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WINNER 2011 : The Last of the Shower by SUE HEALY

“Cofin open. Lookin dead. Needs wakin : )”
Killer read the message and slipped his mobile into his leather jacket, flicking an imaginary fringe from his eyes. He’d had hair once. What was left was trapped in a grey ponytail at the nape of his neck. The wind was icy on his head; he lifted his collar and glanced over Ardoo strand.
The sand was sodden black. Seabirds skimmed the froth of tide. Three children were at play, scarves wriggling in the wind. Anoraks of lime, pink and blue – bright blobs blown across a dark canvas. Lime was dragging sticks of kelp from a tangle of seaweed. Pink and Blue leaned, twisted and knitted the kelp into a tepee and crowned it with clumps of green sea-grass. They yelped.
The mothers stood to one side in drab hats, brown coats, brown shoes. When the construction was complete they yanked the children away from the approaching tide. Killer moved on to the pub.
It was still called “Campbell’s”. It was Campbell’s in 1978 - when it mattered. The wind rattled the Christmas fairylights on Campbell’s rafters now, unseating them from their hooks so they hung like a bad hem. Killer’s chest tightened as he opened the pub door.
All was sheen and bright. There was no snug, no corner room, no lounge anymore, just one central counter and a white shirted barman with a deep tan and blonde highlights. He was polishing a glass and eyeing a reality show on a large screen plasma T.V. A plump, middle-aged man sat on a barstool doing a crossword puzzle. An older slouching woman entered the room carrying a tin of polish and splattered the air with Fresh Norwegian Pine.
The cleaning woman noticed him and stood upright and smiled. Killer’s mobile phone beeped.

“Put him on bed. Shd I cova him w/sumin? Fraid he mite smell.”

Killer began to reply, the blonde barman interrupted.
‘What can I get you?’ The barman’s teeth were big and very white, like they’d bite you.
Killer ordered a drink, leaning away from the barman’s mouth. It was then he saw him, Barnaby, the stuffed giraffe with his stubby horns replaced by lightbulbs. Killer had forgotten about Barnaby. Up until that moment if anyone had asked Killer Kelly to describe Campbell’s bar in July 1978, he would have recounted the orange mural on the ceiling, the didgeridoo over the bar, the purple stools like poisonous mushrooms, the plastic tables pockmarked with cigarette burns and the perma-fug of smoke. Killer would have told you about debates and fisticuffs and deals and dope smoked. Most of all, however, Killer would have told you about the music. After all, it was all about the music. However, Killer would not have told you about Barnaby, the stuffed baby giraffe-cum-standing-lamp. He’d forgotten Barnaby. Completely. Strange that. Killer raised his glass to the giraffe and smiled.
The barman leaned forward. ‘That’s Gerry. He came with the place, belongs down the barras if you ask me.’
Killer frowned and took a sip from his glass. ‘His name’s Barnaby.’ 
Killer’s mobile beeped again.

“What they say? All OK? Ur Lyn xo”

