadn’t batted an eyelid. Whilst she had lain with her face on her keyboard and her eyes closed he had glanced over at the photographs of her cat on her desk, the sweet wrappers littering the floor around the bin, the piles of paper that had crossed the dividing line onto his desk and the enormous handbag she had left virtually next to his chair and he had ignored her. Someone had seen her and called for help and revived her, and Geoff had said that he thought Mary was merely asleep. That was the day The Boss had ordered the air conditioning vent to be moved. So it was moved.

It was now directly over Mary’s head.
Mary caught him looking. She cast him a twee smile and turned back to her computer. It was 9.25am and already the day was going badly. He had been five minutes behind schedule so had missed his usual bus. The next didn’t come for twenty minutes so he had to run the half mile from where the bus dropped him off to the office; in collar, tie and jacket. When he got to the office he’d walked past Mary’s car which was parked outside the front door of the building. She had to have a disabled space because of her ‘conditions’. Geoff wasn’t sure what those ‘conditions’ were but today he wished he had ‘conditions’ which gave him a disabled parking space outside the front door.
At 9.40am Geoff went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. They had a rota but Mary never took her turn because she ‘can’t carry cups’. It had been her turn to buy the milk though and when he opened the fridge he found yesterday’s bottle; empty. She had forgotten to buy the milk. Great.
He returned to the office with several cups of black tea and coffee clanging on a tray. His colleagues moaned and Mary stated, quite loudly,
“It’s not my turn to get the milk Geoff; it’s yours today.”
He protested but Mary was adamant. She said it was Geoff’s turn today and that it was hers tomorrow. He chose not to say anything. He sat at his desk and grimaced when he sipped his black tea.

At 11am Mary walked over to the air-conditioning controls and pressed a button twice. Geoff hadn’t seen exactly what she did so he made the excuse of needing the toilet and as he passed the controls he looked at them, trying his best not to be seen by anyone. Mary had turned the temperature up by two degrees. He went into the toilet, splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. He had splashed some water down the front of his trousers and had a very unfortunate wet patch round his crotch. It was hot in the toilet but Geoff spent five minutes getting even hotter as he tried to dry the wet patch with the hand dryer. It didn’t work. The wet patch remained.
He walked back to his desk with his hands casually clasped together over the wet patch but as he took his seat Mary glanced at him. Her eyes flicked down to his crotch. She giggled and turned back to her computer. Geoff heard her typing furiously, then he heard the unmistakable sound of the enter button being pressed triumphantly. Thirty seconds later Janet, who sat on the other side of the central aisle and was a friend of Mary, burst out laughing. Another minute later Mary too laughed.
Geoff felt even hotter. He was already too hot but the embarrassment as well as the extra heat from the air-conditioning contrived to make him feel delirious. He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie.
Mary’s fingers hammered on the keyboard again.
Two minutes later The Boss strode out from his lair and walked down the aisle towards Geoff. He leaned forwards and rested his hands on Geoff’s desk. The Boss wore a white short sleeved shirt with a brown tie done up in a Windsor knot. As he leaned closer to Geoff his tie dangled across Geoff’s hand.
“Casual dress Geoff? You know what I say. Over my dead body. We can’t go getting all casual can we? Standards would slip.”
Geoff reeled as The Boss’s bad breath was forced into his nostrils. Didn’t he know, or care, about personal space? This was an intrusion and it made him feel hot. He was going to explode with hotness. Why was it that the women in the office could wear summer dresses yet the men had to wear a shirt and tie all year round?
“But it’s hot.”
“That’s why we have air-conditioning Geoff.”
“But it’s turned up too high.”
Mary heard this. “I can’t have it too low. Makes me cold. The fan’s above me you know.”
You asked for it to be there! Thought Geoff. You did a pretend faint! I hate you!
“See,” said The Boss, “we can’t please everyone. It has to be set at a level that suits all. I think it’s fine.”
It’s fine in your office with its own air-conditioning controls.
“OK,” said Geoff. He didn’t want to make a fuss. He fastened his top button and pulled up his tie.

At lunch-time Geoff was amazed to see Mary take her car keys out of her bag, which she then dumped even closer to his chair, and walk out of the office. Mary usually lunched at her desk. She kept walking to a minimum, “cos of me legs.”
She returned a few minutes later, plonked back in her seat and wiped her sweating brow with a frilly handkerchief.
“Been anywhere exciting?” asked Geoff.
“I’m having a burglar alarm put in me car. Brenda who lives next door had hers broken into so I thought I’d better get an alarm put in mine. It’s roasting out there. I thought I was going to die when I opened me car door, it was so hot. 35 degrees it said on the thing.”
Geoff stood and walked over to the window. Below him a black van was parked behind Mary’s car. A man dressed in a boiler suit was working in it. Geoff watched as the man paused to wipe his face.
“He’s told me that the doors lock on their own after twenty seconds so I can’t get car-jacked at the traffic lights,” said Mary.
Pity, thought Geoff.

