IDEAS

IDEAS

IDEAS by Chris Green

I’m telling you,’ says Flavia. ‘The guy was a complete stranger. He just walked up to me and handed me the bag.’

And you didn’t think to say what are you doing or who are you or anything like that,’ says Matt.

There wasn’t time. It all happened very quickly,’ says Flavia. ‘Besides I was taken completely off guard.’

And he just disappeared into the crowd.’

Well, yes. That’s exactly what happened. Look! It was busy. There were a lot of people around. People were coming out of the cinema. People were waiting for the 61 bus. And there were a large group of passers-by watching a street musician with a trumpet. He was very good. If you hadn’t gone into that games shop you would have seen how quickly it all happened. You could have done something about it.’

So you were distracted. That’s what you are saying.’

That’s right, Matt. You know I like jazz. And this is free jazz.’

And the fellow that gave you the bag was about average height, average build and was wearing blue or grey.’

That’s right. Even his balaclava was blue, or grey. Can you get off my case, please! Who do you think you are? Inspector Wallander or someone?’

You do realise what this is, don’t you?’ says Matt.

But there’s nothing in it. I’ve looked. The bag is empty.’

I know that is how it looks. But, does it feel empty?’ says Matt, handing her back the blue Ikea bag. ‘Here! Feel it. It’s very heavy.’

You’re right. It is heavy.’

There is something in there. Feel inside it.’

It got a shape. ….. But …. but it’s invisible. What is it?’

It’s an enigma. That’s what it is.’

What? One of those machines the Germans used in the war?’

Not exactly. But you might be on the right lines.’

Well, if that’s the case someone’s going to want it. Someone’s going to be looking for it. Someone’s going to be looking for us,’ says Flavia.

………………………………………………………………….…

Flavia is right. Someone is looking for it. Casey Boss is looking for it. His department is extremely security conscious. They need to be. There is a lot at stake. How could the courier have been robbed like that? From his van. In broad daylight. Who were these cowboy logistics people? Weren’t there supposed to be two people on board when they transported sensitive cargoes? And how did the thieves get it into the Ikea bag?

Casey Boss has the van driver in his eleventh-floor office overlooking the river. He is trying hard to stay calm. He was recently hospitalised. Dr De’Ath warned him he must avoid stress. Losing his temper again will send his blood pressure through the roof. He is on powerful beta-blockers.

You do realise the gravity of the situation,’ Boss says, swilling a couple of extra Propranolol down with a glass of water. ‘You understand that we have just lost something ………. important.’

Zbigniew Wozniak has some difficulty in following him. There are several big words there. English is not even his second language. His job as he sees it is to get things from A to B. Even this can be a challenge sometimes. He has difficulty with some of the road signs. How was he to know that it wasn’t a real diversion sign? The next part of the scam was, however. easier for Wozniak to understand.

Man’s face is covered,’ he says. ‘He says gun if I don’t give him.’

Where did covered man go?’ says Casey Boss, finding himself reduced to Wozniak’s pigeon English in order to communicate.

Have big black car,’ says Wozniak. ‘Drive fast.’

………………………………………………………………….…

It’s a pity that you hit that car, George’ says Mavis Deacon. ‘Look at the time. We are going to be late for indoor bowls. And you know it was our turn to make the tea.’

I know, dear, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

Black ones are definitely harder to see, aren’t they? I think the last one you ran into was black.’

It was the other fellow’s fault though, dear. He did pull out in front of me.’

That man certainly didn’t want to hang around to give you his insurance details, did he? Running off like that. Why do you think, he was in such a hurry?’

I don’t know. Perhaps he had to get that bag to the shops quickly. It was one of those bags, wasn’t it?’

I think it was an Ikea bag, George? Perhaps we could go to Ikea sometime. They do some very nice kitchenware.’

Yes. I believe it was Ikea, Mavis. And we will go one day. If we can find it. Anyway, I expect the police will be along in a minute. They will be able to sort things out. His car did take a bit of a knock though, didn’t it? They don’t make them like they used to.’

Why do you think he was wearing a balaclava though, George? That seemed to me to be a little odd. Especially if he was going to the shops. The security people in the shops might think that he was a criminal with a gun, who was going to rob them.’

I’m sure there’s a rational explanation dear. And anyway he’s bound to be on CCTV cameras somewhere.’

………………………………………………………………….…

Matt and Flavia are in Café Baba, a small establishment run by a Moroccan family down a discreet alleyway, away from the main shopping centre. They have gone there to get away from the hubbub while they take stock of their situation. Matt is feeling inside the bag. What can possibly account for its weight?

I think it might be changing shape,’ he says.

You mean like it’s alive?’ says Flavia, nervously.

Kind of. …… Not exactly. …… I don’t know. Have a feel.’

No, thankyou! I’ll take your word for it,’ says Flavia, with a grimace. ‘Look Matt! Enough is enough. We’ve got to get rid of it.’

What do you suggest we do with it then?’ says Matt. ‘We can hardly go to the police with it can we?’

Can we not? Why’s that?’

Don’t you think they might find us a little suspicious, handing in a blue Ikea bag with an invisible object inside. A heavy invisible object that keeps changing shape, no less. I really don’t think they Sergeant Rozzer would be likely to understand. A man handed it to my wife in the street. No, she hadn’t seen him before. No, we did not get a look at his face, he was wearing a balaclava. They would detain us as aliens or something. We would probably be locked up forever in a secure institution.’

We could just dump it.’

I suppose so, but that seems a bit irresponsible.’

Wait! Don’t you have a friend who is some sort of scientist, Matt?’

I don’t think so.’

The one with the multicoloured framed spectacles.’

Oh, you mean Theo. No. Theo’s a prosthodontist. That’s basically a dentist. I don’t think that’s quite the same.’

What about the one who works for MI5?’

Oh, Hank. You’re talking about G4S, not MI5. Hank works for G4S. Used to be called Group 4. He’s a night security guard at a building site.’

Well. Perhaps you could come up with a suggestion, but we’re not taking it home.’

………………………………………………………………….…

Casey Boss is conscious that he has an emergency on his hands. He must not let the situation escalate. There is no telling what harm could be done. He leaps into action. He quickly puts a number of his people on the streets to requisition CCTV footage from cameras over a distance of several square miles. Freeman and Willis send him film of the crash at the Cross Hands crossroads. He plays the footage. The white Skoda ploughs into the side of the black BMW. A hooded gunman gets out of the Beamer and runs from the scene. An old couple slowly emerge from the Skoda.

Doddery old farts like that shouldn’t be allowed on the roads,’ he says to his colleague, Jagger. ‘Look at him he’s about eighty. He’s got a white stick. He’s probably blind.’

The gunman with the blue Ikea bag heads in the direction of the shopping district. It is strange, Boss thinks, how little notice people seem to take. It is as if they are all too used to seeing armed men in balaclavas running through the streets with heavy Ikea bags.

Boss moves his focus to footage from a bank of sixty-four cameras located in the centre of town in the comms suite of the municipal building. He is able to witness the masked man’s progress through the town on several cameras, past BetFred and BetterBet, past the Hungarian supermarket, past the bank of posters advertising the Psychedelic Furs reunion concert, through the park where the street drinkers assemble, into the square, past the fountain of Poseidon and into the smarter part of town. He passes the 61 bus stop by John Lewis, but then it is not clear where he goes. He disappears into a crowd of people that are watching a weathered-looking jazz trumpeter with a hunched back in a black coat and black trilby hat. It is unusual for a street musician to draw such a crowd. Jazzman’s audience grows by the minute. With the movement of the crowd, it is difficult to see what is going on. There is no sighting of the masked man emerging from the melee.

Boss tells Jagger to put out the word to bring the jazz trumpeter in for questioning.

There are no further sightings. He hopes that as the day wears on there will be more on the CCTV footage to view. Other than that, there are bound to be witnesses. Some public-spirited citizen will have noticed a man wearing a balaclava weighed down an Ikea bag. Surely. Perhaps he went into a shop. Perhaps one of the local premises is a front for some clandestine operation. Perhaps a number of the shops are fronts for clandestine operations. A lot of ethnic traders have moved in lately. He instructs his team to question all the traders in the area, threaten them if necessary.

………………………………………………………………….…

Meanwhile, the jazz trumpeter too has disappeared. He has somehow avoided Boss’s men, who are now all over the west side of town. As it happens, with his gear packed into a makeshift box trolley, he is making his way to the Café Baba. He likes to relax here with a slice of orange and almond cake and a glass of mint tea, away from the afternoon crowds. Ahmed will usually have some mellow jazz playing. They might even have a bit of a jam later in the back.

Matt and Flavia are already there, discussing what to do with the bag. It is a quiet time of day at Café Baba and they are the only customers. The Gaggia machine is switched off. There is a faint smell of hashish. Behind the counter, Ahmed and his younger brother, Youssef are sharing a pipe. A tune by Mulatu Astatke’s Black Jesus Experience plays gently in the background. East African beats. This is free jazz. All about ideas, inspiration and improvisation.

Ahmed notices that there is a little tension at Matt and Flavia’s table. Their voices are raised. Perhaps its the food. Maybe they are not familiar with Moroccan delicacies. Perhaps the briouats or the kefta wraps are not to their liking. They do not seem to have touched them. He ambles over to their table to see what the problem might be. In his djellaba and babouche slippers, his movement is hushed, so Matt and Flavia do not hear his approach. They are facing the window. They appear to be in the middle of an argument.

I think we need to find out what it is,’ says Matt. ‘Before we make a decision.’

I want it as far away from me as possible,’ says Flavia. ‘It’s gross.’

Someone might offer a reward for its safe return.’

How do you even think of these things? Matt. Where do you get these ideas from? Sometimes I think you live in a parallel universe. It’s a bloody Ikea bag for God’s sake.’

But a mysterious Ikea bag.’

We’re getting rid of it.’

We could put in in a storage unit or a locker at the station until we find out more.’

It’s going.’

But Flavia …….’

Matt! Matt! Look!’ says Flavia, grabbing him by the arm. ‘I swear the bloody bag is breathing.’