Killer’s chest tightened. He fingered the Rescue Remedy in his jacket pocket. The cleaning woman was behind the bar now, vigorously polishing. She looked at Killer, her lips snipped. Killer turned to the barman and cleared his throat.
‘Eh, you the manager?’
The barman lowered the volume on the T.V., his eyebrows raised. ‘Me? God no, I’d be a disaster. Wouldn’t I, Morag?  There’s the boss, there.’ He flapped the tea towel at the cleaning woman.
The cleaning woman claimed her full height. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Eh, no. No. I was just, eh, well I was just wondering if… do you do wakes?’
The crossword man looked up.
‘Sorry?’
 ‘Wakes. Like when someone dies and you lay them out on a table and have a party around them.’
‘I know what a wake is.’
The crossword man folded his newspaper. ‘Oh, they’re getting very fashionable again, Morag. You’d want to start thinking about advertising for them. Fortunately, the one thing this bloody government can’t wreck is dying. There’s always a wake market.’
‘People are only dying to have them,’ said the barman. He laughed, then reddened and turned to Killer. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
Silence. Killer sniffed.
Morag’s voice deepened. ‘Have you just lost someone?’
Killer flicked his head. ‘Yeah, Bounce.’
‘Your dog.’ She glanced at the barman, who bit the laughter on his lip.
 ‘Not my dog. Bounce Wilson, my bandmate.’
Killer turned and stared at Barnaby.
‘Your bandmate? A musician? He’s dead, is he?’
‘Ooo, well, I should hope so if he wants to give him a wake.’ The barman laughed.
Killer turned, ‘I’m sorry?’
The barman put his fingers to his lips. He had clean fingernails. ‘Sorry.’
‘Rory, can you clean the stout pipes out the back, please?’
 ‘That’s what he said last night.’ Rory exited laughing.
Crossword folded his newspaper. ‘Bandmate? Was it drugs?’
Killer lowered his glass to the counter. ‘No, it was not drugs. The man had a heart attack. On a step machine. In a gym.’ Killer ran his eyes from crossword man to Morag. ‘Bounce’d been sober for fifteen years. He worked in care.’ Killer raised his glass and turned to Barnaby. ‘To Bounce.’
His audience all gave little nods and mumbled, ‘Mm, Bounce.’
Crossword spoke. ‘So, you were in a band?’
Killer continued to look into Barnaby’s glass eyes. He could see the three of them in there, back in 1978: Killer Kelly, Bounce Wilson and Austin Glynn-Burden, three musketeers, first year art students all. His face bubbled in acne then but he had all his hair and was the first to dye it too. Austin’s hair was long, brown and thin and hung like greasy shoelaces. Then there was Bounce. Bounce was always beautiful. His snarl ruined by full lips and dimples, the determined curl in his blond hair defied gel and his eyes, bluer than eyes should ever be, could never spark any punk menace. Bounce’s beauty burned brightest then – it was in London it crashed, shrivelled. Crack took Bounce’s teeth, and skin. Life fleeced Killer’s hair and Austin’s talent.
‘So, who were you?’
Killer ran his fingers through his invisible hair.
‘I mean, were you famous?’
Killer shrugged and looked away. ‘I was the bassist in The Shower of Bastards.’ He curled his lip slightly, that old hint of aggression on show – aggression that once had two busloads a night travelling to Ardoo from Oban and Taynuilt to catch a Shower gig. 
Rory returned, cracking the silence. ‘All the pipes are in order, Mein Fuhrer.’
Morag’s eyes narrowed on Killer. He snarled a little more. The Killer snarl.
‘Are you John-Ned Kelly’s brother?’ Her index finger raised.
Killer dropped his snarl. ‘Yes.’
‘He’s an accountant in Edinburgh now, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. I knew it. You have the Kelly nose. I’d know it anywhere. A big boney thing, if you don’t mind me saying and not that there is anything wrong with that.’
‘Ach, it’s lovely. It suits him, Morag. It gives you character.’ Rory beamed at Killer.
Morag was nodding now, congratulating herself on recognizing the Kelly nose. ‘And didn’t you used to be in a band?’
Rory clicked his tongue. ‘Oh Morag, you’re hopeless. She never listens.’ Rory shook his head. ‘He’s just said he was in a band, with the dead lad.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’
Killer twitched. ‘Yeah, we used to headline here. We played every Saturday night in July and August, 1978. Used to get a crowd.’
Crossword waved his pen. ‘I knew it. I knew it. I remember you all well. Were you the one with the beard?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Was that the dead fellow, then?’
‘No. We didn’t have beards. We were punks.’ Killer sniffed.
‘Oh.’ Crossword man went back to his puzzle, shrugging.
‘Punks?’ Rory opened his eyes wide, ‘I’m more an Adele man myself.’ He lifted his arms above his head and writhed his hips, “Soomeone like youuu”.
Killer sniffed. ‘We wrote our own songs.’
Rory winked at Morag. ‘Talented too.’
A flicker snagged Killer’s eyes. One of Barnaby’s lightbulbs twitched and died. Rory sighed. ‘That ugly thing’s knackered, Morag. We should chuck it.’
Killer fired Rory a look. ‘The Shower of Bastards kept this pub going for a whole summer of 1978. The Shower of Bastards had them coming from all over the county to spit at us.’
‘Spit, did you say?’ Crossword man pointed at his paper. ‘You know, I say we’d need a bit of that these days, boy. Spitting. There’s a lot of us feel like spitting at the government right now. I wouldn’t mind taking the train up to Holyroodright now and having a good old hawk at them, would you, Morag?’
            ‘You’d get a lot of company on that trip, Jim. They’ve landed us all in it.’
            Rory turned up the reality T.V. show. Killer swilled some more stout. It sat sour at the back of his throat. His mobile beeped.
            “Wot goin on? Wen u home? It freakin me out looking at him.”
            Killer cleared his throat. ‘Eh, about that wake?’
            Morag assumed a business face. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry to hear about your friend. Bandmate.’ She looked to Jim. ‘It was the beardy one who died, was it?’
            Jim downed his paper again. ‘No, Mo, he said they were punks. No beards. Safety pins and spitting and all that.’
            Rory rolled his eyes and massaged Morag’s neck, shaking his head at Killer. ‘She never listens.’
            Morag turned to Killer. ‘I’m sorry, so much on my mind with this place,’ she glanced around the empty tables. ‘Well, your bandmate?’ Morag brought a notepad and pen to the counter and began to write. ‘There was only the one bandmate, was there?’
            Killer glanced at Barnaby, his remaining lightbulb was flickering now. ‘There were three of us. The Shower of Bastards was a threesome.’
            Morag was writing in her notepad. ‘And the other two are both dead now, are they?’ She clucked her tongue and frowned. ‘You’re the last of the Shower, are you?’
            Killer frowned. ‘No. Only Bounce is dead. Bounce Wilson. Bounce died in a gym on Monday. A heart attack. In London. Me and my girlfriend have brought him home to be waked. In Campbell’s.’
            Morag downed her pen. ‘Well, where is the third fellow?’
            ‘Who?’
            ‘Your other bandmate. You said there were three of you.’
            Killer shrugged. ‘Austin? He’s in Krakow.’
            Jim snorted. ‘What’s he doing over there? I thought the Poles were the ones moving here, to take our jobs. Well, that’s a sign of things if we all have to emigrate to Poland to get work. No doubt that’ll be the next thing.’
            ‘He’s teaching English.’
            Jim widened his eyes. ‘That’s the worse thing he could do. You know where they’ll all be heading once they’ve learned English. Oh, yes.’
            Killer closed his eyes and exhaled. He could hear them. He could hear July 24th 1978, he could hear the chants of the throng. A writhing, spiking mass of punk: chanting, shouting, screaming “Fucking Shower of Bastards. Fucking Shower of Baaas-tards!” They were kings.
            ‘So, the punk’s dead?’ Morag was clicking her pen.
            Killer slammed his glass down on the counter, Morag jumped. ‘Punk’s not dead, punk will never fucking die.’ He stabbed the air with his finger.
            Morag and Rory looked at Jim. Morag moved the notepad to her chest. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you said your friend was dead. And you wanted a wake?’
            Killer smoothed down his ghost mane of purple hair. ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry. Bounce. Yeah. Bounce is dead. We want to wake him here. Can you just give us a price, please?’
            Morag’s eyes had narrowed again. ‘Well, that depends on what food you want. Are we talking ham sandwiches? Or do you want a meal?’
            ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. Sandwiches, eh, Bounce went vegetarian ten years ago so we can’t have ham at his wake.’
            Rory turned down the T.V. again ‘And how many sandwiches will the dead punk be eating, then?’ He laughed.
            Morag shot him a look. ‘Rory, can you bring in the crisps from the store room, please?’ Morag mouthed a “sorry” in Killer’s direction.
‘He’s young,’ said Morag.
            Killer sniffed.
            Morag smiled gently. ‘Where would you like to lay the body?’
            Killer jutted his chin at a corner. ‘The stage used to be there. That’s the best place for Bounce.’
            ‘Do you have a trolley for him, or something.’
            ‘Bounce? No, we had him delivered in a travel coffin this morning.’
            ‘We? I thought his family was dead?’ Morag glanced at Jim again.
            ‘Lyn and me. Lyn’s my partner. She’s English. She’s just opened the coffin and rolled him onto the bed.’
Morag and Jim looked at each other again, and then turned back to Killer for more information.
Killer cleared his throat and scratched his head. ‘Anyway, Lyn wants to see Campbell’s so… Look, ham sandwiches are fine. Can you just give me a price?’
            Morag wrote in her notepad.
‘For how many?’
            ‘Sorry?’
            ‘How many will be at the wake?’
            Killer raked his head and glanced at Barnaby. Both bulbs were dead now. He shrugged and spoke in Barnaby’s direction. ‘I don’t know, depends on who turns up.’
            Morag gave a resigned sigh. ‘And there better be no spitting, we’ve just had those upholstered.’ Morag tipped her pen towards the beige seats.
            Killer raised both hands. ‘No spitting.’
            ‘Good, so how many?’
            ‘I don’t know, could be… hundreds. Could be, I don’t know, twenty. Or not.’
            ‘Well, if you can’t give me an estimate on attendees, I can’t give you an estimate on the price of ham sandwiches.’
            Killer fidgeted with the beer mat. ‘Yeah, I know.’
            ‘Maybe your girlfriend would have an idea. We women are better at this kind of thing.’
            Jim put on his cap. ‘Oh, they are. Women are much better at sandwiches and that sort of stuff. You’re better off leaving it to them to sort out between themselves.’
            Morag took a small card from under the counter and slid it over to Killer. ‘Are you staying in the village?’
            ‘Mmm? Yeah, at John-Ned’s summer house. Lyn’s up there now with the body.’
            Morag patted the back of his hand. ‘Well, here’s my number. You just tell your Lyn to call Morag Kinsella about the wake sandwiches, when she’s finished with the body.’ Morag raised an eyebrow at Jim.
            Killer nodded, paid for his drink and headed for the door, mouthing “goodbye” at Barnaby as he left.
Outside the wind roared over the sea wall. The tide was in, spitting and hissing waves over the wall. The kelp castle long gone.
            Killer took out his mobile phone.
            “Campbells nt doin wakes coz cutbacks. Jst call St. Andrew’s 2 bury. I home in 10.”