Just after lunch the Boss walked up to him again. He leaned in close and gave Geoff another dose of bad breath.
“Have you done the weekly report yet? It was due an hour ago.”
“No,” said Geoff, “It’s not due today. It’s due tomorrow, Thursday; as usual.”
“It is Thursday.”
“It’s Wednesday isn’t it?” said Geoff. He pointed to the small calendar on his desk. It had a page for every day, which he tore off every morning to reveal the next day. Today’s page said:

WEDNESDAY
28 AUGUST
2010
NEVER APOLOGISE FOR SHOWING FEELING. WHEN YOU DO SO, YOU APOLOGISE FOR TRUTH – BENJAMIN DISRAELI

“No, it’s Thursday and I want the report in half an hour.” The Boss walked back to his lair.
Great.
Geoff started to write the report. Mary chose that moment to pick up her phone and have a long and loud conversation with her sister. After fifteen minutes he stopped and sat upright, fuming. He couldn’t concentrate. All he could hear in his head was Mary telling her sister how her cat was looking peaky and how she should take him to the vet. He cursed under his breath. He tapped Mary on the arm and asked her to be a little quieter. Her eyes flicked to him then she carried on her conversation with no noticeable difference in volume.
Stupid. Horrible. Moronic woman. I wish she would die.

At 3pm Mary left for the day. She told Geoff she had to finish early to take her cat to the vet.
At last. The Boss had emailed twice asking for the report and he still hadn’t finished it. Now Mary was gone he could finish it in peace.
Ten minutes later the report was completed and Geoff went to make a cup of tea to celebrate. Walking back to his desk he noticed Mary’s car keys on her desk.
“That’s funny.”
He walked over to the window. He could see Mary in her car; but she wasn’t moving. Is she faking? Geoff grabbed the keys, walked down the central aisle, down the stairs and out of the front door. Mary’s car was ahead of him. He could see her slumped in the driver’s seat, her face beaded with sweat and her hair wet and matted.
He pulled at the car’s door handle but it was locked. He yanked harder, starting to panic; then remembered the keys. He pulled them from his pocket and pressed the button on the new remote. The lights flashed twice and he heard the doors unlock.
Geoff pulled the door open and reeled backwards as a fierce rush of hot air escaped. He leaned in to drag Mary out of the car. The temperature gauge read 45 degrees. He pulled her out of the seat and onto the pavement. Oh God, she’s not faking it this time. She’s dead!

Two hours later, after the ambulance had arrived and the paramedics had tried in vain to revive Mary, Geoff walked back up to his desk to retrieve his things before he went home. The police had interviewed everyone. The man who installed the alarm revealed he had left the car open on Mary’s instructions, and had primed it to engage when someone next opened and closed the door. Mary had got in her car without her keys and then the doors had locked and she had become trapped in the furnace. And no-one had noticed until it was too late.
Just as Geoff was about to leave he noticed the desktop calendar still read Wednesday. He tore off the page to reveal Thursday. The quotation read –

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, LEST IT COME TRUE - ANONYMOUS

Act of Deceit - available as ebook

My first novel is available on Smashwords as an ebook. Click on the link below. You can download the first few chapters to sample them.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/20597

DI Vernon Black is the detective assigned to investigate the murder of a woman, found in the suburbs of Manchester. The killer used the victim’s own handbag strap to strangle her. Black, who prefers old fashioned detective work to computers and suspect profiling, is asked to show the ropes to the enthusiastic DI Geoff Bush, who has recently transferred from the Metropolitan Police.

As the duo investigate the murder, Black displays his natural aptitude for solving crime, as well as his belligerence towards modern policing methods, and his superiors.

Two more bodies are found, killed in the same way. The investigation seems straightforward after evidence is left by the killer at the third scene; but takes a fatal twist when past events come to light.

Black becomes increasingly obsessed with the case and the killer, isolating his colleagues and family, and placing himself in danger. His superior refuses to believe Black, as he is unable to prove his theories. The story builds to a dramatic climax from which Black emerges battered and bruised.