Ahmed follows her gaze to the inlaid leg of the walnut table. The blue bag, he notices, does look as though it’s breathing, in fact, it appears to be edging its way across the mosaic floor tiles. It has moved several inches. He is about to remark on this, but at that moment, Chet appears at the door with his gear. Chet comes at about this time every day after he has played his pitches in the town. He is struggling a little today. He is not getting any younger. Ahmed goes over to help him with his cart.

………………………………………………………………….…

We’ve found him, boss,’ says Freeman.

Who?’ says Boss. ‘Speak up man!’

Sorry. It’s a poor signal. …… Is that better?’

What is it, Freeman?’

We’ve found Jazzman, sir. He has been caught on CCTV passing the horologist’s in the old town. He’s gone down one of those alleys, with some equipment. Willis thinks he might be heading for the Café Baba.’

Where?’

The Café Baba. It’s an African place.’

What’s the low down on it, Freeman?’

Could be a front for terrorist activity, possibly.’

What about the bag?’

He didn’t seem to have the bag, but perhaps it was packed away with his gear.’

Keep Jazzman there until I get there. Stay outside, for now, but keep a close eye. We’re not going to lose him again. …….. But I want to be the one to apprehend him. Bring the car round, Jagger!’

You asked me to remind you to take your tablets, sir.’

Quite, Jagger. Thank you. And let me have some of the others, the ones you got from your man, Zoot.’

………………………………………………………………….…

Matt and Flavia have put away their differences for the time being and realised that they are hungry. Perhaps it has something to do with Chet and Ahmed having sat themselves down at the next table. Chet and Ahmed are waiting for Youssef to bring the mint tea. They are listening to Miles Davis’s So What. It is a live version. Ahmed has turned the volume up a bit.

Jazz should be about breaking down conventions, experimenting,’ says Chet. He looks forward to these conversations. They affirm his dedication to the art. ‘I mean it’s got to have energy, be a bit raw, come from inside. You know what I mean.’

Absolutely,’ says Ahmed. ‘You certainly get that with Miles he doesn’t do pre-written chord changes.’

That’s right,’ says Chet. ‘Miles probably never played this tune the same twice. His improvised melodic lines are the basis of the harmonic progression.’

He’s a genius. Where does he get his ideas for improvisations from?’

I know. It’s like he opens the bag just before the show and grabs a handful of ideas?’

Some of these people you hear today on Jazz FM. It’s like you are stuck in a lift,’ says Ahmed. ‘This so-called smooth jazz. I mean what’s that about. Smooth jazz is a contradiction in terms.’

They sit back to take in an improvised passage.

The pastries are delicious by the way,’ says Flavia, trying to make amends for their earlier lack of decorum.

Really tasty,’ says Matt.

Thank you,’ says Ahmed. He remembers the conversation that they were about to have before Chet’s arrival, the one about the bag. The big blue bag is still there under the table. It appears to have settled.

What is in the bag by the way?’ he asks.

………………………………………………………………….…

Casey Boss and Jagger arrive at Café Baba. Freeman and Willis are waiting outside.

How’s it looking?’ asks Boss. ‘Is jazzman in there?’

Yes,’ says Freeman. ‘He didn’t bring the bag though, but a man and a woman were already there with it.’

So there’s more than we thought. What about the café owner?’

I think they must all be in it together,’ says Willis.

Casey Boss has not done a lot of fieldwork lately. He is suddenly racked with uncertainty. Shouldn’t Zoot’s meds be working by now, he wonders, to give him a little confidence?

What do we do now?’ he says.

We generally burst through the door pointing guns and shouting,’ says Freeman. ‘I’ve always found that to be effective.’

What are we waiting for then?’ says Boss.

The four of them make their entry in the recommended manner.

Nobody move!’ yells Jagger. He has brushed up on his commands.

No-one looks as if they were about to move. It’s as much as they can do to look around. They see so much street theatre these days.

Stay away from the bag!’ says Jagger.

What’s the fuck’s going on?’ says Ahmed. His sentiments are echoed by the others. Eyes gradually focus on the Ikea bag. Whatever is happening, this is at the heart of the narrative.

Boss picks it up and examines it. He feels calmer now he has the bag and the meds are finally beginning to kick in.

Whatever is in the bag seems to have got everyone hot and bothered’ says Ahmed.

Whatever’s in the bag! Whatever’s in the bag! You know perfectly well what is in the bag. And we are going to find out everything about your little operation here at Café Baba.’ says Jagger, producing several pairs of handcuffs.

I swear none of us has any idea what’s in the bag,’ says Matt.

Well let me tell you what is in the bag,’ says Boss, feeling magnanimous. Zoot’s stuff is a real mood changer. ‘The bag is full of …….. ideas.’

It’s what?’ says Matt.

A bag full of ideas,’ Boss repeats.

What are you all talking about?’ says Chet.

It’s a bag full of concepts potentially present to consciousness,’ Boss elaborates. ‘Ideas.’

Cool,’ says Chet. ‘A bag full of ideas, eh? Can I have a look?’

Stay back,’ says Jagger, pointing the gun at his head.

I will attempt to explain,’ Boss continues. ‘It is clearly dangerous for too many people to have access to too many ideas, too many concepts potentially present to their consciousness, if you will, so it is necessary to keep a collection in a central repository. Ideas need to be carefully regulated, but it is also important to have a new idea now and then. After all, new ideas generate investment. Even the most antisocial ideas generate an investment. Sometimes raw ideas need to be transported from our warehouse to another location in order to be developed. Different skill sets you understand, storage workers and visionaries. Earlier today, in transit, a delivery was hijacked and has ended up here in the blue Ikea bag.’

What are you talking about?’ says Chet.

The bag is empty,’ says Flavia. ‘Or at least what is in it is invisible.’

Obviously, it’s invisible,’ says Boss. ‘Ideas are invisible.’

And heavy,’ says Flavia.

Of course, it’s heavy. You don’t think ideas just come in through your internet browser do you, or blow in gently on the prevailing south-westerlies?’

Anyway, you’ve got it all wrong,’ says Flavia. ‘A hooded man ran up to me in the street while I was standing there watching the jazz and handed me the bag and ran off.’

What?’ says Boss looking round at Jagger. Has his colleague messed up again, he wonders?

Why do you think he did that?’

Panic, possibly. I don’t know.’

And I’ve been trying to get rid of it ever since.’

Well, be thankful that you didn’t get rid of it,’ Boss continues. ‘There are a billion embryos of ideas in that bag. Ideas in their raw form, like the seeds of creation. Their value is immeasurable. Over time the ideas will grow and the department needs to be able to monitor their growth. Imagine if they fell into the wrong hands. We would have a free for all. We need to lock them back up in a safe place. It wouldn’t do for people to get the wrong idea.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

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Bougainvillea Heights

bougainvilleaheights2019

Bougainvillea Heights by Chris Green

As soon as she opens the front door, Angel can hear the sound of the shower running in the upstairs bathroom. That’s odd, she thinks as she unzips her boots, Jayson is never home at this time of day. Still, it is a nice surprise. Since he took up his post as CEO of Dozier and Coons, Jayson never seems to be home. Their love life has become almost non-existent. If he is having a shower at this time of day, perhaps he has plans to put this right. A little afternoon delight, she thinks, exactly what a girl needs, now and then. Angel was forty-two last month. While she works out and keeps herself in shape, she needs a little reassurance that she is still desirable. She drops her keys in the Art Deco dish by the hat-stand, throws her suit jacket over the bannister and after a quick check in the hall mirror, heads upstairs.

Jay,’ she calls out. ‘Jay, I’m home.’

There is no reply.

Jay,’ she calls again, at the top of the stairs. She has undone the top button of her blouse.

Jayson doesn’t answer. He can’t have heard her above the powerful pounding of the shower.

The bathroom door is ajar a few inches and steam is billowing out. Her fingers reach out to push the door open. From behind, an arm reaches out and grabs her around the neck. She looks down to see a gloved hand. It is not Jayson’s hand.

Jayson Love leaves the car park at Dozier and Coons in his new Audi A5. He phones Angel on the hands-free to say he will be late. There is no reply. She must be in the shower, he thinks. He leaves a short message. He slips Mozart’s Don Giovanni into the player to listen to while he drives along the short stretch of motorway to the turn-off to Dakota’s. The traffic is light for early evening.

Jayson sees Dakota three or four times a week depending on his workload. Dakota is the only escort he has found at Elite Escorts who entertains clients at home. He used to just visit once a week, but Angel’s affections seem to have dropped off lately. Ten years is a long time. None of his friends has been married this long.

Dakota is preparing for Jayson’s arrival. He likes her to surprise him with different coloured underwear each time he visits. Today she is going to treat him to lilac. Dakota has been with Elite Escorts for nearly five years. Because Jayson is such a regular, she wonders if she should give up the agency and just see him and perhaps one or two others regulars on a private basis. She would have more than enough income to live comfortably. Perhaps she should just see Jayson. He is a very generous man. Ah, that will be him now. She sprays the room with Occidental, makes a final adjustment to her skirt, puts on her heels and goes to the door to greet him.

Russ Buchanan joined the force from school. He stood out among the new recruits and was moved over to CID, where he was quickly promoted to Detective Sergeant. DS Buchanan has been called away from his skittles evening because his colleague DS Slack, who should be on duty, is off sick. When he arrives at Bougainvillea Heights, the crime scene investigators are already there going over the prints in the bathroom where Angel Love’s mutilated body was found. Jayson Love is not answering his phone and his whereabouts is unknown.

What have we got, Constable,’ he asks.

PC Hogg, the first to arrive on the scene, says that he has spoken to Mr and Mrs Schneider who reported the disturbance.

It was just after Angel Love arrived home that they heard the screams, Sarge,’ he says. ‘They called right away. Mr Love, as you may have guessed, was not home.’

Was he not?’ Buchanan says. ‘You know that, do you?’ The key to being a good detective is to rule nothing out.

He is hardly ever there, apparently,’ Hogg continues. ‘Neither the Schneiders nor the Pembertons who live opposite saw anyone apart from Angel Love arrive at the house and no-one has seen anyone leave.’