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Sue Healy graduate of UEA’s Creative Writing MA, and also won the 2011 Molly Keane Memorial Award. Previous to her move to the UK, she worked as a journalist in Hungary, 1997-2008, and edited ‘Hungary A.M.’ and ‘Expat Echo’. Her fiction has been published in the New Europe Writers Anthology, The UEA Anthology, The Moth Literary Magazine and The New Writer Magazine. In 2010, Sue won the Waterford Annaghmakerrig Award and the Ted O’Regan Award. Earlier this year she was highly commended for The New Writer Annual Award, three-times shortlisted for the Meridian Award and once for the Wells Literary Festival Award, as well as longlisted for the Jane Austen Literary Award. Sue teaches creative writing in prisons, tutors creative writing for an independent online service and runs her own creative writing workshops.www.suehealy.org

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2nd Prize 2011 : Can you Gut it for me?  By  Helen Kampfner

It’s dark in here but he’s back. A beam of light in the hall reaches under the door.

Richard steps into his apartment. It’s ten pm, been a long day. In his hand a box of instant ramen. He’ll have a shower first, open some wine, put on a piano concerto. The trills and crescendos remind him of his sister playing in the big front room with the velvet tasselled curtains, sheltering them from the street outside. Himself on the floor, surrounded by cars and soft carpet pile. Dad at work, Mom in the kitchen. Sieving and mixing and baking in Little Rock before he grew and went to UCLA.

Quiet now. Shhh. Don’t move, don’t scratch. Above all, don’t sneeze. She waits till he’s gone to his room and she hears the sound of the shower, hot water running over his neck, his head, his back.

Richard tastes the instant noodles, changes his mind, throws them away. Puts on an apron like a teppanyaki chef, chops an onion, garlic, herbs. He’s spoilt for choice for cooking implements—rows of pans, woks, casserole dishes stacked against the wall, black and red, in shiny bright enamel. The company he works for want their staff to be happy for the length of their contract there.

The kitchen door opens and a rich, deep smell fills the hall, seeps under the wardrobe.. Strange this American food. She’s heard his accent on the phone. Wonders why he’s all alone, no one to look after him—like a good Japanese wife—and no children. How old is he, this foreigner who listens to classical music and likes to cook when he comes home? Customs are different here, at least in small towns and villages. But in the city she has seen businesswomen of thirty, forty or so. Perhaps they have a better life—better than washing and skinning and gutting fish every evening when Jiro came home, his hands and clothes stinking of salt and oily mackerel flesh, and that haunted look in his eyes—the waves and the rocking of the boat—the whooosh of the sea, trying to claim him. She wanted to warn her niece about the roughness of fishermen’s hands from pulling nets and ropes, how they spear you like a marlin, making you bleed inside. Instead, she came to Sendai to buy a kimono for her wedding and now the girl is floating like a dead fish among the debris of the town. Hush, you stupid woman, she tells herself. Don’t disturb the American or there won’t be any food tonight.
 
It’s spaghetti after all, not so different from noodles. Richard enjoys having this time to himself, the freedom of living by himself. Going to the living room and choosing what he wants to watch from the hundreds of cable channels. Sundays he meets with friends, Japanese colleagues’ families. Or goes to the karaoke shops and pachinko parlours to hear the clink, clink, clink of little balls, sometimes the red light district to stare at girls. After a year in Sendai the sense of strangeness is still there so he likes being back in the apartment by himself, making his own rules. Mustn’t think about the walls moving, the clock falling down with his books. It happens back home, too. But not the water, the images of people in schools and sports halls asking, what is to be done about us? The apartment is solid though the oil refinery fire made the air thick for a while.

It must be midnight. He’s turned in and there are light snores coming from the bedroom. He won’t come out again unless he hears a noise or the phone rings. She creeps into the kitchen, breathing quicker, opens the rubbish bin and yes, there’s some ramen thrown in. She scrapes it out, runs it under some drops of water and puts it on a serviette, to eat. On a dish are some small green apples—a sweet, sharp scent of grass and buds and blossom—but she doesn’t dare take one in case he’s counted them. They smell like her parents’ farm the day Jiro proposed, the hook in her throat tasting of shrimp, the rope pulling her from the farm, flying toward him. Before the earth shook and the sea rose like a wall, swallowing them all.

                                                            *

He’s a fastidious man, according to his last girlfriend, but she didn’t want to move in with him. In the US, and she from an evangelical family, but he wasn’t ready to marry. Fancies Japanese girls but, mostly, they are wary of him—too tall, too brash—and what if he expects her to leave her country and move away with him? Because he’s fastidious he notices things. A crumb of cheese on the floor or an empty pizza box minus the crust he left for the birds. At night he listens for the pitter-patterof tiny feet. Heard them once but was too tired to rouse himself and get out of bed. He should set a mousetrap but would hate their little bodies to be mangled while he slept.