Black Angels - First two chapters. WIP

Chapter 1 – Once Upon A Time On The Road

1 June 1985 – midday.


The boy was woken by the sound of the engine wheezing into life. He pulled the blanket that covered him up over his head and buried his face into the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep, but the noise from the engine was too loud. He sat up in bed, yawned noisily and stretched his arms out.
“Hey son. You awake? You’ve been spark out for two hours, dude.”
The voice belonged to the boy’s father.
“Where are we, dad?”
“Just north of a village called Collingbourne Ducis. A bus at the front broke down and they had to fix the engine. We’re on our way in a minute. We’ll be there soon.”
“Where, dad?”
“Dude, you forget everything. Stonehenge, man. We’re going to Stonehenge. We’re going to camp up for a while and have a party and celebrate the earth.”
The boy threw the blanket aside, sat on the edge of the bed and yawned again. They were in his dad’s camper van. The bed was at the back of the van; it took up the entire rear section but could be folded up into a seat, with storage underneath. Between the bed and the front seats, his dad had built an entire kitchen. Sink, worktop, gas cooker, oven and cupboards were arranged in an L-shape ahead of him and to his right. To his left was the van’s sliding door. Light flooded into the van from the windows all around him. They hadn’t closed the curtains as they had parked up under the shade of a row of trees when he started his nap.
“You wanna come up front, son?” said his dad, who was holding a steaming cup of tea. His dad always seemed to be drinking tea.
“I need a wee, dad.”
“Oh right. Yeah. OK. Can you manage the door yourself?”
“I think so, dad.”
The boy stood up, his messy, dark brown hair brushed the vinyl roof of the van. He was five years old but as tall as his best friend Alfie, who was two years older. He had slept in his clothes - a red t-shirt, blue jeans with holes in the knees and a pair of green wellington boots. He wrinkled his nose and yawned once more then pulled at the black plastic handle and yanked at the door.
“It won’t open, dad.”
“Alright son. I’ll come and help.”
The boy watched as his dad placed the cup on the dashboard, climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked round the front of the van, then up to the door. His dad was tall with long, grey hair and a long, grey beard and he wore a thick red and blue shirt and blue jeans. He thought his dad was the best dad in the world. Other dads shouted at their children. His dad had never shouted at him, and never hit him.
“I’ll have it open in a minute son.”
The van rocked as his dad yanked at the door a few times, then, with a huge effort, managed to pull it open.
The boy climbed out as his dad inspected the door’s runners. “I’m gonna have to have a look at that sometime. It’s getting worse. Maybe a bit of grease will help.”
“Can I go in the hedge, dad?”
“Yeah.”
The boy blinked in the afternoon sun that filtered through the trees. They were parked on a road. To his left, as far as he could see, were buses, coaches and vans, all painted in bright colours and with swirly writing and symbols painted all over them. As he peed he counted them. By the time he had finished he got to twenty-five but there were more still behind that.
Each vehicle was somebody’s home. The red, double-decker bus behind his dad’s van was Alfie’s home. Down the side of the bus had been painted, in huge writing, the words ‘Peace Convoy’. He couldn’t read yet but his dad had told him what it said. Inside Alfie’s bus were three beds, a kitchen, a living area and even a bathroom. Alfie’s mum, Moz, was at the wheel. She waved, he waved back.
The boy had lived on the van, with his dad, for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t remember his mum though. She had died when he was very little and his dad often told him stories about her. He said she had been very pretty, with black hair, and that he looked just like her.
He pulled his trousers up and turned to his right. The convoy ahead of the van had started to move off, but it moved very slowly so wasn’t very far away. There were as many vehicles ahead of them as there were behind.
“Come on, son. We’ve got to catch up. You getting in the front, dude?”
“Yes, dad.”
As his dad heaved the sliding door shut, the boy opened the passenger door. The brown, vinyl seat felt hot, a shaft of sunlight had been warming it up. The boy wound the window down for some air and shielded his eyes with his hand. His dad jumped into the seat next to him, pointed ahead of them and called, “Onwards!”
The van lurched forwards. After a couple of minutes they caught up with the rest of the convoy.

As they drove on, the boy saw some people at the side of the road, gathered in the front garden of a pub.
“Who are they dad?”
“Just people, son. Local people.”
“They’re waving.”
“So wave back.”
The boy leaned out of the window and waved back at the people in the pub. He poked his head out of the window and shouted, “Hello!” as loud as he could.
They passed the pub and drove on into open countryside. After a few more minutes the convoy started to slow.
“Shit man. What’s up now?” said his dad, who wound his window down and leaned out to try and see further down the road.
The bus in front stopped. It was a single decker, painted yellow.
“I’ll be back in a minute, son.” The boy’s dad turned the engine off, jumped out of the van and walked down the road and out of sight. The boy looked around. The road looked like a ribbon of grey winding through a sea of green fields. Cars and motorcycles whizzed past, on the other side of the road. A few seconds later his dad returned.
“What’s happening dad? Why have we stopped?”
“It’s not very good son. The police have stopped the convoy. They’ve dumped gravel on the road so we’re going to go down a different road. We’ll still get to Stonehenge though, don’t you worry.”
“What’s it like, dad?”
“Can’t you remember?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s like this place, these huge stones, erected thousands of years ago by an ancient people. And it’s a temple. People have worshipped there for thousands of years and we’re going to go and worship. And have a party.”
“I like parties, dad.”
“Good, well we’ll make it a good one shall we?”
“Yeah. Really good.”

The yellow bus in front started to move.
“Right, here we go.”
“Are you scared, dad?”
“No, why?”
“You look scared.”
“Why would I be scared?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I suppose, there are a lot of police up ahead and they’re not being very nice to the people at the front. And....well, I just hope....”
“Hope what, dad?”
“Nothing. Nothing, son. We’ll be fine.”

They rumbled on for what felt like hours to the boy. He stared out of the window. A tractor in the field next to them was cutting the grass. Behind the tractor were hundreds of crows flying around like a huge, black cloud. He could smell the grass in the air.
The boy jumped at a sudden noise to his right. It was a motorcycle, noisy and smelly. The van was still moving but the motorcycle was travelling at the same speed. Two people were riding on it, the passenger was shouting at the boy’s dad. He leaned in to hear what the man had to say but all he could hear was the roar of the bike’s engine. His dad gave them the thumbs up and the bike sped off.
“What did they say, dad?”
“Erm. Nothing, dude.”
“They did say something, but I couldn’t hear it. Are we in trouble?”
“Don’t worry about it, son.”
“Dad. What did they say?”
His dad smiled down at him.
“Persistent little bugger aren’t you. Well, OK, I’ll tell you. The convoy has been stopped by the police so some people at the front have driven into a field. It looks like we’re going to have to do the same thing.”
“Whose field is it?”
“I don’t know, son. I don’t know.”
“I’m hungry, dad.”
“Pop in the back and get the packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. I’ll make you a sandwich when we stop.”
“Thanks, dad; love you, dad.”
“Love you, son.”
The boy climbed over the back of his seat into the kitchen area. He opened a cupboard and rummaged around inside until he found a packet of chocolate digestives. He sat on the edge of the bed munching on a biscuit when his dad yelled out.
“Shit!”
“What’s up, dad?”
“Get in the bed, son. Get in and get the blanket on top of you.”
“Why?”
His dad sounded angry, and afraid. He ignored the instruction and looked over his dad’s shoulder, out of the windscreen. The road ahead was scattered with items which, when they got closer, he could see were a washing up bowl, plates, a kettle and a frying pan. They clattered underneath as the van drove over them. He looked all around; on both sides of the van were smashed up vehicles. A white van, a coach, a car. The windows had been broken, glass was everywhere and everything from inside had been thrown out and onto the road. And policemen were everywhere. Hundreds, all wearing blue overalls and helmets with clear screens that covered their faces and holding wooden truncheons which they were using to smash against any vehicle that was near them.
“Dad! What’s happening?” screamed the boy.
“They’re attacking the convoy, son. Hold on this is gonna be bumpy.”
The boy looked ahead. Every vehicle in the convoy was turning right and driving through the hedge at the side of the road. The boy held onto the back of his dad’s seat as the van veered to the right, crashed through the hedge and into a field of grass.