Then the murderer would still be inside, Hogg. And clearly, he isn’t, because you and Constable Peacey and the crime scene boys have all been over the house. None of the other neighbours saw anything?’

There are no other neighbours, sir,’ Hogg says. ‘As you can see, it’s pretty exclusive up here.’

No little Pembertons or Schneiders?’

Rosalind and Jemima are at university and Horst is at boarding school.’

You’ve checked, have you?’

Peacey’s just checking now, sir.’

Sarge will be sufficient, Hogg. I haven’t got my promotion yet.’

Russ Buchanan can see from the body in the bathroom that Angel Love did not take her own life. People cannot slash their own torsos at those angles with such force. What could possibly be the motive for such a vicious attack on a beautiful woman in these prosperous preserves? While this does not have the hallmarks of a crime of passion, somebody must have held a hell of a grudge to make their point so powerfully. Hardened he might be by watching snuff films with fellow officers at the Lights Out club, but he feels physically sick by the sight of the carnage before him. This is not the kind of case that officers in the Home Counties are often asked to investigate. But, with the Inspector’s post being advertised, it represents an ideal opportunity to take on the mantle of higher office. With another baby on the way, he is sure that Trudi would be glad of the extra salary.

What have we got from REX,’ he says. REX is the affectionate name for the new police computer. No-one knows for sure the explanation, but it is believed to come from Recs, records. There appears to be a singular lack of imagination in the creative department of crime prevention.

She seems squeaky clean,’ Hogg says.

Not her, you fool, the husband. Go and check on the husband and bring him in.’

We haven’t been able to get hold of Mr Love, Sarge.’

Just do it, will you, Hogg.’

Russ Buchanan has a variation on good cop, bad cop, he even has a variation on bad cop, bad cop. It is bad cop, bad cop, better cop, where he is the better cop who manages to extract a confession from the by now terrified suspect. It always works. He has secured endless convictions by this method.

He calls up Division and asks them to send over Noriega and Suggs for bad cop duties.

Jayson Love arrives home from Dakota’s about nine thirty. The area around the house is by now completely sealed off and the barrage of blue flashing lights is blinding.

Burly cops pull Jayson roughly from his Audi, where a smiling DS Buchanan greets him.

We’ve been trying to contact you, Mr Love,’ he says. ‘I expect you’ve got a good explanation for where you have been for the last four hours.’

I’m not at liberty to say,’ Jayson says. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what’s going on.’

I think it would be a good idea for you to answer our questions,’ DS Buchanan says. ‘What do you think Noriega?’

Noriega delivers a hefty blow to the stomach.

Further protests are greeted with further blows. Noriega and Suggs guide him, kicking and screaming, to the gruesome crime scene.

You surely don’t think that I did this,’ Jayson splutters, holding back a surge of vomit. ‘What kind of animal do you think I am? You think that I would slash my own wife to death.’

Perhaps you’d like to tell us where you were at around five o’clock this afternoon. I think that might be your best plan,’ Buchanan says. ‘What do you think, Suggs?’

A million thoughts simultaneously run through Jayson’s head. While he is sickened by what he is seeing, he must try to get a grip. Nothing is going to bring his wife back. And, after all, he does have an alibi. He can disclose his earlier whereabouts to the officers. He does not want to do this, but Dakota will understand. There are other considerations. There is a lot at stake in commerce. He has important interests to protect. In his line of work, the potential for misunderstanding is large. Those with, or even without vested interests are easily upset. Butchering his wife may be their way of getting their message through to him. The people we are likely to be talking about here are anything but subtle.

Can you get his phone from the car, Hogg,’ Buchanan shouts. ‘We’ll soon find out what is going on around here.’

Jayson has a moment of panic, but, yes, he does have the device in his pocket. He presses the emergency button. The phone will now be completely wiped. There will be no record that the phone ever existed. Even the spooks from the spy base would now have difficulty retrieving the information. His Iranian contact said that it might come in useful one day. Of course, he does have a backup copy of his data at the bank, but he is not going to volunteer this information in a hurry.

Dakota is surprised by the visit. People don’t usually knock so vigorously at the door at 2 a.m. A look out of the window is enough to confirm her suspicions that it is the police. At least, it gives her the opportunity to flush the coke down the toilet. The interrogation ensues. Although Noriega and Suggs are chomping at the bit, not even Buchanan can stoop low enough to use the bad cop, bad cop, better cop with someone as feminine and attractive as Dakota.

Yes, she tells them, she does know Jayson. Yes, she did see him. Yes, she did know that Jayson was married. No, he never talked about her. She doesn’t even know his wife’s name. Oh, Angel, that’s a pretty name. Oh my God! No-one deserves that. I expect it was one of those psychopaths you read about in the Sunday papers. No, she never took money from Jayson for sex. She’s not that kind of girl. Certainly, he might have bought her the odd present. He was a kind and generous man. No, she doesn’t work for an agency. No, of course, she isn’t a prostitute.

Dakota is a seasoned professional. She lives in a world where it pays to be discreet. She has also watched enough crime dramas on television to know what is the best course of action here both to protect herself and not to incriminate her client. To avoid being taken downtown, she does make a statement but she offers the minimum amount of information about Jayson and their meeting earlier. She leaves out all personal details and makes no mention of previous assignations. Detective Sergeant Buchanan leaves disappointed.

Jayson’s solicitor, Milton Chance, the senior partner at Gallagher, Dreamer and Shed arrives at the police station at 7a.m. Jayson is in a detention cell. He has the look of a broken man. Milton knows all about this look. Most of his clients have this look when he meets them. It’s his job to get rid of this look. He is good at his job. This is how he is able to afford to live at Bougainvillea Heights. He is not sure how Jayson is able to afford to live at Bougainvillea Heights. There is an air of mystery surrounding Dozier and Coons. He has heard rumours about what they might do in the huge complex at West Park, but no-one seems to know for certain. He drives past it sometimes and he can’t help but notice that the heavy security at the gates. He has more than an inkling that there might be something that Jayson is not telling him. From experience, he finds this is the case with a majority of his clients. A defence solicitor today sees it as the duty of modern justice to be able to accommodate secrets and lies.

Why do you think that are they keeping you here if they are not going to charge you,’ he says.

I think they just want to give me another going over,’ Jayson says. ‘That bastard Buchanan seems to have it in for me.’

I’ve come across him before,’ Milton says. ‘Nasty piece of work, isn’t he. A real shitbag. Don’t worry! I’ll get you out of here. But! If there is anything I need to know, you had better tell me so that I am in a position to react appropriately.’

Jayson feels that it is too early to share any big secrets about Dozier and Coons business. ‘We sell information,’ he says. ‘Some of it could be considered to be sensitive. It depends on your viewpoint.’

I think I get the picture,’ Milton says.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Databases are traded for profit the world over. It would be difficult to pretend that it is a virtuous line of business. Jayson does not spell out that Dozier and Coons have access to the same transatlantic data traffic as the listening centre. The same traffic that Edward Snowden got all hot and bothered about. But, in contrast to the listening centre who just monitor the data, Dozier and Coons decrypt it, package it by category and sell it on to interested parties. He does not confide that the interested parties are likely to use the data to exploit or undermine others, or worse.

What is Buchanan likely to know?’

He would be able to find out that Dozier and Coons are in the information business. He could find out that much with Google. But he could burrow around in TOR all day and still would not be able to find out the specifics of our operation and certainly nothing regarding our client list. We are a very security conscious organisation.’

He will be back here soon, probably with his goons. You could be in for a tough day,’ Milton says. ‘So, as you’re paying me well, I’m going to stay with you until the twenty-four hours are up. I’ve brought us lunch.’

Jayson Love never imagined in all his nightmares that he was putting those close to him in such danger. He has been a fool. He was earning good money with DataBroker. He didn’t need to take up the position at Dozier and Coons. Angel had not wanted him to. A slideshow of memories floods his consciousness; small but precious moments from their life together, the stolen kiss at the turn of a mile in his coupé on their first date, watching the waves roll in as the summer sun was setting over the ocean at Mawgan Porth, Angel trying to capture the shifting light across the bay at Juan Les Pins for an impressionist painting, the night-time sleigh ride to see the northern lights in Nova Scotia, watching spellbound as Lang Lang effortlessly gilded the Liszt Piano Concerto No.1 at The Proms, the month spent touring Spain in the hired Winnebago last year, or was it the year before.

He remembers the moment Angel told him she was pregnant just months ago after they had been trying for years, and the heartbreak of the miscarriage, knowing also that the biological clock was ticking. Was his inattention to her needs the result of this? Consciously or unconsciously, was he blaming her?

Angel didn’t deserve to die,’ he blubs, head in hands. ‘It should have been me. Goddammit! I wish it had of been me. I feel as if I killed her.’

Milton Chance has seen many grown men cry before. To be a successful criminal lawyer requires suitably accessible shoulders, and sometimes a little pick me up to help the client. He does not know what is in the cocktail he administers, but more often than not it seems to do the job.

The lawyer’s continued presence throughout the day frustrates DS Buchanan. He likes his detainees to be more vulnerable. Having to abandon his bad cop, bad cop, better cop strategy he is not able to make any significant progress on the investigation. All his fellow officers’ reports throughout the day about the activities of Dozier and Coons also come up with nothing. Little by little he sees his promotion prospects dwindle.

Jayson is released without charge at 4 p.m. He is just in time to pick up the duplicate phone from the bank vault. Clever stuff, he is thinking. He can access his information but others can’t. Now he can get onto what needs to be done.

As soon as he is on the steps outside the bank, the phone gives out its Rondo Alla Turca ringtone.

Dakota’s a pretty girl, isn’t she, Mr Love?’ a foreign sounding voice says. He pronounces his name as Meester Lov. Jayson cannot place the accent. His best guess is Middle-Eastern.

Who is this?’

It would be a pity if she ended up the same way as Angel, wouldn’t it?’

Who is this?’ Jayson repeats. He has the feeling he has heard the voice before. Perhaps it was a week or two ago. Someone with similar phrasing called. He has a vague recollection of the voice saying something about a friendly warning. He did not take much notice at the time. Some days can be quite full on at Dozier and Coons.