She’s learnt to sleep sitting in the guestroom wardrobe. It is warm, larger than most. Strains to catch phone conversations—knows a little English from her niece—fears the weekends in case there are more people. The worst was when he had a party and could have used the closet to hang coats but it was too hot to wear them.
            Nights pass and in the morning, when her limbs ache and he’s gone to work, she leaves her hiding place. Has the flat to herself. Admires the strange high beds, the rooms with too much furniture. Back in Ofunato, before the water rose, her and Jiro’s house was smaller. Tatami mats on the floor but clean and bright with flowers and the harmony of open space. No children, though for years she wanted them. A little boy to learn to fish with his father, a girl to grow beautiful, accomplished. She’s glad now. It’s hard enough losing a husband, niece, parents. Imagines them floating out to sea. Tells herself they are free from suffering but knows they will return to the cycle that never ends. ‘Do not worry’, the lama said. ‘The world is not real.’ But she does, she does.

Richard gets home early, feeling good, has decided in spite of everything, to stay. He could go back to San Francisco but the pay is good and his company rewards loyalty. He’s bought mackerel to eat today. Didn’t know the Japanese words for can you gut it for me so has to do it himself. But now it’s lying on the board, its slim cylindrical body covered in scales, mouth wide, set in an oval—drowned in air—eyes opaque, black. He feels sorry for the fish, wishes he had got ramen instead. Slices its stomach with a knife and plunges his hand inside the soft oily flesh. A bolt of nausea rises from his gut and he wraps it in paper, bundles it in the trash.

She’s drawn to the smell, flips open the lid and sees it lying abandoned, uneaten. Knows how to remove its gills, slit its belly gently Remove its heart, its bile, eggs sometimes. She could show him how to boil it, serve it with rice. Even after a few hours it smells of death, like the bodies of the people of Ofunato, washed up by the tide. But its meat is sweet, chewy, softer than she thought. She swallows…hears then a sound. It’s nothing. Feels something strange in her stomach like mackerel swimming, the way they splashed when Jiro brought them home in a bucket.
            The way he killed them. The knife slicing their heads off while they writhed. Blaming her all the time. Her fault, he said, they didn’t have a child. That he slept with a hooker in Sendai. She wanted him to drown and he almost did when his boat capsized and he was fished out of the water by a friend. How it changed him—warmed him up inside—so he took her to the city to drink tea and eat bean cake, and see the festival of lights. Said he saw her, as he sank. In a field of apple trees, her hair black against the blossom, hooking his arms, pulling him home. He didn’t want a child now, to become a fisherman. The fish were disappearing and the sea, angry, would rise against them. Believed him when she saw the fear in his eyes.

                                                            *

The tap is dripping. Richard calls the rental firm to find a plumber. They have a key to his apartment they can give him.

She is in the bathroom washing underwear. Hears someone coming in and dashes to the wardrobe, dripping water on the floor. Too late to mop it up. Leaves something in the washbasin. Now a man is calling. ‘Ma’am? Do you have an old towel? A bucket?’ Mutters to himself. She hears the clanking of tools, the rush of water, clasps her hands over her ears. She’d been away from the village that day. Returned to find foreign journalists crawling over the site, her house reduced to planks. ‘Nothing lasts’, the lamas say. But love does. She misses Jiro’s silences—that only she could break through—as if he had read the water’s message and was waiting for it to strike.

“He didn’t have the right washer,’ the girl in the rental office explains. ‘Why doesn’t your maid let him in, then he doesn’t have to come all the way here to collect the key again.”
Richard stares. What? That night he cooks vegetables, eggplant, mince. His mom used to make moussaka, an American version. He puts on a Mozart cello recital, slow and mellow. Mashes the potato in a bowl, adds a knob of butter. Pours a glass of wine but there’s a slight tremble in his hands. Suppose she’s right and someone has been using the apartment while he’s at work? Someone with the key, like a colleague of the girl in the rental office. Or perhaps a student who needs a nice quiet place to work. 

She has to be careful. Not wash clothes, not eat, not drink, above all not make a noise. Not venture out of the wardrobe for more than two, three minutes at a time and always creeping below the level of the windows. There are postwomen, gardeners, neighbourhood spies. In these rich suburbs everyone is suspicious of everyone else, unlike her old fishing village where they helped one another with saki, fish, rice. ‘Keep an eye on my child for me…on my elderly mother.’ But that day no one did, or if so, their efforts weren’t enough against the sea’s ire. Everyone except herself, who was in the next town, buying a kimono for the wedding of her niece. ‘We have the yen,’ Jiro said. ‘Go, now. Please.’  It would’ve been better to be swept away with the houses and the children, the boats and the trees, than become invisible—a thief—like this.

He goes to bed, closes the door. There are no sounds, no pitter-patter of tiny feet, as if the mice have removed their shoes out of respect for him. Sleeps. Wakes at four. Then he hears it—the soft tread of ghosts outside. He shivers, dares not look. But he must, learnt from his grandfather long ago that he can not turn away. Whatever’s there—human, mouse, or visitor from the spirit world—he must look it in the face to exorcise his fears. Creeps out of bed to the kitchen. Observes a woman, scrawny as a featherless bird, scavenging from the trash. Aghast, she drops the fish and throws herself on the floor, in supplication.
            “Get up,” he yells—louder than intended—but he is trembling, cross that his sanctum has been invaded. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He should call the police but she reminds him of his grandmother when she was sick, though probably isn’t as old. Wonders when she last had anything to eat so he opens the fridge and takes out the moussaka he was keeping, heats it. But the stowaway refuses, and bowing, shuffles backwards through the door.
            “Wait,” he offers. “You could work here. Eat everyday.”