The boy looked out of the windows in horror. All around the field were the vehicles from the convoy, being attacked by the police. The yellow bus that had been in front of them had stopped in the field and policemen surrounded it. He knew the family who owned the bus and he watched as the police smashed the windows and started dragging them out.
“Dad, dad, stop them!”
“Can’t son. Got to carry on.”
The van careered over the field. To slow or stop would mean they would be attacked by the police so they carried on to the end of the field where a group of vehicles had gathered, and where the police hadn’t yet reached.
They slewed to a halt; seconds later Alfie’s bus pulled alongside.
“Stay there!” shouted the boy’s dad as he jumped out of the van.

More and more vehicles joined them at the bottom of the field. The boy climbed out of his seat and crawled onto the bed so he could see out of the back window. The grass was lined with tyre tracks. A few more buses and coaches, and a car towing a caravan, were making their way over towards them, but the police seemed to have stopped any more coming through the hedge. He couldn’t wait any longer. He climbed back into the front, opened the door and stepped outside.
The first thing he heard was the helicopter hovering and buzzing around over them. The second thing he could hear was people shouting, back at the hedge; police, travellers, everyone seemed to be shouting. The noise was awful. The boy covered his ears and went to look for his dad.
He walked round the vehicles for a few moments. Some had windows broken, some people were crying, some were arguing. People had let their dogs out. A large dog walked up to him, wagging its tail. The boy patted the dog on the head, then saw his dad, who was holding a cup, standing talking to some other men.
“Hello, boy; I was just going to come back to you. Listen, everything seems to have calmed down a bit. Why don’t you find Alfie and have a play.”
“OK, dad.”

For the next few hours the boy played with his friend. The police hadn’t come into the field and the adults seemed happier. Some people had gone down to the hedge and were shouting and throwing things at the police but otherwise everything was calm. Eventually his dad came and found him and told him dinner was being cooked and was nearly ready. The boy was hungry so he followed his dad back to the van.
The side door was open and his dad climbed inside and stirred a large pot which sat on the stove. The food smelled good, he had forgotten how hungry he was.
“What is it dad?”
“Chilli.”
“Oh. What’s that noise?”
His dad came out of the van and looked in the direction of the hedge. His face dropped.
“Oh fuck.”
The boy turned to see what had caused his dad to swear. Thousands of policemen, shoulder to shoulder, had gathered at the hedge and had started to charge towards them. Each carried a large, clear shield, wore a helmet and held a wooden truncheon above their head.
“Get in the van now.”
The boy didn’t need telling twice. He leapt inside. His dad threw the cooking pot out on to the grass and, with a mighty heave, slid the door shut. He ran round to the front and jumped in the driver’s seat. All the vehicles around them had started their engines.
“Get in the bed and put the blanket over your head. They might smash the windows and if they do I don’t want you to get hurt.”
But the boy couldn’t comply. He did leap on the bed but he couldn’t hide; he had to see what was happening.
“What are you going to do, dad?”
“We’re going to drive round in circles, son. That’s the only way to stop them getting on board. If we’re moving they can’t get in, and hopefully we’ll be able to drive out of the field and away from them.”
“But what if they do, dad? What if they do come in the van?”
“They won’t, son.”
By now they were moving. Most of the vehicles were attempting to form a circle but some wouldn’t start. So they drove around the stranded buses and coaches.
The police had reached the vehicles. The boy screamed. His friend Alfie’s bus hadn’t moved and the police had surrounded it and started to smash all the windows. He screamed louder when two of the policemen reached inside and started to pull Alfie’s mum out through a window they had just smashed, by her hair. Her face and arms were covered in blood as she was dragged over the broken glass. She screamed and squirmed and clawed as she came out; then one policeman smashed her in the face with his truncheon and she stopped fighting.
“Dad. Dad,” screamed the boy. “Alfie’s mum!”
But his dad didn’t say anything. He was still trying to drive round the field without hitting any police or fleeing travellers. Every bus and coach that the police managed to stop was being smashed and the occupants were dragged out through the windows. The field was a mass of police, travellers and dogs, all running around in a frenzy, amongst the vehicles.
“We’re going into the next field, son. Hold on.”
The boy fell over and banged his head on the window as the van crashed through a fence and into the next field. He looked out of the window and could see that, unlike the previous field which just had grass growing in it, this one was full of crops.
“Shit!” shouted the boy’s dad as he bounced around in his seat. “If we stop I really need you to cover yourself up son. This could get very nasty.”
The boy was crying. He had seen Alfie’s mum, as well as several other people he knew, pulled onto the ground and beaten by the police. He didn’t want this to happen to his dad. He felt scared. Really, really scared. Looking out of the back window he saw police charge into the field. Two buses were on fire, black plumes of smoke filled the air.
“Dad. They’re setting buses on fire.”
“I know, son. We just need to keep going and stay away from them....Oh crap. No. Not now. No, no, no!”
“What’s up dad?”
“The engine. Shit, the engine’s stopped.”
The boy watched his dad start to panic as he frantically turned the engine over. It refused to start. The boy looked out of the window. The policemen were very close. His dad leapt over the seat and into the back. He jumped on to the bed, grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. To each side and behind them they could see police approach. They were screaming and held their truncheons above their heads as they moved in.
The boy screamed so much it hurt his throat, as every window was smashed at the same time. They were showered with thousands of fragments of glass. Arms reached in, pulling and yanking at them.
“There’s a child here!” yelled his dad but none of the police could hear. They were shouting, “Get out, get out, get out!” as their hands pulled and yanked. The boy held his dad’s arm as tight as he could; he closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else. Then he felt himself being pulled out towards the back of the van.
He opened his eyes and looked up at his dad who was shouting and swearing. One policeman’s hand had grabbed his dad’s hair and was pulling him out of the back window whilst another had hold of his legs and was trying to pull him out of a side window. The boy felt a sharp, agonising pain. His t-shirt had been pulled up to his chest and his exposed skin was being dragged over the smashed glass on the bed. The man holding his dad’s hair had let go and two men had hold of his feet. His dad refused to let go of him so they were both pulled out of the van through one of the side windows. He felt more pain as the broken glass tore along his side. He closed his eyes again.
Still cradled in his dad’s arms, he could feel them falling; then they landed on the ground with a thud, which made him feel sick.
His dad hadn’t let go of him, but then he felt more hands grabbing him; trying to separate him from his dad. The boy opened his eyes; they were lying on the ground, surrounded by police. Two policemen had hold of his legs and arms whilst two more started smashing his dad in the face with their truncheon. They were screaming, “Let go of the fucking kid!”
Eventually his dad couldn’t take any more and let go his hold. The boy tried to look at the man picking him up but all he could see were stars and brightness and bits of blackness. He blinked and felt sick again. He could see a little better; blue sky, green grass, red on his arm.
He was carried by a policeman back across the field. He could feel his t-shirt sticking to his skin, he felt dizzy. He looked back at his dad, who was still lying on the ground, surrounded by policemen who were still hitting him.
The boy wanted to scream and kick and bite the policeman who was carrying him, but he didn’t have the energy. The world started to spin. He felt fuzzy. He closed his eyes and felt darkness pulling him in. He opened them again, but not for long. His eyes felt heavy. He closed them. The world turned black.