I imagine that you found the place a bit of a mess. All that blood and the sight of your dearly beloved lying there amongst it must have been shocking.’

What do you want?’

It is what we do not want, Mr Love,’ the voice says. ‘We do not want your organisation to have such close links with third parties in Iran. We do not want to see propaganda supporting Hamas. We do not want supplies of rocket parts to reach Hamas. We do not want to see Palestine as a member of the UN that is a sovereign state in its own right. I think that might give you an idea of who we represent.’

But ….. your people buy information from us too,’ Jayson says.

Precisely, Mr Love. And we intend to continue this arrangement, but your …… other arrangements will be cancelled forthwith. Or, it’s goodbye pretty little Miss Dakota. I think that you understand me.’

I usually get The Times,’ Mrs Pemberton says. ‘But tabloids are much more fun when something like this happens.’

We get the Telegraph,’ Mrs Schneider says. ‘Jurgen likes to do the crossword. But these, what do you call them, red-tops, do like to tell a story.’

It says here, he was shot at point-blank range,’ Mrs Pemberton says. ‘It’s odd though that the photo looks nothing like him.’

This one says that a girl was seen running from the house,’ Mrs Schneider says.

The Express says that an armed division of Israeli soldiers rushed the house,’ Mrs P says. ‘But they don’t have a photo, just a mock-up of what an armed division of Israeli soldiers might look like storming a house.’

Look at this headline, BURNING LOVE. It says he died screaming in a house fire,’ Mrs S says.

They’ll do anything to sell papers,’ Mrs P says. ‘It talks about a Palestinian tunneller here.’

It says in the Standard that Jayson Love died from a heart attack,’ Mrs S says.

I know. You don’t know what to believe, do you?’ Mrs P says. ‘It’s funny we haven’t seen that nice policeman again. That Inspector Buchanan. You’d think he’d want to ask us some questions.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

YODEL

yodel

Yodel by Chris Green

I took up yodelling to fight depression. I had lost my job at the packaging plant and Laura had left me. Everything came tumbling down. Each day seemed blacker than the one before. I felt unable to cope, couldn’t see any point in carrying on. I began to think of how I might end it all. I could keep the engine of the car running and close the garage door. I could take all the pills Dr Bolt had prescribed in one go. I could check out the times of the trains on the main line. There were any number of ways but somehow, I managed to hang on in there. Then, one night at 3 a.m. as I lay awake, it came to me. Perhaps yodelling might be the answer. I could take up yodelling.

I had always liked country music, of course. Who didn’t? But it was still a big leap from listening to Hank Williams and Willie Nelson in the comfort of my garden shed to signing up for a yodelling class. After all, not everyone who liked country music took up yodelling. But I discovered the country music fans that did take it up, like me, were likely to be doing it because they were depressed. My yodelling tutor, Clyde told me this was common. He himself had got into it because he had been depressed. His hard luck story involved unrequited love, gambling debts and the death of his ferret, George. George had been run over by a drunken teenage joyrider in a stolen pick-up truck. Perhaps I was missing something but while I could understand his disquiet about the debts and the rejection, I felt he might be over-reacting to the loss of a rancid polecat. But who I was I to judge? I let the matter go.

But to look at me now,’ he continued. ‘Who would have believed this time last year I was an inch away from slitting my throat. The razor was this far away from the vein? And in case that didn’t do the job, I had a loaded revolver in my belt.’

It was difficult to imagine that the grinning figure in his brightly coloured cowboy-check shirt and Ten-Gallon Stetson before me had the Samaritans number on speed dial. I resisted the temptation too to ask whether he still had the revolver. I decided I was not going to go down that route. I was determined to give yodelling a go.

I’m living proof of what a pick-me-up yodelling is,’ he said. ‘Anyway, lad, what type of yodelling are you interested in?’

I had not realised there was more than one type. I told him I liked Jimmie Rodgers and Hank Snow. Slim Whitman and Patsy Kline. And Frank Ifield, obviously.

What about Alpine yodelling,’ he asked? ‘The Swiss mountain stuff?’

I don’t know much about that,’ I said. ‘It’s probably not what I was thinking of.’

That’s good,’ Clyde said. ‘Neither do I. But still worth knowing about. That’s where it all began. The Tyrolese used it to call to their cattle over large distances. The sound echoed around the mountains. But, look! There have been lots of books written about yodelling. My favourite is Yodelling for Dummies. It’s quite short. You could probably read it on the front porch in an hour or so.

This being Gloucester, UK and not the Southern States, I did not have a front porch but I got stuck into the primer. I learned that American yodelling was a mix of Alpine yodelling and African yodelling. Jimmie Rodgers was one of the pioneers. His style became known as blue yodelling and it formed the basis of the cowboy yodelling in Gene Autry and Roy Rogers films.

I learned there had been many famous yodellers over the years. It was not just a handful of country stars and Hollywood cowboys. It was a worldwide phenomenon. Not many people realised it, but Winston Churchill was a dedicated yodeller. He often used to hide away in the war room and release the tension with a good session. Had it not been for these yodelling sessions, he may have submitted to the black dog and we may not have won the war. Alan Turing too was a great believer. In between cracking enemy codes, he liked nothing better than to get out in the open fields around Bletchley and yodel for all he was worth. George Orwell too was a yodeller. If you read it carefully, you will see that the subtext of 1984 concerns yodelling. Both Agatha Christie and Enid Blyton would sit at their desks yodelling while they waited for inspiration to come along. It clearly worked. They both wrote hundreds of books. King George, of course, yodelled before his social engagements and Queen Elizabeth too was known to have given it a go when Phillip wasn’t around. When you began to look into it, there had been dozens of celebrity yodellers. More recent ones included Nikita Kruschev, Stephen Hawking and David Hockney. And Ayatollah Khomenei some of you may remember was famous for bringing yodelling to a wider audience in the Muslim world. Yodelling was big in the East, so much so that it was practised in many countries several times a day.

It was refreshing to see that those who attended classes were always in good spirits. I had heard it said that any kind of singing was good for the soul but it appeared the changes of pitch and the breathing that yodelling entailed had special healing powers. Yodelling involved repeated and rapid changes of pitch between the low-pitch chest register or chest voice and the high-pitch head register or falsetto on the vowel sounds. Consonants were used as levers to launch the dramatic leap from low to high to give it its ear-penetrating and distance-spanning power. This was all I needed to know. The rest was just practising to perfect the technique. I started in earnest. I began to feel the benefit of yodelling almost right away.

When I found I couldn’t sleep, I got up and yodelled in the bathroom, repeating the Yodel-Ay-Ee-Oooo sound over and over in front of the mirror and found it relaxed me. Unfortunately, the neighbours didn’t see it that way and started banging on the wall. I yodelled all the way to the Job Centre but got some strange looks from people on the street. On my way to class too, I got abuse from passers-by. Despite the take-up by famous people historically, it seemed yodelling was still a long way from being accepted as a casual pastime.

I mentioned the hostility I had encountered at my yodelling class. Some of the students said they too had encountered hostility. Not everyone approved. In fact, there was a growing movement against it they said and powerful people were getting involved. It was perhaps best to be discreet about yodelling practice. I should find ways to do it secretly. At first, I put this down to paranoia. Many of them worked or had worked at the government listening centre and were accustomed to keeping secrets. Never being able to talk about their work when they got home was one of the main sources of their depression. According to Clyde, others who had worked at the base had not been so lucky. Not having taken up yodelling, they had taken their lives.

But let’s not dwell on that,’ he said. ‘It’s good to have you aboard and as you’ve found out, we are a happy bunch here.’

Thank you,’ I said. ‘Yodelling has been my saviour.’

This, of course, was several years ago now. As no doubt you will have realised, things have moved on since those heady days. The 2016 worldwide ban all but stamped out yodelling. Recordings featuring yodelling were withdrawn from the shops and streaming services and videos removed from the internet. The severe penalties if you are caught have been a huge deterrent. Apart from a few of us who, at great risk, still indulge in secret, the practice of yodelling has almost disappeared. It’s a pity that youngsters growing up today will miss out on the benefits. How long I wonder before yodelling is written out of the history books altogether? It’s hardly surprising the world is in such a perilous state. If people were still allowed to yodel, I’m sure things would be much more harmonious.

*********************

I wonder when my parcel will arrive.

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

The Other Half Live

theotherhalflive2019

 

The Other Half Live by Chris Green

I see Flagman has a new flag flying today,’ says Peter Booth, with the distracted air of a forty-something suburban professional, stuck for something to say.

Flagman?’ says Lauren Henderson, the flighty new neighbour. ‘I’m guessing that’s the fellow down the road with a flagpole in his garden.’

Indeed!’ says Peter. ‘But we’re not sure what the flag is. Levi may know. In the upper part, it has a yellow sun with a dozen sunbeams against a blue sky. The lower half is black with five yellow ovals.’

That’s the Donetsk Oblast flag,’ says Levi Gardner, with no hesitation. Levi is a senior lecturer at the university. Theme Park Engineering or something. He is the one with the old white linen jacket and the new black Land Cruiser.

Where’s that?’ says Emily Booth. Emily is the one who arranges these get-togethers for the residents of Sycamore Grove. The Booths’ is the last house before you come to open country, arguably the prime spot on the estate. They have Kettler Palmer garden furniture and the best stainless steel barbecue money can buy. Professional landscapers come in to keep the shrubs tidy and the borders in order. Emily just wishes Peter would replace her Audi. With a newer one. A bigger one. A Q7 preferably. A black one.

Donetsk, Ukraine,’ says Levi. ‘The People’s Republic. It’s was in the news a while back.’

That’s not so good, is it?’ says Emily. ‘Aren’t we supposed to like the other lot?’

Who knows what the real story is, Emily?’ says Levi. ‘Anyway, it’s probably better than the ISIS flag he had flying at Easter.’

Oh, my goodness!’ says Emily. ‘Did he really? I don’t remember that. That’s terrible.’