But the shame is too much—she, who had more aji than she could fit in her stomach, fresh from the sea—so she tiptoes out of the foreigner’s apartment to find another wardrobe to hide in and wait to join Jiro and her niece.
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Helen Kampfner was born in Singapore, brought up in London, and now teaches English in San Sebastian, Spain. Her work has appeared in The Pacific Review and Narrative Magazine and a new story is due to appear shortly in Dream Catcher. She is very pleased to have come second in the Brighton COW Summer Short Story Competition this year and is currently working on a psychological thriller set in the Basque Country, where she enjoys walking in the mountains, the fiestas and the fabulous food.
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3rd Prize 2011 : A Pebble from the River for Annie by Douglas Bruton
Annie walking with a limp, creeping creeping, through the night-dark street, the village sleeping and Annie silent as thought, but slow as grass. Sneaking past the windows of houses, not looking in, and the curtains drawn against her even if she did. Past the shops with glass fronts shiny like still water, or glinting-black like the eyes of dead birds, and all along the whole street-lamp length of the street. Not going to the church tonight, the far-end church and its shut door, not this time. Instead, to the river. And finding a memory there, of another night, like this one, something like, and in her arms then a weight that never lifted even when her arms were empty again, and empty ever after.
Annie kneeling at the river’s edge, like before, though years added to years since then, so many, and her hair silver now even without the moon. And she is speaking; to no one, it looks like - praying, it could be. Maybe something is listening, something in that black night, no face, just spark-eyes and pricked ears; and there are words heard in that near-dark, words falling into the river, and tumbling tumbling, edges smoothed away in the movement of water,
Annie, just sticks and rags, always, dirt on the dew-lapped hem of her skirt and moths caught there sometimes, and her face – if it could be seen – a map of all weathers, and the backs of her hands also. Annie born to no one, ages past, in a field beside sheep or cows, and carried to the barn where she was left and found wrapped in paper. After, brought up a farmer’s lass, though she wasn’t. And to school, some days, when it was time. Annie not knowing at first. Never told till they said; and they did say, boys mean with words but every word weighted, and girls, too, and nick-names for Annie that were spite-sharp as glass or hard as thrown stones. Then Annie knew.
‘There, there. Take no heed, girl,’ and a mother that she thought a new-found lie, brushing the tangles from her hair and saying she is beautiful, even when Annie knows she is not, has to pick her own posy of daisies when no one else will, and sets them in a glass of green water, by the window where she can see them, telling herself then that it does not matter. There will come a day, she thinks, and something then, like singing in church heard through glass or wood, or laughter not seen, just the sound. And what Annie expects from that one-day-sometime, she does not shape into words, just thoughts, of better than is, could be.
Work needs doing, and that fills all the days that were or are or will be. Mornings in the still dark barn where early cows stand in clouds of their own steam, and wait for her warm hands, wait for milk-teats, pink and pulled, and squeezing, and milk making quick music in a metal bucket and the froth like old lace. And some days the sheep brought down from the hill, and whistle-dog nipped and tucked into stone pens for Tam and his sprung shears to make big sheep small again; and other days lambs to tug new into the world and she feels like skipping, too, just to see them. But always there is the garden, heavy as last straws, turned over sometimes, must be, and seeds stitched into the soil or small green things planted, roots like loose threads pushed and pressed into the crumbled earth. Then wishing for rain, till another day comes, a day for pulling surprise potatoes and carrots and onions from the black-hat earth, and it feels like magic, something like. And back to the barn, and the day never-ending, every day, and fond cows listening to Annie singing, udders milk-heavy, and buckets scrubbed like mirrors, and full again soon, and yellow light from smoking oil lamps reflected in a cow’s wet eyes as Annie moves from one stall to the next. No time left for books, even if she wanted, or school-learning, but Annie never idle, and time passing in the round, coming back to the start when the year ends.
Then a day, at last, like the one day waited for, and such a day. Annie’s hopes lifted, her soul in the sky, like the skylark high-hovering when someone steps near the nest, and the door-hinge squeak of its call, played over and over, and Annie thinking this might be, must be. Because Calum come to the barn, Calum a man, maybe, on the threshold, his hair like new-mined coal and skin smelling of Sundays, and her name in his mouth, like a song. Like syrup or honey, she thinks, and she does not know he is there for a small-silver bet is all. She does not know. And what he says tastes of something she thinks is sweet-truth, and she believes, even after, when kisses are cold and her skirts never lifted again, not by boy or by man. And Calum saying he will be back is something she isn’t sure he said, so she waits, is used to waiting, and she looks for him most days and most days.
Then comes a night, like tonight only brighter, and Annie in the shadows, then as now, a shadow herself it seems, shoes off, and slipping barefoot through the moon-radiant street. All the way that night, to the church with its windows blank and the door a hard black space, looks open but isn’t. Annie with a soft-mewling babe cradled in her arms and her own small fist making little noise on the cold hard wood.
No answer.
And she calls, for someone. But the whole world is sleeping.
Annie then, cross with the minister, cross with god, cross with all men, and should be, turning her back and finding herself kneeling at the river’s edge, kneeling in the dew-damp grass, the webs of spiders like tattered scraps of lace on her skirt. ‘She must have a name, she must have a name,’ said again and again, to the babe in Annie’s arms, the child she delivered herself in the gagged dark of the cow-barn. She knew what to do; after all, she’d seen lambs Spring-born to ewes, and calves to frighted heifers. The child, her child, wrapped in a torn sheet marked with the blood of its birthing, must have a name. Annie kneeling, leaning, forward and reaching, cupping her hand and scooping water from the river, sharp and soft, and wetting the baby’s head, as she’d seen the minister do at the stone font in the church, and Annie calling her child Judith.
Annie kneeling at the river’s edge, all those years back, her black hair like a veil, muttering prayers and songs that never were heard in any church, and her child, Judith, face tight closed in sleep, tight closed like a fist with silver in its grasp. And the witness-moon in a cloudless sky, and a pebble taken from the river for Annie.
Annie back through the village that night and finding the bakehouse lit up like the sun slept there. And the ovens already hot and the smell leaking out onto the street where Annie is, the smell of newborn bread. The door open and someone inside singing, a man’s voice that she recognises, and his soon-to-be-wife laughing somewhere in the back. Annie has written in mud on the torn sheet, written her child’s name, Judith. Annie, then, kissing her this-night-baby, and laying her down inside the door where it is warm, and one more kiss, and one last.
At the far reach of the village that night Annie finding her shoes where she left them, putting a pebble in one, hard and round, and ever after limping as she goes.
At the river again, now, and her arms cradling that memory and kissing nothing, but kissing anyway. And singing, songs she once knew, the music not the words. And counting off the months and years, some good and some not, but all the days the same, mostly. Every year the first bee of Spring plucked from the air and kept in her purse as a charm against the temptation of spending, until there was enough saved, and a small gift then, wrapped in old cloth and bound with the rough-braids of straw and left where a girl called Judith could find it and not know who gave it.
Judith growing growing, through the quickening years, and singing in church sometimes, like her make-believe father, only Judith singing sweeter than syrup or honey, and truer; and Judith heard laughing by the river once, like her pretend mother; but not like Annie, nothing like, except that her hair is dark, glossy-black like the wings of crows. Like a veil.
Comes a day, so soon, another day, a special day, and announcements in the village, weeks before, and Annie hears, somehow. A day it is for brides and mothers. From the fields she hears the bells of the church ringing, ringing different that day, and Annie hurries, fast as limping can, for she knows, can see in her head the picture of a man, hair like coal maybe, and his arm hooked in Judith’s, and Annie hears him say that he takes her for better for worse. Annie not seen or noticed, at the open door, open a chink-crack, straining to hear, to see, and her face holding a smile like a polished sixpence that day, and tears like silver or glass on her cheeks. But she cannot stay, does not. Leaves before, and limps back to the cows and sheep waiting for her on the hill.
Now, long years after, and many, and all turned to ash, bitter in the mouth, bitter as the chewed cud and hard to swallow, and Annie back to kneeling by cold water, the night so dark she can touch it, taste it on her lips, and maybe it’s not night but something else she tastes. Annie kneeling by the river, spiders weaving lace into her skirts once more, and Annie knowing she won’t ever get up again, in her bones she knows, and never been wrong before. And from her shoe she takes a pebble, the same pebble, and lays it gentle in the water. Almost floats it seems, for a moment, almost, and then slips slow to the place it was before and no moon-witness to the blind-dark end of things.
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We elected four Highly Commended Runners up this year, and although by entering the competition, entrants give tacit permission for their stories to be put on the website, there can be exceptions, so we have only two stories to share with you this year.