He woke with a start.
“Hello,” said the woman. “You’ve been asleep for hours.”
The boy looked up at her. She was fat and wore brown clothes. Her brown hair was pulled back into a bun on the top of her head.
“Who are you? Where’s my dad?”
“I’m afraid he is no longer able to care for you. My name is Mary and I will be looking after you until we find you a new family.”
“I want my dad.”
“Well you can’t see him. He is not a suitable parent. I will be looking after you now. There’s nothing to worry about.”
The boy started to cry. Fat tears ran down his face, clearing away the dirt on his cheeks, to expose the tender white skin underneath. He felt alone and afraid. He wanted his dad.
“I w-want my daddy,” he bawled.
“Well you can’t see him,” said Mary. “And you never will again, so you’d better get used to it.”

 
Chapter 2 – The Biker

28 June 2010

Ringo Fletcher slammed the front door shut, dumped his bag on the floor and kicked the large mound of post to one side. He surveyed his front room; it was in a terrible state. Dirty plates littered the coffee table, empty beer cans lay on the floor and the contents of an ashtray were deposited all over the battered, black leather sofa. A warm feeling surged through his body, which made his cheeks flush red and the hairs on his arms stand up.
The room was exactly as he’d left it two months ago.
Ringo stood six foot four inches in his army-surplus, size eleven boots. A casual observer would classify his attire as that of a biker. Skin-tight, faded, blue denim jeans that looked as if he’d worn them for at least two weeks, a similarly faded, and filthy, black Motorhead t-shirt and over that a black, leather biker jacket. His skinny frame was topped off by a long neck with a pronounced Adam’s Apple and a head that seemed too small for his body. His face was mouse-like with a long, thin nose, a pronounced over-bite, hollow cheeks and small ears. His skin was weather-beaten and tanned and his dark brown hair was pulled back in a long pony-tail, tied with an elastic band. He was thirty years old, but looked five years older.
Ringo stood with his feet apart and his arms outstretched and, in a deep voice which belied his skinny body, bellowed,
“Hello. I’m home.”
Nobody answered. But he knew this already. Ringo had never lived with anyone else. He spent six months of the year away from home as a roadie with various rock bands. Life in cheap hotel rooms with the other farting, belching, nose-picking roadies was more than enough company. Home was home, and when he was there he was happy with his own company.
He giggled.
“Well, fuck you then.”
The front room was small and painted magnolia, with added tobacco stains. Aside from the sofa and coffee table, the room housed a television and video recorder and a single, empty, bookshelf. Behind Ringo a bay window occupied the wall adjacent to the front door; to his left were the stairs that led to the single bedroom and bathroom and in front of him a glazed, wooden door led to the kitchen.
“Brew,” said Ringo, striding into the kitchen. He ignored the dirty pans, empty pizza boxes and other mess, and picked up the kettle which he emptied, then refilled with fresh water from the tap.
Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil he looked in the fridge. Nothing in it looked edible. He wasn’t too bothered about this; he’d eaten on the flight over from Geneva, just under two hours ago. A friend had picked him up from Manchester airport and driven him the ten miles home.
The kettle boiled and he made a cup of tea. Then he pulled a red pack of Marlboro cigarettes and an old Nokia phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. He lit a cigarette and dialled a number on the phone at the same time. After two rings the call was answered.
“Mulder.”
“Ringo! How you doing you old bastard? How was Europe?”
“Pub.”
“I can’t mate. I told the wife I’d spend the evening in with her.”
“Fuck off. Pub.”
“Mate. Give us a break. I promised her. You know how it is.”
“Your best and oldest mate has just come back after two months away and wants to go to the pub. And I don’t know how it is ‘cos I haven’t got a wife and I never will have ‘cos they stop you doing what you want to do. Tell her Ringo says you’re going down the pub.”
“She’ll have me guts for garters.”
“I don’t fucking care. I’ll see you there at half seven.”
“But...”
“And if you’re not there I’ll come to your house and fucking drag you there.”
“Alright. You win. Swinging Witch?”
“Yep.”
Ringo ended the call, slurped some tea and sucked on his cigarette. He stared out of his kitchen window and surveyed the back garden. The garden was as it was through evolution rather than design. In the past it had been mainly lawn but, as he never tended it, it had become wild; which made it difficult to get to his shed and to his bike. To Ringo the garden served only two purposes, to accommodate his 1992 Yamaha XS 1100 motorcycle and his shed, which contained all the tools he needed to keep the bike running. Therefore, he had paved over the garden two summers ago.
“Bike or walk?” he muttered. “Better walk,” he decided.