It was only up for a day. Flagman frequently changes his flag, Lauren,’ says Kirsty Gardner. ‘One day the Greenpeace flag, the next day the Chinese national flag. I think he likes to keep us guessing. We think he may be a retired vexillologist.’ Kirsty is also a lecturer. Consumer Sciences. Matter of fact. Hair cut short. Tortoiseshell spectacles on a chain.

Or just a nut,’ says Levi.

But he gives us something to talk about.’ says Peter. ‘Little happens around here, most of the time.’

………………………………………………………………………

A flag is a piece of coarse fabric usually rectangular, with a distinctive design. It is most commonly cut in the ratio of two to three or three to five. Historically used for signalling, flags are now also used for decoration. Designs include stripes, crosses, circles and divisions into bands or quarters, patterns, and principles derived from heraldry. Alternatively, the flag can display a symbol or logo, or an iconic image of perhaps Ché Guevara or Bob Marley. Sometimes there is a Moor’s head and sometimes there is Arabic script, for instance, on the Black Standard used by ISIS.

………………………………………………………………………

Let me guess. Flags,’ says Guy Salmon, arriving with his customary swagger. While others might disagree, Guy has not quite reached the stage of life where he considers himself middle-aged. He dresses accordingly. Smart casual, trousers too tight for a man of his build, loud shirts and Converse cut-offs. Guy is not slow to spot that Lauren has come without her husband, Warren. Warren is a pilot. Or is it plant geneticist? Something like that anyway. Perhaps Warren is at work. Or maybe he has taken the children to flying lessons or some extra-curricular sporting activity. Guy sits himself down next to Lauren and pulls his chair up close.

I liked the flag he had with the black face in profile with the white bandana around its forehead,’ he adds. ‘That was cool.’

Corsican flag,’ says Levi. ‘It’s a Moor’s head, and on the original flag, the bandana used to be a blindfold.’

Wasn’t Carlo Rossi, the fellow you bought your house from, Corsican, Lauren?’ says Peter.

I’m not sure. Warren and I didn’t actually meet Mr Rossi,’ says Lauren. ‘Briggs and Mortimer handled all the negotiations.’

Good old established firm, Briggs and Mortimer,’ says Emily. ‘Not like these fly by nights you hear about today.’

I’ve not seen this ….. Flagman, but it does sound as if he’s a bit mysterious,’ says Lauren, pretending not to notice that Guy has moved in closer. ‘He always seems to have his curtains drawn. And there’s that jungle round the side of the house and the old Citroen with the running boards on the drive. All this in the middle of a suburban estate. It just doesn’t fit. Who is he?’

We don’t know,’ says Peter.

You must have at least seen him.’

No, Emily and I have never seen him, Lauren.’ says Peter. ‘And we’ve lived here five years. What do you think, Dorsey? You’ve lived here the longest.’

I don’t know anyone that’s actually seen him,’ says Dorsey Otto, looking up from his tablet, where he is researching quantum theory for a story he is writing. ‘We don’t even know his name. If it weren’t for the flags changing so often, we’d think the house was empty.’

I’m told he only comes out in the middle of the night,’ says Guy.

Then whoever told you must have seen him,’ says Lauren.

I can’t remember who told me,’ says Guy.

Might it not have been Tom Golfer? He used to live next door to Flagman,’ says Peter. ‘Probably not the most reliable source. That’s a thought. Tom must be out of prison by now.’

Anyway, Lauren. You may not have noticed,’ says Guy. ‘But nobody much is out and about around here at three in the morning. This estate goes down at sunset.’

Someone told me he is the last surviving progeny of a ruthless clan of sailor monks,’ says Dorsey.

Lot of contradictions there,’ says Levi. ‘I heard a rumour that his voice can only be heard by cats.’

You don’t have any cats do you, Lauren?’ says Guy.

No, just my …… Labradoodle,’ says Lauren. Is Guy imagining it or has she undone the top button of her blouse? Perhaps she has just turned round in her chair a little.

Whoever he is, he’s as mad as a box of bats, Lauren,’ says Peter. ‘Look. Enough about Flagman. I’m going to get started on the barbecue. Anyone like another beer? We’ve got Sapporo, Coors or Tiger.’

………………………………………………………………………

Flags are put in place for people to see them. Whatever their function, they carry a message – even if the message is there is no message, I just want to fuck with your heads.

………………………………………………………………………

What do you think of the Sycamore estate, now that you’ve settled in?’ says Guy.

It’s perfect. We’re very comfortable here and adore the house,’ says Lauren. ‘Four big bedrooms and a lovely big garden. The conservatory is simply divine. Come and have a look. It faces west and gets the evening sun. And we’ve found a fabulous home help, an eastern European lady who comes in five days a week. I don’t even need to pick my clothes up off the floor, Guy, or empty the dishwasher. And I don’t even have to pay her the minimum wage.’

You must let me have her number,’ says Guy.

I am glad you were able to come round,’ says Lauren. ‘It can get a little lonely here in the evenings in this big house when Warren is …… away, especially now Tristan and Fabian have gone back to Charterhouse.’

I feel the same, Lauren.’

You live on your own, do you, Guy? I’m surprised. What with your red Ferrari and all.’

Guy is not sure if he detects irony in her voice or not. ‘Yes I do,’ he says. ‘Geraldine and I now only communicate through solicitors.’

Oh dear. I hope you have a good one.’

I do,’ says Guy. ‘But so does she and I suspect I’m paying for them both.’

So you are at a bit of a loose end.’

Everything on an estate is geared to life around the hearth with the family, isn’t it? There’s only so many times you can mow the lawn or polish the …. car. Since Geraldine and I split up I often find myself twiddling my thumbs.’

Is that a euphemism?’

Ha, ha. Anyway, I’m really pleased you invited me round. I had the impression you were giving me the brush off at Peter and Emily’s barbecue.’

A girl has to play a little hard to get. Red or white?’

Red please.’

Then later on, mmm …… perhaps much later on, as you’ve not got to get back, maybe we could go and stake out our Flagman. I’m intrigued. I’m sure there must be an interesting story there.’

Did I hear you say the other day that you were in publishing?’

I used to be a copywriter for a fashion magazine.’

Fashion magazine, eh? That explains the ….. cut of the dress you’re wearing.’

Not exactly, no. I wore this dress to give you a glimpse of my French lingerie. You men can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes.’

………………………………………………………………………

Tell me, Guy,’ says Lauren. ‘What exactly is it that you do?’

I’m in commodity trading.’

Commodity Trading eh? Nothing to do with this Tom Golfer is it?’

Imports and exports.’

Ah, I see! It’s just that the other day you changed the subject after Peter asked if Tom Golfer was out of prison.’

Did I?’

And when you were in the bathroom just now, I was looking at your phone.’

That’s not a very ladylike thing to do. I don’t think you should have done that.’

Perhaps, Guy. I’m not very ladylike. But you can relax. I just saw that you had Tom’s number on a missed call. I didn’t find anything incriminating. Apart from your colourful …….. browsing history. But you were in the bathroom quite a long time, Guy. Were you getting ready to give me another little …… surprise.’

You’re shameless.’

Afterwards, we can go round and see what Flagman is up to.’

………………………………………………………………………

A flagpole with a pulley mechanism is generally used to display a flag, The flag is fixed to the lower end of the cord, and is then raised by pulling on the other end. The cord is then tightened and tied to the pole at the bottom. If a flag is raised then someone must have been present to have done so. So where is our phantom flag raiser? …….. Ah, here he is. He is just about to put up a new flag. This is quite a pretty one.

………………………………………………………………………

Have any of you seen Warren and Lauren lately?’ asks Emily. ‘I thought they might be along, as it’s such a lovely evening.’

No. Not seen the Hendersons for a while,’ says Kirsty Gardner. ‘Lovely salad by the way. Where do you get your Parma ham?’

I can’t tell you that,’ says Emily. ‘But let’s say it’s not Waitrose.’

You haven’t been to that new German supermarket, have you, Emily?’ says Kirsty. ‘That’s not like you.’

I’ve never seen Warren Henderson,’ says Dorsey, looking up from his tablet, where he is researching Lord Lucan’s disappearance for a story he is writing. ‘The lovely Lauren always seems to come to these little soirées without him.’

Warren’s a busy man, I expect,’ says Emily. ‘Research scientist or something, isn’t he?’

MI5 agent, I heard?’ says Peter.

The Invisible Man, I think,’ says Dorsey.

And what on earth has happened to Guy?’ says Kirsty. ‘Has anyone heard from Guy? His Ferrari’s been parked in the same place on the drive all week.’

Hey, Pops,’ says a shrill voice. The Gardners have brought along their geeky fifteen-year-old, Gregory. He has been suspended from school for smoking dope and they are keeping an eye on him. He is trying to show his father something on his phone.

Not now, son.’

But Pops. You have to read this.’

Gregory, Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation.’

Flagman’s got another new flag,’ I see,’ says Peter. What’s this one, Levi?’

Ah yes. So he has. I can just see it from here,’ says Levi. ‘That’s the Seychelles flag. One of my favourites.’

It looks remarkably like the design of that sweatshirt Guy was wearing when he called in with a …… package for me last week,’ says Dorsey. ‘Funnily enough, I think he said he was on his way round to the see Lauren and Warren.’

This is important, Pops. You remember what you were saying the other day about …….’

OK. What is it, Gregory?’

Gregory thrusts the phone into his father’s hand.

I can’t read that without my glasses. Can’t you make it bigger?’

You are annoying sometimes. Give it here!’

Levi hands back the phone and Gregory starts to give an overview of the report.

It is about what they describe as the alarming number of people who have disappeared without trace in the county over the last three months. They wonder if there might be a connection. Someone who lives on the Sycamore estate.’

It’s not one of those spoof sites, is it?’ says Kirsty.

No, Mother! It’s not from one of those spoof sites. This is the Examiner website. You know Examiner? A bit like The Huffington Post? …… Now, is it all right if I continue? I’ll make it simple for you. I’ll just give you a summary, shall I? The list of those who have vanished without trace it says includes Muslim journalist, Mohammed Mohammed, some dude with a Russian name with not enough vowels…….. semiconductor engineer, Hung Lo, ………. restaurateur, Carlo Rossi, …… peace campaigner, Dylan Soft, ………, and ….. shit!