And M.J.Smith, if you’re out there, we enjoyed both your stories immensely, but as you gave us no contact details, we haven’t been able to get in touch with you!
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The First Snow of Winter by Alex Cox

3.50pm
As the electronic bell sounded the sixth year class rose, then meandered to the door. Mr Donaldson stayed in his seat, opened his newspaper and began to read, ignoring the only other person still in the room.

3.54pm
Vogel Laing sighed, got up and went to the fourth floor window to watch the school’s students spill into the playground and surrounding streets. He was briefly irritated by the marks their footprints made on the perfect shawl of January snow which had mummified the city in the past couple of hours. He saw Emma, his sister waiting at the furthest gate for him, as she ignored the snowball fights and tried to catch sight of him in the throng.
‘Six or seven inches deep down there’ he said.
‘Hmm’ said Donaldson, engrossed in his newspaper. Vogel made a rhythmic clicking noise with his tongue, sighed again and sat down not at his usual desk at the back of the classroom but at the front, directly before his teacher.
‘Do you mind if I listen to my Walkman, sir?’
‘Yes, I do. Do your homework or read a book. There’s plenty up back;’
Vogel stayed seated. He surveyed the room and its contents: a blank blackboard. A crucifix above the door. Walls decorated with maps of the Roman Empire. Some felt-tipped first year project in which everyone wrote the meaning of their first name in Latin; a poster of Guido Reni’s Saint Sebastian; illustrations from Ovid’s Metamorphoses; a hand written copy of Catullus’ poem for Licinius. He checked his watch; almost an hour left of his detention.

3.58pm
‘What paper are you reading? I can’t see from here…’ Vogel said. Donaldson ignored him. ‘It’s the Guardian, isn’t it?’ Donaldson turned the page. ‘They must give it out free to teachers…nothing like having your Weltanschauung confirmed in print, is there?’ said Vogel, his eyes wandering, his voice trailing. When his gaze returned forward Donaldson was staring back, his eyes ablaze. He lifted his paper up from the desk and noisily turned the page, hiding his face behind it.
‘Knew it was The Guardian…’ Donaldson folded it on the desk and made to speak, but Vogel got there first.
‘Can I just apologise sir? I realise in the heat of debate I often get carried away and religious education provokes a particular reaction on my part. I hold my hands up, Mea culpa. I should have expressed myself in a more acceptable manner;’
‘I’m not letting you off Laing. Homework, book or boredom. Your choice’
‘I’m not trying to get out of detention sir, really I’m not;’
‘Good, because…’
There was a knock on the door, followed by Mr Harvey from the English department. ‘Pub, Harry? Christ, sorry…never saw your DT.’ Donaldson shrugged. ‘Vogel? Haven’t seen you in DT before? What did he do?’
‘You don’t want to know’
‘During RE I said the Pope was a cu…’
‘Jesus, Vogel, can you please stop making it worse?’ said Donaldson.
‘Sorry sir, it’s only Mr Harvey’
‘Did he really say that?’ said Harvey. Donaldson nodded. ‘Maybe you should have given him lines. I Must Not Call The Pope A Country Farmer two hundred times or something’
‘You are not helping’ said Donaldson, smiling. ‘I’ll try and make it for a quick one after this’ Harvey nodded and left.

4.03pm
Vogel returned to the window. The playground was deserted save for his sister, still stood at the furthest gate. He waved her to come up. There were only two cars left in the car park; his own Alfa Sud and Donaldson’s new Toyota Celica.
‘Your Celica’s rear wheel drive sir, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It’s just…if you’re not used to rear wheel drive it can be dangerous on snow or ice. Have you driven it in snow, sir?’
‘No’
‘You had a Civic before, didn’t you? A Celica will be tricky in this weather sir. If you’re not used to it, that is…’ Donaldson looked up from The Guardian. He thought about saying something, but it was true, the car was a handful compared to anything he’d driven before. He decided to miss the pub and go straight home.

4.06pm
‘Can I wait here, sir?’ Vogel’s sister stood at the door. ‘I’m his sister’
‘No, you can’t. This is detention, not an after school club.’
‘But we have to visit our grandma tonight. He’s driving and she’s in East Kilbride so…’
Donaldson rolled his eyes. ‘Sit at the back. No talking’
‘Thanks, sir,’ she said as she chose a desk at the back of the room where she began to read Smash Hits and listen to her Walkman.
‘You can’t listen to that here. Miss…miss, you can’t.’ She didn’t respond. Donaldson gave up and began reading the same article for the third time on how perestroika was the new glasnost.
‘I can give you a lift, sir. My Alfa’s front wheel drive, so…’ said Vogel.
‘I don’t need a lift, Laing. I have a brand new car which I will drive home, perfectly well’
‘Sorry sir. I just don’t want an accident to happen’
‘There will be no accidents. Thank you for your concern. Now, shut up.’
The room fell quiet, punctuated by the Walkman’s tinny jingle-jangle and the occasional drone of a slow moving car from the street below.