Twenty minutes later, Ringo opened the front door of the Swinging Witch. The pub used to be one of many in the town centre but, with the smoking ban and price of alcohol increasing, trade had diminished to the point that only a few still existed. Most of those still clinging to life had undergone extensive refurbishments; transforming them from smoky dives into corporate identikit enclaves, serving microwaved food in huge portions and pushing out alcopops to teenagers on a Friday night.
But the Swinging Witch, alone, remained unchanged. Even at 7.30pm on a Monday night the bar was crowded with what could only be described as the lower end of the local demographic profile. Inside, the pub was plainly decorated. Beige walls, interspersed with photos of motorcycles, sticky, purple carpet, dark wood tables and stools and a dark wood bar, stained from a million pint glasses. The bar was ahead of Ringo, a pool table to his right and a small stage to his left. As he walked confidently to the bar, three or four people nodded their heads and called his name, acknowledging his presence.
He wedged himself between two punters stationed at the bar, placed one foot on the brass rail that ran around the bar at ankle height, slapped his hands face-down on the bar and addressed the barmaid.
“Jane. Pint.”
“Alright, Ringo. How you doing?”
“Good thanks, love. How about that pint? I’m gasping for a proper one. Two months of European lager nearly put me off ale for good.”
The man standing next to Ringo took umbrage at his presence, and the fact the barmaid had acknowledged him so quickly..
“Do you mind, love? I’ve been waiting to be served for ages and he’s only just got here.”
Ringo slowly turned to look down at the man. He looked like a bouncer; shaved head, pastel blue shirt and hands like spades.
“I think you’ll be wanting to go to another pub, pal if that’s your fucking attitude,” said Ringo.
The bouncer wasn’t in the least bit threatened. He may have stood several inches shorter, but his biceps were thicker than Ringo’s neck.
“Are you threatening me?” he said.
“Not in the slightest,” said Ringo. “But be aware that if you start on me there’ll be about twenty people jump on your fucking head before you even know what happened.”
The bouncer stared into Ringo’s eyes and clenched his teeth.
“He’s right you know, love,” said Jane. “You wouldn’t get out of here alive. Ringo’s well liked in here and he’s bought most people who are drinking in here tonight several pints each, over the years. And one thing our regulars like is a free pint. I’d advise you to wait your turn or fuck off.”
The bouncer continued to stare at Ringo, who stared back.
Ringo spoke first. “Pint of the usual for me and whatever this man would like.”
“Lager,” said the bouncer.
“Name’s Ringo,” said Ringo. He extended his hand to the bouncer. “I’ll buy you this drink because I’m not a nasty bastard. But if you come in here again and talk to me like that, I’ll kick your teeth so far down your throat you’ll have to put your toothbrush up your arse to clean them.”
The stare-off continued for a few seconds, then the bouncer shook Ringo’s hand.
“Fair enough. Thanks for the pint.”
Ringo slapped him on the back. “And next time you do come in here don’t wear that fucking shirt. Haven’t you noticed this is a biker pub?”
“Cheeky get.”
With the stand-off over, the pair continued to chat until Jane slammed two pints down on the bar. Lager for the bouncer, Guinness for Ringo.
“Five pound thirty,” she said.
As he was pulling a note from his jeans pocket, Ringo noticed Mulder walk in through the front door.
“And a half a shandy for Mulder.”
“Fuck off Ringo. Pint of lager please, Jane,” said Mulder. He was much shorter than Ringo and wore an old army jacket over blue jeans.
“How you doin’ shitface?” said Ringo.
“Who’s your mate?” said Mulder.
The bouncer proffered a hand. “Bob.”
“Oh right,” said Mulder, ignoring Bob’s hand. “I got in a right load of shit with the missus, Ringo. She’s threatened to lock me out if I’m not back by ten.”
“Listen. Ringo’s back from his travels and wants a pint with his best mate. That’s all she needs to be told,” said Ringo.
“Twat,” said Mulder.
Jane produced Mulder’s lager. Mulder and Bob sipped at their drinks whilst Ringo poured his down his throat in one go. He let out a huge burp and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.
“Another,” he said to Jane.