Yes,’ says Levi. ‘Spit it out, boy.’

Sorry Pops. ……. The battery’s just died.’

You’re thinking what I’m thinking aren’t you, Levi?’ says Dorsey, logging back into his tablet.

I think we might be looking at …….. another flag change or two, very soon,’ says Levi. ‘Can you go into The Examiner site, please, Dorsey? See how bad this is be going to be.’

What? You think Warren, and Lauren, and Guy?’ says Peter.

And Tom Golfer too perhaps,’ says Levi.

All four, by the looks of it,’ says Dorsey, scrolling down the page.

My God! Right under our noses,’ says Emily. ‘So that’s what the flags are about.’

How is it we miss all these things going on around us?’ says Peter.

Yeah! I wonder why that is,’ says Gregory, under his breath. ‘And they’re telling me I live in a world of my own.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

PHILANDERER

philanderer2019

Philanderer by Chris Green

I have lived in the same town most of my life yet I almost never bump into anyone from my past. This is surely beyond the realms of coincidence. I remarked on this to Suzi only this morning. She maintained we often come across people I know, but could not come up with any examples.

Why does it matter, anyway?’ she continued. ‘You don’t need to see those people. You can’t live in the past, you know.’

To save another argument, I let the matter go. But I am sure I’m right. When I was younger, I led a fairly gregarious life. How can it be that I never come across any old friends or acquaintances, or for that matter, lovers? Littleton is not a large town. I go to the same supermarkets, retail parks and the same venues for entertainment as everyone else in the town, but it appears everyone I have known steers clear of the places at the times I visit. Have all my friends and old acquaintances moved away? Am I so out of favour with all my exes that they are all avoiding me? Or am I just completely out of sync?

Imagine my surprise then, when I find Rosie Higgs in front of me at The Merchant Of Tennis. Rosie was the first affair I had when I was married to my first wife, Anna. I haven’t seen Rosie for over thirty years, yet she is instantly recognisable.

Rosie! How are you?’ I say, holding out my arms, anticipating she might fall into them.

Bobby?’ she says. She takes a step back to look me up and down. Perhaps I am not so instantly recognisable these days.

Rosie looks devastatingly good. She has aged well. I feel old and overweight.

Now that it’s summer I thought I might try to shed a few pounds on the tennis courts,’ I say to her, secretly hoping she might say that I don’t need to. ‘So I came in to buy a new racket.’

You’ll certainly shed a few pounds if you shop here,’ she laughs. I had forgotten that she had a quick wit. There are other things you notice first with Rosie and she has not lost these. She is wearing a low cut floral summer dress.

You must come round and have a game on our court,’ she says. ‘John is away on business at the moment.’

This is how it all started before. Alan, or whoever it was she was seeing back then was out of town. The first problem Rosie and I encountered was that Anna wasn’t out of town. Word must have somehow got around about our date at The Black Hole and before I knew it, my wife had poured a pint of beer over my head. Guinness, if I remember rightly. Rosie and I had to sneak around and meet in less fashionable places from then on. Eventually, I moved out of the marital home and rented a flat. Rosie came round a few times but gradually we lost touch.

That would be nice,’ I say. ‘Are you any good?’

At tennis, you mean?’ she says. ‘You ought to know, Bobby. I’m good at everything.’

My recollection bears this out. She was certainly good at the important things.

Aha,’ is the best I can manage.

Why not come over this afternoon,’ she says. ‘I’ll get the Pimms ready.’

If I’m going to have an afternoon of Pimms and tennis, and Lord knows what else, I decide I’d better have lunch while I’m in town. A healthy option one. There’s a new vegetarian place I’ve noticed just off the Colonnade called Au Naturel.

I have to do a double take. I can’t be sure, but at first glance, the woman behind the counter with the blonde hair cut into a bob looks the spitting image of Roz, who I started seeing after my second marriage, to Carol, broke up. That would be over twenty years ago. Roz was studying for a degree in Catering Management. Last I heard she had married and gone off to The Bahamas, or was it Bermuda. I don’t want to make it look like I’m staring at her, but at second glance she still looks like Roz.

Roz and I were going along fine back in the day until one night Rosie turned up unannounced at the door. It was difficult to explain what she might be doing calling round at eleven at night. But I managed to concoct something and everything might have still been OK, had Roz not caught Rosie legging it down the fire escape one morning, three weeks later. Roz had decided to skip class and surprise me by calling round early to see me. Rosie, as it happened, had called round unexpectedly late the previous night and decided to stay. When Roz rang the doorbell at 9 a.m. we were still in bed. Someone from the ground-floor flat inadvertently let her into the building as they were leaving for work. I heard the echo of voices and quickly worked out what was happening. Roz was on her way up the stairs to my top-floor flat. The fire escape seemed a good way to smuggle Rosie out but unfortunately, Roz caught a glimpse of her through the third-floor landing window. Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so bad had Rosie not been still struggling to get her blouse buttoned up.

Time, it appears, is a great healer because the woman behind the counter of Au Naturel greets me warmly.

Bob,’ she says. ‘I was wondering when I’d see you. I moved back here last year and opened this little bistro with the money from my divorce settlement. I was sure I would bump into you sooner or later. You didn’t seem the sort to move on.’

No. I’m still around. I’m living in Duke Ellington Avenue now,’ I tell her. ‘With my partner, Suzi.’

Really?’ she says. ‘That’s just around the corner from me. I’m in Charlie Parker Close. You’re not still ……… philandering, are you?’

No,’ I say. ‘Suzi and I are quite settled.’

Oh, that’s a pity,’ she says. ‘Because since Frank and I split up, I’ve ….. well, I’ve been at a bit of a loose end.’

There is then a sudden lunchtime rush, which cuts our conversation short, but after I have finished my butternut squash risotto, Roz gives me her phone number and I tell her that I will give her a call if I too find myself at a loose end. If all the wrangling with Suzi continues, I feel I might find myself at a loose end soon. But it is better not to put all my cards on the table.

I’m thinking it would be impolite not to take some flowers round to see Rosie, so I call in at Back To The Fuschia. Now, this is just too weird. There is Saskia, arranging bouquets of gardenias and peonies. Saskia and I had had a fling ten years ago, after I’d split up with my third wife, Linda. But, for Saskia to be here is impossible, not least because she is dead. A rare blood disease with a long name. I went to her funeral. But if she is dead, no-one seems to have told her. This is definitely Saskia. Those smouldering brown eyes are surely unmistakable. I am completely freaked out.

Rob,’ she says. ‘How good to see you.’

I mumble something incoherent. I am not at my best seeing dead people come back to life. It’s all a bit ‘roll away the stone.’

Are you all right, Rob?’ she says. ‘You’ve gone a little pale. I expect that you are surprised to see me, aren’t you? When was the last time?’

How can I say that the last time I saw her she was in a wooden box?

Saskia tells me she has bought a house in Bix Beiderbecke Drive with her new partner, Shaun. I can’t help but make the observation that Bix Beiderbecke Drive is quite close to the cemetery. She goes on to say that she met Shaun at a Living Dead concert. This seems apt. I wonder if Shaun realises he might be living with a zombie.

I try desperately to keep up my end of the conversation, without putting my foot in it, hoping that an explanation for her resurrection might emerge. I tell her about my new Dacia Duster, my collection of garden gnomes, and the stars that play with laughing Sam’s dice. I am conscious that I am burbling. I am anxious to get out of there to take stock. I pick up a bunch of something or other, orchids I think, and hand them to Saskia in the hope that she will gather I am in a hurry.

With my receipt, she hands me a card with her address and phone number on and says I must call round. As it happens, she is having a little soirée tomorrow. Why don’t I come along? Shaun would love to meet me. The name on the card I notice to my confusion and horror is Honey. Oh My God! This is not Saskia. I have mixed her up with Honey. Easily done, I suppose. My fling with Honey must have been around the same time as Saskia. And after so many, they all blend into one. To hide my embarrassment, I make my exit.

I am just putting the flowers in the back of the Dacia when I hear a familiar voice. It is Suzi. She has just come from Cutting It Fine. I imagine she has had her hair done, it’s a different colour or something, so I tell her that it looks nice.

You’ve bought me flowers,’ she says. ‘Orchids. My favourite. How thoughtful. I expect you felt guilty after this morning’s …… words, didn’t you?’

There’s nothing I can say. I hand the flowers to her. She thanks me with a kiss on the cheek.

Guess what,’ she continues. ‘You know you were saying you never bump into any of your old friends. Well, I just bumped into Brad Lee and told him what you said about never seeing anyone, so he said he might pop round later for a drink and some supper.’

Doesn’t she realise that it was Brad who broke up my fourth marriage, to Dawn? That it was Brad telling Dawn about my liaison with Janice so he could take advantage of the situation that had put the final nail in the coffin. He had always fancied Dawn. Or is this just Suzi getting me back for a recent indiscretion? I cannot remember anything specific. There was Heather, of course. But that was a couple of months ago. I thought taking Suzi to Paris for the weekend would have cancelled that one out, but it is so difficult to keep track of the day-to-day politics of relationships.

Hey,’ says Suzi, suddenly. ‘Isn’t that your friend, Saskia in the flower shop? The one you have the pictures of. I thought you told me she was dead.’

Saskia? Where? …….. No! That’s not Saskia,’ I say. ‘Saskia’s dead.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

Concerto

concerto2

Concerto by Chris Green

1: Allegretto con moto

There are not many famous Spanish concert pianists, fewer still from Cantabria, that rainy green strip in the north of the country. Nia Buendía might have joined this small elite, if only she had had larger hands. She mastered Mozart’s Piano Sonatas before she was ten and won regional competitions playing Beethoven Concertos when she was in her early teens. Catalan composer, Isaac Albéniz’s piano works are considered by many to be challenging, but Nia breezed through them. She took on Chopin and Schumann, winning acclaim for her lyrical interpretations of both composers. Even the difficult Carnaval caused her no problems. She was at the top of her game. Fame beckoned.