4.17pm
‘I’m just slightly paranoid about accidents what with it being nearly a year since Kevin’s…’ Donaldson gripped his pages a little tighter.
‘Kevin?’ he said.
‘Yeah, my cousin. You know, last year’
‘Your cousin?’
‘Our dads are cousins, but I always called his mum and dad auntie and uncle, you know. So Kevin was my sort-of cousin, though we weren’t very close’
‘Yes…that was very sad’ said Donaldson. ‘Terrible misfortune’ He pulled The Guardian up to cover his face again.
‘You could say that was a winter accident…’ said Vogel.
Donaldson peered over his newspaper. ‘A winter accident? How so?’
‘Well, he caught a heavy cold, and took Night Nurse, Lemsip and paracetomol. In summer, the cold wouldn’t have affected him so badly, he would have been able to shrug it off. Dark evenings, heavy skies…it all adds to the foreboding of…I don’t know…’
4.23pm
‘Took him five days to die,’ Donaldson was still unable to get past the third paragraph of his perestroika article. ‘He started vomiting, feeling sick. His mum and dad just thought it was flu. Then his nose bled and when it wouldn't stop they took him to hospital. By then his liver had failed. We visited him every day, and each time we all hoped he would be dead when we got there. He was in so much pain, it was...horrible,’ Vogel seemed genuinely upset, so Donaldson let him talk. ‘I've never told anyone this before, but...’
‘Yes?’
‘Doesn't matter sir.’ He slumped back, his mind elsewhere.
‘You can tell me. Or someone else, if you would prefer’
‘It wasn't an accident...’ He was leaning forward in his chair, conspiratorially, staring straight at Donaldson, searching for a response.
‘It was an accident, there was an inquiry;’
‘A good Catholic couple aren’t going to admit their son committed suicide, are they? If they did, apart from the eternal damnation his soul would suffer, apart from the shame, there would be questions, wouldn't there? Why did a fifteen year old boy kill himself? What was so terrible about his life he couldn't face another day of it?’ Donaldson looked at Vogel, then at the sister, deep in her magazine, deaf to everything except her Walkman.
‘Is this just you running off at the mouth or...’
‘I can prove it,’ he said, then seemed bothered by doubt. ‘Well, not prove it, but Kevin told me something before he died, why it was no accident…’
‘What did he say?’
‘I don't know if I should say, sir’
‘What did he say?’
‘When I repeat it, it won't have the same tone, the same inflection...I can't impart to you the look in his eyes, the meaning, the weight of what he was saying’
‘Vogel...What did he say?’
‘He said...’
‘....Yes?’
‘This won't go any further, will it sir? I don't want to...’
‘Just...’ Donaldson said, impatient, before composing himself. ‘Just tell me what...’
‘He said after you came in his mouth you forced him to swallow’, said Vogel leaning forward, imprisoning the teacher's eyes with his own. He pulled an Emery board from his pocket and began filing his fingernails, the small act becoming the epicentre of the room. By the time Donaldson wrenched his gaze from Vogel's hands, his sister had removed her headphones and sat in the seat beside her brother, aping his curious stare as they both watched him as if he were a mould in a petri dish.

4.27pm
‘Bit of an awkward moment this, isn't it Harry? I apologise but you did push me to tell you’, said Vogel, leaning back in his chair, his hands pillowing the back of his head. ‘You're a master interrogator Harry. I couldn't keep it in any longer...’
‘It's mister Donaldson to...’
‘I think we're past that Harry, don't you? Now, well...we've entered something of a new paradigm in our relationship’
‘It's not true. What you're saying, what you said, it's...evil’
‘Ya think?’ said Vogel, laughing. ‘Even if I can't prove what he said before he died, the allegation alone should be enough to flush out a few uncomfortable little truths. Like Dan Holloway. Raymond McGuinness. Eddie Clark. Your reputation is legendary Harry. I used to wonder how you found all these docile boys and then I remembered,’ Vogel turned to his sister. ‘He tried to touch me up once you know’
‘Really?’ she mocked surprise, never shifting her gaze from Donaldson. ‘Do tell Vogel, do tell...’
‘Well sis’ he said, jumping to his feet and moving stand alongside the teacher. ‘He asked me to stay behind one day, to ahem, review my homework. So I was standing here at his shoulder, and he's giving it Amo, Amas, Amat as he read my jotter, and without looking he knocked my cock with his knuckle. Just two or three times, right on the bell-end. Now...I jumped back, he waited a second or two, before going on with Amamus, Amatis, Amant, closing my book and telling me to get lost. Remember Harry?’
‘That's...not true’, he replied, shaking, his voice wilting.
‘Course it is Harry.  That's how you do it, isn't it? If they jump back they won't say anything, and even if they do, all you say is, For goodness sake, wee accident, you dirty little sod, I go to mass twice on Sunday, I coach the football team, how dare you? Of course, if they don't jump back, if they're not repelled, well, the door's open, isn't it? I'm moving some furniture on Saturday; maybe you could help me...If it's too much trouble...Oh it's not? Well, come before lunch, I'll feed you, build those muscles up. Best wear shorts, the forecast's sunny and it'll be sweaty work...’
‘That's terrible Vogel, you poor thing. Were you traumatised?’ asked Emma.
‘Can't say I was, sis. Matter of fact, I was the last in class he tried. I used to think, What's wrong with me? Am I repulsive? Why is he going for all these losers? Why doesn't he notice me? With my blond hair, my perfect skin, my sharp mind...Afterwards, I regretted pulling away. You see Harry, if you'd been persistent...could've been the start of something beautiful.’
‘Stop teasing him Vogel, it's not nice. Can't you see the poor man's distraught?’
‘Of course he is, but it's just us three here. What if everyone knows..?’ Vogel bent down to bring his head level, though Harry kept staring at some distant point beyond the back of the classroom. ‘...and I do mean everyone. Colleagues, priests, neighbours, your poor mother, angry parents’
‘Oh, the angry parents, Vogel’, said Emma. ‘Just think of the angry parents. No Guardian readers among them. All those Record and Sun readers. Think what they’ll call him...’ she said as she got up and stood at Donaldson's other shoulder.
‘What sort of names do you think they'll call him, sis?’
‘Do you really think I should speculate, brother?’
‘I really think you should speculate, sis’
She bent down, like her brother, until her face was drawn level with the side of Donaldson's head. Donaldson stared ahead, his eyes moist.
‘Deviant,’ she whispered in his ear, making him shudder.
‘Degenerate,’ said Vogel, muttering.
‘Poof,’ said Emma firmly.
‘Pollutant,’ said Vogel loudly.
‘Predator.’ Shouting.
‘Please...’
‘Pervert.’ Yelling.
‘No, please...’
‘Pederast.’ Roaring.
‘Paedophile.’ Screaming.
‘No! Stop..! Please, just...stop,’ said Harry. The siblings returned to their seats and the room fell quiet, save for Harry's heavy breathing amplified by his hands, cupped and covering his face.