One hour, and several pints, later the pub was full to capacity. A band had started to assemble their equipment on the small stage. The trio still held their position at the bar, despite the fact that that it was three deep with people waiting to be served. Mulder announced that he needed the toilet.
“Puff,” said Ringo.
Bob laughed.
“Whatever,” said Mulder.
“You’ve only had four pints. If you break the seal now you’ll be going for a piss every five minutes.”
“Fuck off Ringo. I’m going for a piss. Listen, I’ve got a gram of charlie on me. Good stuff; none of that shite. Fancy a snifter?”
“Aye, yes. Is there enough for Bob?”
Mulder looked at Ringo in disbelief.
“It cost a hundred and fifty quid a fucking gram. Only if he fucking pays.”
“No worries lad.” Ringo pulled a wad of notes from his back pocket. He pulled five notes out and handed them to Mulder.
“There you go. Hundred. I’m sure that’s enough for a quick sniff.”
“I don’t want your money, that’s not the fucking point,” said Mulder.
“You either take it or you don’t,” said Ringo.
“Alright lads. I can pay me own way,” said Bob. He produced a light-brown, leather wallet and licked his fingers in readiness to count his money.
“How much for a line?” he said.
“I’ll not have you pay, Bob,” said Ringo. “This fucking tight-wad can take my hundred notes or he can take nothing.”
Mulder shook his head. He said nothing but started to make his way to the bathroom, with Ringo and Bob following. The heat was in the pub was now stifling. It was standing room only, people stood shoulder to shoulder, and as they pushed through they could feel their clothes sticking to the sweaty bodies of the people they passed by.
Finally they reached the bathroom.
“Christ,” said Bob. “I’ve seen some disgusting places, but this....” He reeled as the smell of urine hit him. “It’s fucking disgusting.”
The walls were covered in white tiles and the tiles were covered in graffiti. A porcelain urinal ran round two walls whilst a single, door-less, room housed the toilet. An old man was the bathroom’s only occupant. He finished his business, farted, and walked out.
“Well, you can’t snort coke off the bar now; can you lad?” said Ringo.
Bob and Mulder peed in the urinal whilst Ringo walked into the toilet and cleaned the windowsill with the last of the toilet paper.
“Don’t they have a sink in here?” asked Bob.
“They did, but some stupid bastard kept kicking it off the wall,” said Mulder, looking at Ringo.
“Fucking vandals,” said Ringo. “Come on Mulder. Get it out.”
“Alright, calm down,” said Mulder. He walked into the toilet and pulled a small, clingfilm wrapped package from his pocket.
“Card?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Ringo.
“Here,” said Bob, producing a bank card from his wallet.
Mulder poured a little of the powder onto the windowsill and used the card to chop it, then arranged it into three lines. He pulled a twenty pound note from his pocket, rolled it up and leant over the cocaine. Using the note as a straw, and with his left thumb blocking his left nostril, he snorted one of the lines up his right nostril. When he had finished he shook his head then sniffed a few times and offered the note the Ringo.
Ringo snorted his line then offered the note to Bob who did the same.
“Give us me fucking twenty back,” said Mulder to Bob.
“Alright man,” said Bob. “Jesus, that’s strong stuff.”
“No point messing about,” said Ringo. “Right, let’s get back in there and smash the place up!”
As they fought their way to the bar, the band walked onto the stage. Ringo, who stood a head above most people, waved his arms in the air and cheered.
“We’re the Big Picture,” yelled the lead singer through his microphone. “And we’re going to rock your fucking arses off. This is a song by AC/DC. It’s entitled Back in Black.”
The band struck the opening chords to the song as Bob, Mulder and Ringo arrived back at the bar; which was packed with customers waiting for a drink, but parted as the trio arrived.
“Jane,” shouted Ringo. “Three pints. Two lagers and a Guinness.”