Sadly for Nia, classical pianists are eventually expected to have a go at Rachmaninov. Rachmaninov raises the bar a little. Even the greats have trouble. Rachmaninov, of course, had very big hands. He could comfortably straddle a thirteenth, whereas Nia could just manage an eighth. Nia could have exercised caution and elected to play his Piano Concerto No 2, which is less challenging, but she chose to perform the famously difficult Rach 3. Somehow she managed to get through the first two movements, but the Third Movement proved to be her downfall. Her hands were simply too small to span and reach the extra notes of the giant chords. This was the Iberian National Young Musician of the Year event and her performance was televised. It was a disaster and afterwards, Nia broke down. She did not perform in public again. She was just nineteen.

For months afterwards, Nia experienced a recurring nightmare about her performance. In the nightmare, instead of shrinking off from the stage meekly at the end of the concerto, she took a blacksmith’s hammer and set about breaking the Steinway into pieces. Her therapist, Juan Loco, suggested that this was a positive sign. He said that by smashing the piano, she was taking control of the situation. It did not feel this way to Nia. Her spirit crushed, she withdrew further inside herself.

She tried to hide her despair under a cloak of normality. She had one or two lovers and eventually got married to Pablo Rodrigues, a provincial town planner in Santander with whom she raised two normal if unexceptional children, Javier and Josefina. But something was missing from her life. Her sparkle had gone. She was just going through the motions of living. Days passed and years passed with nothing to distinguish them from one another. Nia worked part-time at the library then came home to cook dinner for the family. She pretended to like the television shows that Pablo liked and to understand golf. He, in turn, pretended to forget her birthday and not notice when she had her hair done. Twice a year they would have Pablo’s friends from the planning office and their wives round to dinner and she would cook paella and twice a year Pablo’s friends would return the compliment. Every year they went on holiday for the last week of August to Gijón, one hundred and forty kilometres along the coast.

Many of us pass our sad little lives never rocking the boat or troubling the pens of history’s copywriters. Perhaps we have nothing to say. The ennui of Nia’s early adult years may indeed be typical. What happens when in the middle of life we discover that time has begun to speed up? The expression mid-life crisis is perhaps apt. Sometimes it takes an unexpected event or a major health scare to jolt us out of our complacency. To show us that life is actually something that is finite.

To paraphrase Shel Silverstein, there came a point in her late thirties when Nia realised that Paris, sports cars and warm winds blowing her hair were not going to feature much in her life. She decided that a stable town planner might be better equipped to deal with the heteroclitic needs of teenage children than a soul in torment. Also, there was the terrible secret that she was not ready to share. She felt it was for the best all round that she made a clean break. In short, one day when Pablo was at work and Javier and Josefina were at school, she packed a bag, cleared out the joint bank account and left. Had she thought a little more about it she might have left a note to explain her reasons, but then Pablo might have pursued her and taken her prisoner again.

2: Largo misterioso

Let’s join Nia Buendía in New Orleans, Louisiana, the centre of voodoo, blues and jazz. Nia has taken an out of season riverboat down the Mississippi from Memphis to New Orleans. The blame for this strange pilgrimage must rest with young Javier’s copy of Las Aventuras de Huckleberry Finn which she found lying around. Reading it made her realise that human beings were nothing without an adventure. She also read Simone de Beauvoir’s El Segundo Sexo, which her friend, Flavia lent her. Why shouldn’t women as well as men have adventures? You had to take your chances in life. This was not a dress rehearsal for something else.

It has been a year or two since Hurricane Katrina brought New Orleans to its knees. Nia is at Po’ Boy’s Bar on the famous Bourbon Street and has had her bag stolen, with her passport and credit cards. This does not come as a surprise to Red Sayles, the jazz musician who has come over to comfort her. ‘Since Katrina, there’s no point in going to the police,’ he tells her. ‘They ain’t that big on crime solving.’

Unable to pay for the hotel and with nowhere else to go, Nia takes up Red’s offer to put her up until she gets sorted. He has an apartment just off of Basin Street, which he shares with some other musicians, but as luck would have it they are out of town. Red takes the opportunity to tell her what life in The Big Easy is like.

For the first few weeks after Katrina there was violence, looting, murder and rape,’ he says. ‘Then they sent in The National Guard. But that did not seem to help that much. There was more violence, looting, rape and murder. People was afraid. Except for journos looking for a story they just stopped coming. Everything was closed. There was no work. There was nothing in the shops.’

But I thought it was alright now,’ Nia says. ‘Well, until I had my bag stolen.’

It is alright. You was just unlucky, ma’am, that’s all. I guess it all takes time for things to settle. The city is slowly recovering. Places are re-opening, but for many, it is a hand to mouth existence.’

I did see a few beggars.’

Yeah, but only a few, because people here have got pride. New Orleans is made up of Cajun and Creole. Cajun is French-speaking white American and Creole is French-speaking black American. Now, I’m half Cajun and half Creole and I don’t speak French. Work that one out.’

I see.’

But I get by. If you know the right people, though, you can still get by. I love New Orleans. New Orleans is probably the only city in the modern world that is not homogenised. It has its own character. Most cities have become theme parks, but New Orleans, ma’am, New Orleans is real. I don’t think I will ever leave. The moonlight on the bayou, a creole tune that fills the air.’

That’s nice,’ Nia says. ‘Where is that from?’

Satchmo,’ Red says.

That’s Louis Armstrong, isn’t it,’ Nia says.

Yeah, the one and only. New Orleans got soul, you know. Music is its soul. You don’t play for the money here, you do it for the music.’

Nia is guarded about what she shares. She talks about how her trip down the Mississippi was an attempt to satisfy her vagabond spirit. She says little about her life with Pablo and drops it casually into the conversation that she has two children as if it is something that happened in a past life. Red does not pursue the enquiry.

Nia does not even mention that she once played the piano. But, through a comment she makes here and there, Red begins to realise that she has an understanding of music. One night when he comes home from playing in a club, he catches her tinkling around on his practice keyboard. This is the first time in years that she has played. Red can’t help but notice that she is not a beginner. He listens quietly from the next room. He feels that there is a great sadness about her playing. It is not just the minor key that describes her melancholy but the way she puts that extra space between the descending notes.

It might not sound like it, but that’s the blues you’re playing,’ Red says. ‘That there tune your playing is coming from a place deep inside.’

Oh sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

It’s a pretty tune,’ he says. ‘Where did you learn to play like that?’

Nia explains a little about her classical training and about her downfall.

Rachmaninov,’ he says. ‘You’re jivin me, right? He sounds like he’s hitting the dang piano with a blacksmith’s hammer.’

You mean …… the big chords?’ Nia says, taken aback by the image.

Yeah, them big chords, if that’s what you can call them. ……. But I do like some classical music. Satie is cool, you can do something with his tunes, and Debussy. …….. But Rachmaninov and all those Russian cats are a no-no. All artists and musicians should be looking for stillness in their art. You get disconnected when you lose your stillness and this Rachmaninov sure is disconnected.’

Red persuades Nia to sit in on a session at lunchtime the following day and it goes down well with the punters. In his evening set, he gives her a solo spot. She finds that Chopin lends himself to jazz. She puts in a bit of Bach too.

That was great,’ Nia says. ‘I enjoyed that more than turning over pages of music over and over to get to the end of a piece. I wanted it to just go on and on.’

That’s cool then,’ Red says. ‘You’re hired.’

But it can’t last,’ Nia says, her face dropping. ‘You see. There’s something I haven’t told you.’

She tells Red the secret that she has shared with no-one. She tells him that she has a rare incurable degenerative blood disease and according to the doctors back home has just a few months to live.

Nothing’s incurable,’ Red says, composing himself. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve witnessed here in New Orleans. I know a Creole traiteur called Faucon Noir who can make the lame walk and make the blind see. He can probably even bring the dead back to life. They say Faucon Noir is 114 years old but you take a look at him, he doesn’t look a day older than you or me. Have you heard about Haitian voodoo?’

Isn’t it all dolls and pins?’

That’s the common myth, isn’t it? But gris-gris, as we call it, is not just mojo bags of rabbits’ feet and dragon’s blood. It ain’t ginseng or tai chi or acupuncture, this is the real deal. It’s a spiritual force which can be used to heal the body, mind and spirit.’

How does this ….. gris-gris work?’

I don’t know how it works. All I know is that it does work. Anyone who has lived in New Orleans will tell you that it works. You just wait and see. Faucon Noir will cure you of your rare blood disease or my name’s not Red Sayles.’

3: Allegro con sentimento

Let’s move on. Having herself been spared, Nia Buendía feels she must do something worthwhile to acknowledge her good fortune. The Advance Africa initiative provides her with the perfect opportunity, teaching in a special school in Dakar, Senegal. Senegal has suffered a catalogue of famines and disasters. It is near the bottom of the table in terms of life expectancy, literacy, access to knowledge and living standards. It badly needs people like Nia. She joins a team of committed overseas voluntary workers of various nationalities.

Nia’s role is to teach disturbed children through music. She believes where children have suffered trauma in their lives, that music can help them to develop individual, creative, and social skills in a way that language alone cannot. This is fortunate because although Nia’s French is good and French is the official language in Senegal, it is spoken only by an educated minority. With a population of over two million, Dakar is one of the largest and most cosmopolitan cities in Africa. Many languages are spoken here, but on the streets, the one that you hear the most is Dakar-Wolof, a mixture of Wolof, French and Arabic.

Dakar is all streetlife and primary colours. Everywhere there are vibrant markets selling fruit and fish, weaving medinas with makeshift stalls selling vivid textiles, tribal masks, mosaic tiles and brightly coloured beads. Citroen cars of every vintage criss-cross one another in bouts of traffic chaos. Children play football on swathes of urban scrubland and spin car tyres like hoops between streams of buzzing mopeds. Men carry accordions, bongo drums and curiously shaped koras down to the beach. You can hear the rhythms of mbalax music pounding day and night. It’s a musical culture. Senegal has a rich musical history and has spawned a wealth of talent. There are some brilliant musical role models for Nia to call upon, musicians like Youssou N’Dour, Ali Farka Touré, Amadou et Mariam, and Mory Kanté.