4.32pm
‘He's hoping when he looks up we won't be here,’ said Emma.
Harry dropped his hands, defeated. ‘What do you want me to do?’ They exchanged puzzled looks.
‘What do you mean by do?’ said Vogel.
‘Just that...’ said Harry. ‘Whatever you want me to do, I'll do;’
‘Well…I am going on holiday next month. Some spending money would be nice,’ said Vogel.
‘I'm a teacher, Maggie Thatcher's PM. I have no money...’
‘Lovely car that. Eight thousand wasn’t it? Couple of thousand and you're off the hook. You can tell yourself that whatever you come up with is the truth. I don't care. We don't care’
‘I can't get raise that at…’
‘Venice, if you're asking. It’s most evocative in winter, and I’m keen to experience the Carnival,’ said Vogel. He and his sister both stood. ‘You should go sometime, you'd like it. Provided you left the guy you pretend to be at home. I'll give you a week,’ He handed the car keys to his sister and said he would catch her up.
‘You know, Harry, you shouldn’t beat yourself up over Kevin. He didn't do it over you.  In fact, you probably kept him going longer than he wanted to. Being a council house queer with a macho father...well, it has difficulties. You're not a good man, Harry, but I don't think you're a bad man either...Take care.’

When Vogel reached the car his sister was already in the passenger seat.
‘Money? Money?’ she demanded. ‘I never knew you were so fucking banal...’
‘I'm sorry, have I disappointed God's little gift? And on the subject of banal, you sat there reading Smash Hits and listening to Madonna.’ He started the engine.
‘We don't even need the stupid money,’ she said as she looked out the side window.
‘No. We don't,’ he said as he edged the Alfa onto the road.

4.40pm
Donaldson’s tears caused his driving-glasses to steam. He locked the classroom as the cleaners were arriving, and avoided them by taking the lift. The snow startled him. He reconsidered driving, and even though he was a long way from home, he began to walk.

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THE TURKEY COCK by M.J.SMITH

The taxi rank was tucked against the wall downhill from the station. Two women laden with shop[ping bags were climbing into the last taxi. Manx loitered awkwardly on the pavement, waiting for the next one to pull up. A little man with bird bright eyes followed him down and stood beside him.
            You must be a clever bloke, the little man said, pointing to Manx’s briefcase, and staring into his eyes.
            Not especially, Manx said, feeling uncomfortable.
            Oh, I’m sure you are, the little man said, still staring and stepping closer. I bet you’re very clever indeed.
            I’m just average, Manx said, smiling.
            No, no, the little man insisted. I’m sure you’re very, very clever. Why would you need one of those otherwise?
            I might have my sandwiches in it, Manx said.
            You see! You are clever. That’s a very clever thing to say, in a situation like this. Why I bet you’re clever enough to talk your way out of anything. He was standing so close now that Manx could smell the beer on his breath.
            I don’t know about that.
            Now me, I’m sure you’d think I was a stupid man, wouldn’t you?
            I’m sure you’re not stupid.
            Are you now? Are you really?
Manx said nothing more, but that was not enough. It had gone beyond the point of saying nothing.
            I think that’s what you think I am, the little man said, stepping up so close that he and Manx were almost touching. You think I’m stupid.
            I think you’re a bully, Manx said.
            What?
            I said, I think you’re a bully. The little man took a pace back. I think you like to bully people with briefcases, because you think they’ll let you.
            You what?
            I think you enjoy it.
The little man almost stopped, but he could not.
            Who the fuck do you think you are?
            No one important, Manx said, turning towards the next taxi, which had just pulled up beside them.
            Don’t fuckin’ turn your back on me, the little man shouted, and he made a grab for Manx’s sleeve.
And Manx dropped the briefcase, and pulled away, and grasped the little man by his wrist, and twisted it, so that the little man’s arm was locked out straight; and Manx swung him round, and almost instinctively, for the first time since he’d done Judo as a kid, he swept his right foot round in a curve, like some fancy dance move, and took the little man’s legs from beneath him; and as the little man fell, he turned him, using the twisted arm, which he now held firmly in both hands, as a lever.
And the little man landed face down on the pavement with his arm pulled taut and vertical behind, and with Manx’s foot pressed against his ribs.
            And Manx knew for the first time in his life the wild joy of having another living thin entirely within his power, and the little man said, I’ll fucking kill you, you bastard.
            And Manx twisted the arm, putting the weight of his body behind it, and the little man screamed, and Manx felt something give, inside the little man’s shoulder, and it reminded him of something but he could not remember what.
            And Manx said, that’s not what I want to hear, and the little man’s eye, because the side of his face was pressed hard against the pavement, looked up at him like a bird’s.
            And Manx said, I want you to say, please don’t hurt me, but the little man said, fuck you Jack.
            And Manx pressed down with his foot and felt something brittle crack, and he pulled harder against the arm, and he could feel the little man’s muscle’s tearing.
            And the little man screamed and shouted please don’t hurt me, but Manx said, it’s gone beyond that now, and the little man’s eye filled with tears and there was the sudden sour smell of faeces.
            And Manx said, you’ve shit yourself, but don’t be embarrassed, because that often happens in situations like this, and the little man screamed more desperately than before.

            Then the taxi driver, who’d witnessed it all, and had got out of his cab, which might in other circumstances have been a foolish thing to do, said, you’ve done enough, mate, don’t you think?
            And Manx looked at him, and knew he was right; but then he remembered what it was that twisting the arm had reminded hin of, and he also remembered running away from a bully when he was at school, and he gripped the arm tighter and twisted it as hard as he could, and he felt it come away, just like the turkey leg had at Christmas, and the man on the ground stopped screaming, and heaved a great sigh, as if he really did regret everything, and Manx thought to himself, that however clever he was, he wasn’t clever enough to talk himself out of this one.

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