As the clock turned to 11pm the band walked off the stage and Mulder announced, for the fourth time, that he had to leave.
“I’ll be fucking locked out by the missus.”
“You said she was locking you out at ten, you lying bastard,” said Ringo. “But she never does. Have one more drink.”
“No. I really have got to go.”
“Me too,” said Bob. “It was a good night but I’ve got to go before I fall over, or puke.”
“Pair of wussies, both of you,” said Ringo. “Go on then, fuck off.”
Ringo stood at the bar, foot on the rail, and ordered another pint as his colleagues made their way to the door. The space previously occupied by Bob and Mulder was quickly filled. To his right a woman, mid-twenties, denim skirt, black singlet, dyed black hair, ordered a glass of wine.
“Y’alright, love,” said Ringo to the woman. “What’s your name?”
She smiled. “Mildred.”
Ringo was draining the dregs of a pint. He spat out a mouthful of beer. “Mildred! What kind of name’s that?”
Mildred giggled. “It’s not really, it’s Liz.”
“Well, let me buy you this drink, Liz.”
“OK.”
“Not seen you in here before.”
“That’s ‘cos I’ve not been in here.”
“Well you should. Beer’s good. Punters are a bit grim though.”
“Do you count yourself in that description?”
“Oh no. Can’t you tell? Tall, handsome, interesting. And you wouldn’t believe what I can do with my tongue.”
Liz laughed, then froze. A man walked up; he stood beside her and looked at Ringo.
“What you doin’, Liz? Is he givin’ you shit?”
“No, Ray. We was just talking.”
Ringo looked down at Ray. He was wearing trainers, shiny track-suit trousers and a football shirt. His short hair was caked with gel and sat on his head like a plastic wig.
“We were only passing the time of day,” said Ringo. “No need to get all aggressive.”
“Aggressive?” said Ray. “You’re chatting up my missus and you think I shouldn’t be aggressive about it?”
“Mate,” said Ringo. “I would advise you to fuck off now before you get hurt.”
“By you and who’s army?”
“Last chance. Fuck off now.”
Ray looked up at Ringo. His lower jaw jutted; he clenched his fist. “Outside. Now.”
“No,” said Ringo. “I’ve just ordered a pint.”
The pub was still crowded, and noisy. The crowd had been calling for the band to come back; they had relented and were strapped on their instruments.
“This one,” called the lead singer, “is called The Ace of Spades.”
As the opening bars were played, Ray swung a punch, aimed at Ringo’s chin. Ringo caught the fist in his left hand. He held it tight and swung his head down and forwards, hitting Ray on the nose with his forehead. Ray reeled backwards, clutching his nose. Blood dripped through his fingers. He paused for a second then charged forwards at Ringo, who grabbed him by the shoulders and brought his knee up into Ray’s groin.
Ray dropped to the floor, gasping for air. Ringo looked down at him, wondered for a moment what to do next, then grabbed Ray by the shirt and started to drag him across the floor of the pub, towards the door. The crowd parted. Ringo reached the door and kicked it open. He hauled Ray to his feet and hissed,
“Never, ever come in here again.”
With that he pushed Ray through the door and into the cold, night air. Then, as Ray staggered away from the pub, Ringo ran up behind him and kicked him as hard as he could.
Ray let out a gasp and fell to the pavement.
“Fuck off and stay fucked off,” shouted Ringo. He was annoyed that he had lost his composure. He stomped back through the door and into the pub. Liz was standing in front of him. She shot him a glare and ran out after Ray. Ringo shrugged his shoulders.

At midnight Jane rang the bell for the second time.
“Home now you bastards.”
Ringo was still standing at the bar. He looked at Jane.
“Go on love, just one more.”
“Sorry Ringo. We’re closing.”
“Ah well. I’ll take my leave.”
He staggered towards the door. The walk home took twice as long as the walk there had taken. He had to stop twice for a pee, in shop doorways, and his feet didn’t naturally follow each other. He had to concentrate in order to walk straight. Eventually he arrived home. After several attempts he opened his front door, went for yet another pee, then undressed and crashed into his bed.

Ringo was awoken by a knocking on his front door. Through bleary eyes he checked his watch. It was 9am. He snuggled down and pulled the duvet over his head.
The knocking continued.
“Ahhhhhh,” he screamed, and leapt out of bed. Dressed only in a pair of grey Y-fronts he stormed down the stairs and flung the front door wide open.
“What?”
Standing in front of him was the postman. Ignoring the fact that Ringo was wearing only his underpants, he said,
“Parcel for Bill Carson. Will you sign here please?”
“He lives next door,” said Ringo. “And did you have to bang on my front door so frigging early in the morning.”
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, here is your post.”
The postman handed Ringo a letter, stepped across to the next door and knocked loudly. Ringo closed his front door, threw the letter on his coffee table and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
After a shower, shave and shit, Ringo brushed the ash off his sofa and sat down with a cup of tea. He was wearing an ancient, blue dressing gown. Slurping the tea he glanced at the letter, leaned forwards, picked it up and studied it.
The fact that his name and address were hand-written piqued his interest. It wasn’t often he received hand-written letters. But he recognised the writing. Sighing, he opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of A4 paper. It was a letter, written in the same hand as the envelope:

DEAR SON

DESPITE THE FACT YOU HAVEN’T REPLIED TO ANY OF MY LETTERS I THINK YOU MAY BE INTERESTED IN THIS ONE. I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU. I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T SEEN ME IN 25 YEARS BUT I HAVE THOUGHT OF YOU EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE WE PARTED. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND IT WASN’T MY FAULT; YOU WERE TAKEN FROM ME. I NEVER WANTED IT TO BE THIS WAY. I HAVE, HOWEVER, COME ACROSS SOMETHING THAT MAY BENEFIT YOU FINANCIALLY. PLEASE, PLEASE COME AND SEE ME. YOU KNOW WHERE I LIVE. COME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

LOVE

DAD

Ringo had no memory of his father. He had been brought up in a series of care homes. He knew his mother died when he was a baby and it had been drilled into him from an early age that his father didn’t want him and wasn’t able to care for him. He had received a number of letters recently, from his father pleading for him to call or write. Apparently his dad hadn’t abandoned him and that the ‘state’ had taken Ringo from him and that he wanted to meet up with him.
Ringo had dismissed these pleas as the desperate desires of a guilty man. He didn’t care about his father because his father hadn’t cared about him.
However, whilst he sipped at his tea, he read the letter again.
“May benefit you financially,” he said.
A lifetime of rejection, bullying and a myriad of adults who pertained as substitute parents flicked through his mind.
“No. Fuck you,” he said. “Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you again.”
Ringo screwed the letter up and threw it across the room. He put his feet on the coffee table and turned on the television.