Loup Gaultier is a teacher at Nia’s school. He is French-Senegalese. He has long grey locks tied back. He smiles a lot, revealing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. He wears a tribal necklace of tusks and shells, and snake rings on each finger of his left hand. He is softly spoken and is the sort of person that people feel they can open up to, sure of a sympathetic ear. He has worked in West Africa for many years. There is not a lot he doesn’t know about this part of the world.

What brings you to Senegal?’ he asks Nia. ‘We do not get many people from Spain.’

Nia explains about the miracle in New Orleans. How she was given a new lease of life by a venerable Creole mystic using ancient African spells. Loup understands the power of juju, djinn, hoodoo or voodoo or whatever you want to call it. He is not surprised by Nia’s tale. He has heard many like it.

She goes on to tell him about her previous life in Spain and how she does not feel she can return to her family there.

I can’t change what has happened, only what has yet to come,’ she says. Maybe I will be able to return one day, but I have work to do here first.’

Loup nods his agreement. It is always best to be non-judgemental when listening to others’ explanations of their actions. You can’t tell others what to do; they have to reach their own conclusions.

Why did I choose Senegal?’ Nia continues. ‘Simple. I found an advert for the voluntary service on the internet, was able to speak French and picked a place where speaking French might be useful. …….. And I’m loving Senegal. It’s so full of life.’

You might like what you see today with all the laughter and gaiety in the streets,’ Loup says. ‘But you have to realise that Senegal is putting on a brave face for the world. There is a lot that is hidden. Did you know there are three refugee camps within twenty miles of here? And, Senegal has a shameful past in collusion with the French. Saint Louis just down the coast was once one of Africa’s busiest slave ports.’

Perhaps they had touched on the slave trade at school back home in Cantabria, but Nia had not taken in the grim details.

Loup tells her how slavery was part of a triangular trade. The first side of the triangle was the export of goods from Europe to Africa. A number of African kings and merchants took part in the trading of enslaved people. For each captive, the African rulers would receive guns, ammunition and other manufactured goods. The second leg of the triangle exported enslaved Africans across the Atlantic Ocean to the Americas and the Caribbean. The third and final part of the triangle was the return of goods from slave plantations included cotton, sugar, tobacco, and molasses across the Atlantic to Europe.

In the twenty years from 1720, French ships enslaved two hundred thousand Africans to plantations in the Americas and the Caribbean,’ Loup says.

I seem to remember hearing that a quarter of them died on the ships going over,’ Nia says. ‘In a sense, I suppose they were the lucky ones.’

It’s impossible to even imagine the conditions today. Ships were packed, it was dark and hot and airless and they lived in shit, piss, and vomit. They had little to eat but even worse they had little fresh water to drink.’

And, of course, no better when they got there, I imagine.’

Many of those leaving from here were taken to sugar plantations in Haiti. During the eight-month sugar harvest, slaves worked continuously around the clock. The accidents caused by long hours and primitive machinery were horrific.’

And it went on for years before anyone did anything about it. And, it’s not that long ago.’

France continued the trade legally until 1830, long after the rest of Europe had abolished it. Even after this five hundred French ships continued trading illegally. Altogether, a million and a half enslaved Africans were taken by French ships.’

So the French were the worst,’ Nia says.

No-one comes out of it well. But, if it’s any comfort Spain abolished slavery twenty years earlier.’

Not a lot of comfort, really.’

Anyway, that’s enough of the history lesson, don’t you think?’ Loup says. ‘Except, of course, to say that the Haitian slaves became the Creoles in New Orleans.’

I know,’ Nia says. ‘Creole comes from the Portuguese crioulo, which means a slave born in the master’s household.’

Why I really came over is that I have something to ask,’ says Loup.

Fire away,’ Nia says.

I’ve been given this boy called Jimi,’ Loup says. ‘He can’t read or write but he’s a genius on the guitar and the piano.’

With a name like Jimi, perhaps he should stick to the guitar,’ Nia says.

I don’t think that Jimi is his real name, but anyway, I thought you might be able to teach him some classical music.’

I could take him through some Etudes to get him started, I suppose.’

I believe he was thinking more in terms of Rachmaninov. He saw a young pianist playing Rachmaninov on television recently.’

Does he have big hands?’

Yes, he does have big hands as it happens,’ Loup says. ‘We think that his father might have been a ..’

Blacksmith.’ Nia finishes his sentence.

How did you know?’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved

It’s Not Unusual

itsnotunusual

It’s Not Unusual by Chris Green

1:

Because of my vertigo, crossing the Severn Bridge has always been a problem for me. On account of my phobia, as I live in the south of England, I don’t tend to visit Wales. I don’t even know any Welsh people. I once worked with a Dewi Davies who came from Merthyr Tydfil. We used to call him Davies the Dark Side on account of his half-empty outlook on life. And at college, I had a friend called Rhys who came from Plwmp. But, this was a long time ago. Admittedly, I used to fancy Catherine Zeta Jones when she was younger and I went to see Manic Street Preachers a couple of years back. But on the whole, Wales is a foreign country to me.

I went to bed last night at ten, read a few pages of my Ian McEwan novel and put out the light, thinking normally in English. It came over me in the night. Everything changed. Wales came flooding in. This morning, I appear to be thinking in Welsh. It’s all leeks and lava bread, St David’s Day and daffodils. I am thinking in familiar terms of Llandindrod Wells and Bets y Coed and places with strange sounding names I’d never heard of. I feel the impulse to greet people with Alright or Wha? I want to address them as bach, start each statement with What it is or I’m only saying and end sentences with look you or see. And raise glasses and say Iechyd Da. We’ll keep a welcome in the hillsides.

It’s disconcerting that I can’t run this past my partner, Lorelei. She is at a psychotherapists’ conference somewhere up north. She specifically said she couldn’t be contacted. Back-to-back meetings and seminars, she said. If I were of a suspicious nature, I might suspect she was having an affair.

I must try to see the whole episode as an overblown dream and move on. There’s no time to dwell on it. No time even for a shower. I need to get to work. I have to pick up my colleague, Barry Sadler on the way. We car-share and it is my turn to drive him in this week. I haven’t noticed it before but I see the road signs at the Scott McKenzie roundabout are now displayed in English and Welsh. The Town Centre sign at the Macmillan Street junction also says Canol y Dref. And how long has that statue of Owen Glendower been outside the entrance to the Churchill Street park, I wonder?

Lorelei probably didn’t mean she couldn’t be contacted at all. After all, it is a little early for her to be in conference. On the basis she’ll probably still be in the breakfast room of the hotel reading The Guardian and sipping her Macchiato, I phone her. It goes straight to voicemail. I leave a garbled message about missing her.

When I arrive at Barry’s, he is waiting by the kerb. He seems agitated. He looks at his watch. Perhaps I am a few minutes late. He goes to get into the car but I step out. He looks at me disapprovingly. I can see he wants to get going but feels something might be wrong.

Are you OK, Dan?’ he says. ‘You look a bit …… dazed.’

Just a strange start to the day, Barry,’ I say ‘Nothing to worry about though, butty bach. I’ll be fine.’

As long as you’re OK. Shall we get going? It’s nearly eight-thirty.’

What it is, mate, have you noticed anything, h’mm …… different on the streets lately?’ I say once we are on our way.

No. Same as it ever was,’ he says.

Nothing, say, more Welsh?’

Ah, I see,’ he says. ‘That’s where the butty bach came from, is it? Well, no I can’t say I have, old buddy. In fact, I was only saying to Sharon just now that nothing ever seems to change around here. It’s so boring. The same old, day in, day out. We’re thinking of a holiday to get us out of the daily grind. A bit of a break. We’re thinking Mexico or somewhere exotic.’

Look you!’ I say. ‘Isn’t that Anthony Hopkins? Over by there. Walking the Welsh Terrier.’

It looks nothing like him,’ Barry says. ‘What’s wrong with you today, man?’

Sorry. Not Anthony Hopkins. I meant the other fellow. Richard Burton.’

Richard Burton’s dead.’

Are you sure, mate? Well, if it’s not him, he’s the spitting image of him.’

He’s been dead for over thirty years. Look. I’m getting worried about you. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

I manage to blag it until we get to the office. I don’t mention Wales being the new favourites to win the Rugby World Cup or draw attention to the billboard we pass advertising the Tom Jones concert at the football ground.

2:

My co-workers seem to be worried about me. My line manager, Harvey Golfer wonders why I have sent him an email about the Ffestiniog railway. I tell him it wasn’t intentional, it must be a glitch in the software. He gives me a strange look and is about to express his disbelief when his phone rings. Back at my desk, Lee Cooper who sits opposite asks me to stop humming Delilah. I tell him I wasn’t aware I was. I find myself humming I’ll Never Fall in Love Again instead. Lee draws my attention to this straight away.

And don’t you dare start on The Green Green Grass of Home,’ he says.

Susie Dee tells me I’ve just printed off twenty four copies of the Welsh flag. I laugh it off and tell her there is nothing to worry about. I had a bad night but I will be OK after a strong cup of coffee. Susie doesn’t want to let it go.

You’ve been acting strangely all week,’ she says. ‘Is there anything I might be able to do to help?’

No really, Susie, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that she is now leaning over my desk in her low-cut plunge top.

It’s all right, Dan,’ she says. ‘You can stop the pretence. I know exactly what’s been bothering you. It’s not unusual, you know. It happens all the time.’

What?’ I say. ‘What’s not unusual?’

Well, a little bird told me Lorelei has left,’ Susie says. ‘She has gone off with an esoteric book publisher from Swansea Bay. People break up with one another every day, Dan. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. My Greg ran off with Twinkle, a glove designer from Saffron Weldon. I know it can be hard at first and can make you crazy ……’

But I …… you ….. what? …..’

I can see you are upset, Dan. It’s only natural. What you need is some female company. So I wondered if you would like to come round for a bite to eat later. Perhaps we can share a glass or two of wine to celebrate, I mean commiserate.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved