Heart Of Scotland 2 : Beinn Dearg

Woke up still a bit painful behind the eyes and almost threw up attempting to look at myself in the mirror. Now I know how other people feel. (Having to look at my face, I mean, not their own). 

After nursing a gentle breakfast of croissants, fruit and coffee, though, I began to come around while watching Nightmare Kitchens USA with Gordon Ramsay, which was a lot of fun (I mean he was on TV, not we were sharing a room). I used to work as a waiter and kitchen porter so I can totally understand where he's coming from a lot of the time. It's very satisfying seeing him butt heads with people who think they're king of the castle.

A beautiful big church dominates Callander square

After breakfast, it being a much cooler, cloudier, breezier day, we strolled down the north side of the street and popped in and out of occasional stores that piqued our interest. In the hope of musically educating our son during car journeys I bought a couple of CDs (Finley Quaye ("It's great when we're together..." A Scottish musician!) and Badly Drawn Boy). A cup of coffee and apricot danish which we (I) enjoyed while sitting outside near the church went down well and put paid to my headache. The Main Street was so busy with caravans and motorhomes it seemed that Callander was just a place to pause in transit - or just drive through - on the way to and from other spots for most people.

Some nice architecture in town

We continued our stroll and bought the last camping table in Regatta for £25 (which would turn out to be invaluable), an ornate walking stick for £30 in the fishing/camping shop (to fight off wolves and bears while climbing Munros), and a Dungeons and Dragons starter pack for £25 in the games shop. "I haven't tried this one yet," said the shop assistant, "but I want to." "Something to play with the kids," I said, and then worried it sounded like I thought role playing games were not a dignified way for adults to spend their time, "And myself of course!"

Don't forget to hashtag Hashtag

We came home, had a very nice lunch, and my son and I played the first half of D & D and killed a few monsters using too many dice with too many sides, before going out to attempt to climb a nearby hill called Beinn Dearg (427m). 

I was beginning to realise that a Munro was out of the question for my family to do together, so a touch of training was in order. I scanned the walkhighlands website for nearby hills under 2000 feet, and Beinn Dearg came up.

The path to Beinn Dearg never did run smooth

 Only trouble was, there was no route to the top according to Walkhighlands. There was a path halfway up and then Google just drew a rather optimistic 'as the crow flies' blue dotted curve to the summit. On closer inspection there seemed to be a line through the trees I thought we could follow. So we set off in the car around 3pm. There must be a way, I thought, if there's a will.

A mountain to the north, viewed from Beinn Dearg, capped with cloud

The drive southwest from Callander was pleasant enough, and it was easy to find the car park next to the loch (we could have used the volcano kettle on the shore but alas no coffee, milk, tea or sugar! (note to self : keep stuff together!))

The views along Loch Venachar from Beinn Dearg were well worth it

We walked up a zigzag forestry commission road which allowed for some great views up and down the loch, but after 45 minutes' climb it just stopped at a viewpoint, and the trees uphill seemed impenetrable. Insects were also beginning to devour my wife. Turned out there was neither a will nor a way, so we retraced our steps. Failed to reach top but good starter hike for us all. Total walk round trip: 90 mins. Then back to town.

Who could forget that shop where we bought the fudge?
What was it called again?

Went back to the hotel after waiting 50 mins for our order to be made up at the Chinese Village restaurant (I was about to walk out before ordering (as I'm sure Gordon Ramsay would have done) but we were assured it was worth the wait by a couple who left, and it was. To be fair, everywhere in Callander seemed to be short-staffed, probably due to the change in lockdown restrictions. We got prawn fried rice, sweet & sour chicken and I had a kind of sweet garlic and honey chicken strips thing with boiled rice and a side order of prawn crackers. It was delicious and we stuffed our faces with plenty to spare. They'd even given us an extra order of fried rice, either by mistake or by way of apology. Very kind!

This could be Rotterdam.

After finishing our game of D & D, our son was out like a light and we all followed suit.

Next - Part 3 : Glengoulandie

Heart Of Scotland 1 : Callander

I had the vague notion of wanting to do some hiking this trip, possibly an easier Munro or two (Scottish mountain over 3000 feet), so I researched the route using a combination of booking.com for the hotels, walk highlands.co.uk for the Munros, and pitchup.com and Google for the campsites. The plan was to alternate between two nights in a B&B and two nights at a campsite : total 8 nights.

Ben Vorlich (985m) was supposedly a good one for beginners, and seemed within easy reach of Callander.

Our Intended Route

Before leaving, I spent the morning searching high and low for the fishing reel for our son's rod and tidying up the (blisteringly hot) shed, but to no avail. (Note to self: keep all your stuff together) In the end we had lunch at home (onigiri rice balls) and set out for Callander at around 2:30pm.

The Dreadnought Hotel

We checked in to the Dreadnought (£161 for two nights, room for three), put the bags in the room, and then went to reacquaint ourselves with the town. We bought fish and chips which we ate near the grassy knoll at the river, followed by the mother and father of all ice cream cones (mine was choc chip in a chocolate-dipped cone costing £5.50!)

Shops have amusing names in Callander

After strolling along the river to a play park and across the street, a woman stopped us to expound the faults of the mini golf course next to the hotel, slamming it repeatedly and mercilessly, recommending the one instead near the river, saying it was, 'much better.' We thanked her for her advice, but it was all moot anyway as they were both closed. 

On The Grassy Knoll - a Bon Motte (The Hill Of St Kessog)

We bought some breakfast supplies in Tesco (the hotel booking was room only) where my wife met the 'crazy golf lady' again who set forth the pros and cons of various shelf items in the supermarket. 

By the time we got back to the hotel and upstairs I had developed the mother, father and great grand parent of all head-aches. I lay on the bed feeling terrible while my wife and son watched TV and enjoyed their first night on holiday. I realised later that the headache was probably due to the heat of working in the shed earlier and dehydration, coupled with a sugar rush. The salty fish supper probably hadn't helped much either.

What a way to start the trip!

Next - Part 2 : Beinn Dearg

Rename Sunday Earthday

On Sundays we used to rest. Nap. Potter around. Remember? Spend time with family. Because nothing was open. Perhaps the reason for this has changed, as beliefs change, but the effect was kind to the planet. And us. It gave the planet one day to breathe. And us a chance to relax.

As you may have heard, 97% of peer-reviewed scientists who studied climate change "endorsed the consensus that humans are causing global warming."

This is a problem for us on Earth, but not so much for the sun.

The sun can look after itself. We need to protect the earth. For this reason I propose we change the name of Sunday to Earthday, and on this day

• close shops and businesses
• limit non essential travel
• pedestrianise suitable roads
• encourage cycling, skating and other non fossil-fuel burning activities
• encourage local protests, demonstrations, talks in aid of the earth
• encourage meetings in local parks or halls for music, storytelling, poetry
• discourage non-renewable energy use
• plant trees locally
• celebrate our planet

Knowing our current situation is unsustainable, we should and eventually must change our ways as a tribe, country, people, species. It's that simple.

Better late than never. But what if late is too late? Imagine the good it could do.

Add your support to this cause by signing the petition. This petition is to the People Of The World. This means you. Because we don't need to ask anyone's permission to rename Sunday Earthday. New words are added to the dictionary every year. Because language changes. So we can just start doing it. 

Image credit https://www.hdwallpapers.in/planet_earth_stars-wallpapers.html

Sunday Thoughts

Well, here I am sitting in the glorious sunshine in our back garden having a spot of brunch in a bid to fend off the ‘pre lunch energy crash’ that I’ve been experiencing a lot recently (probably due to the nightly Heinekens (I bought four cans for the slugs and drank three myself (these days the slugs in my garden have two choices: salt or beer; some of them wisely choose the beer))))

I haven’t done much gardening of late and I’m not sure why. They say, “Spend time not money on your <insert valuable thing here>” and I haven’t been doing much of that at all. Sunday mornings were traditionally my gardening time but to be honest I haven’t been bothered. I’ve planted the spuds but the brassica and legumes patches lie empty. I guess I could move the broad bean saplings to the outside now we’ve hopefully seen the last of the frost. Why has my gardening spirit deserted me? I still don’t really know what brassicas are, but I have a feeling I don’t like them. Are they the green leafy veg like kale and Brussels sprouts? Sounds like ideal food for slugs to enjoy with beer and salt.

I read an article in last week’s Times Magazine by Rachel Riley of Countdown fame (she’s now 35!) and she said some of the best advice she’d ever received was: Decide what would be a good outcome of a project and if you achieve that, be happy with it. She also wrote: Only concern yourself with what will be important in five years’ time.

Rachel Riley in 2011. Source : Wikipedia CC by 3.0
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

This got me to thinking. Where will I be in five years’ time? What will be important to us then?

Well, I’ll be 51. I can’t even relax enough to imagine what that will be like. Probably just be exactly the same as now, except hopefully we’ll be closer to paying off the mortgage. Too much time wasted on social media. Failed half-empty writing promises. Not enough money. Unachieved goals.

I remember in 2008 I wrote a five year plan and it involved becoming self sufficient. IE we’d own our own house, have our own homestay business. Teach English at home and tour people around Scotland. Sounded like a pretty good goal.

And to some extent we approached this. We had guests coming in with AirBnB and Homestay. We had a refreshing home. People came and went. They stayed in the spare room. We even had a lodger at one point. Admittedly the first night was always a bit nervy because we never knew if they’d kill us all in our sleep, but after that didn’t happen it was fine.

I mean we could grow more food, it’s just a case of me being arsed.

The dandelions are out in full force today, and so are daisies on the lawn. I’ve put fatballs in the bird feeder and the house sparrows are tweeting merrily. Currently no neighbours are playing radios or shouting at dogs. Things seem momentarily peaceful. In the distance someone’s mowing their lawn and dogs are barking their indifference at each other, but that’s at a distance so completely fine. No fitness company is shouting orders via a PA system at their clients, which even at a distance is insufferable. 

It seems I’ve become a cantankerous old man, which must have snuck up on me in the last five years...

So back to Rachel Riley. Where do I want to be in 2026, because there’s a fair to middling chance that it will come around eventually.

I don’t want to be 51 - that’s a start. That’s the main one.  I'd rather be 25.5. But that’s ridiculous. I’m going to be 51 whether I like it or not. The question is, what kind of 51-year-old do I want to be? 

Looking at people younger than me lamenting their age I always think, “Hmm, they should just be grateful for what they have.” So perhaps that’s how I should be. Grateful for what I have. I should be grateful for being 51 because five years after that I’ll be 56. More pain. More hardship. Further from the truth. Or closer, depending on how you look at it. 

Okay, can’t do anything about that, but I can presumably do something about my situation. Me and my books and my writing and my wedding videos and my car and my music. I want to be an ageing hippy, smoking dope and giving lectures. And my dog. I want to enjoy the twilight years of my life. 

I want to live in a small house near the sea in St Andrews, with a garden in a quiet place. 

And all I’d need to do that is £135 grand...

Better get writing!

Trappings Of A Gem Stealer - Short Story

Artok checked the harness one last time before slipping over the edge into the cave. Above him, the storm-filled but rainless sky began to recede as he let himself down into the cooler darkness below, which threatened to swallow him entirely. 

He didn't want to go into the Black Heart this late in the day, when dusk was already approaching, but if Enock's men came back in the night, as they'd threatened they would, and found no more stones, it would be another flogging for Artok. The pain was terrible, but the look on his wife's face and new born son's wails would be worse.

Damn Enock!

Lightning fired above, quickly followed by thunder so loud it numbed Artok's ears. Grimacing, Artok lowered himself into darkness.

Some moments later he felt his feet touch down. He detached one of his three torches, poured a little oil on the head, and struck it alight using pieces of flint from his pouch. That done, he released himself from the harness, held up the torch, and took a second to look around. A few black beetles scuttled off the crudely erected platforms away from the light, but apart from those, nothing else moved. The cavern stretched up overhead and its surface was covered in jagged shards of rock, which necessitated the building of these platforms for flooring, branching off in various directions and leading into the various tunnels and recesses throughout the maze of the Black Heart.

Artok made his way cautiously along one of the platforms, which creaked under his weight. A noise off to his left above his head made him pause. He hadn't heard that kind of noise down here before. It was three gruff snorts. Artok continued. Get in, get a few stones, and get out fast, he thought, dropping his free hand to the crossbow hanging at his hip. 

He wondered briefly if the stories the villagers were telling had some truth to them after all. About the hideous creatures down here. No. Just made up by some greedy folk to keep people out of the Black Heart and away from its precious stones.

Nonetheless, Artok's grip on the crossbow tightened.

Shortly the ceiling became low and the platform came to an end, forcing Artok to stoop and begin carefully navigating the crevices and knife-like rocks using his hands to steady himself. Occasionally he felt some downward jutting rocks scrape the thick protective cloth wrapping his head, and was glad of it. Sometimes the stone sliced through his mittens and caused his hands to become sticky with blood, or a beetle might crawl over the back and up his arm before he shook it off with a gasp .

Artok stopped for a second to catch his breath. While he regained his strength he waved the torch ahead of him, straining to see through the gloom. At last he saw the flickering reflections up ahead of a deposit and his heart warmed in his chest.

Then came the sound of another husky grunt, followed by a shrill noise that sent a shiver through Artok's bones. After that the flapping of many wings. Then nothing.

He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry.

Artok started moving again.

The deposit that he'd seen was set beyond a tight narrowing of the cavern, where the ceiling came down to within a couple of feet of the floor. Artok found the widest part and as carefully as possible, eased himself through. A small stalagtite jabbed him sharply in the back, but otherwise he made it to the other side with little trouble.

Raising up the torch he examined the deposit. It was a good one, with a number of large gems that looked easy to remove. He set down the torch leaning against a nearby surface, unhooked his crossbow and laid it, too, down. Then, taking a smallish hammer-axe, began carefully chipping away the surrounding rock. He worked that way for some time, enthralled, alone in his little bubble of light, enclosed on all sides by leagues of darkness and earth.

Suddenly he realised something was watching him. He snatched up his crossbow and spun around in a flash.

Whatever it was disappeared.

He picked up the torch and waved it in front of him, trying to cast the light further than it would go.

Nothing. Except the sound of his own hard breathing.

A couple of beetles scuttled into the cracks.

Artok grunted, his veins flooded with adrenalin but nothing to shoot.

A shiver rolled through him, and he lowered his torch. His crossbow arm went limp, and he sighed. But the sensation of being observed wouldn't leave. The idea of something watching him as he quietly worked away in his own light, the view of himself from behind as he sat engrossed, made him shiver yet again.

He swore gently, and turned back to the deposit. He'd removed four gems from the rock, which now sat on the soft gem-bag to one side, and he examined them once more, enjoying their cool jagged surfaces in his blood-smeared hands. Would these four be enough? he asked himself. The desire to leave, now, as fast as possible, was quick and overwhelming, and laced with panic.

There hadn't been any more of those strange sounds, he noticed. Who knew what lay sleeping, dormant, hidden away in the unexplored depths of the Black Heart?

He looked again at the source of the deposit. Maybe three more stones could be extracted without much effort, he decided.

With shaking hands, Artok again laid down his torch and lifted the small hammer-axe up to the gems. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and began chipping away again at the rock around one of the precious stones. Once, twice, three times. He stopped. His hand was shaking so much he had shattered the gem with his third strike.

A noise came from behind him, a gruff snort.

The little hammer-axe dropped from his fingers.

Artok turned, slowly, his body trembling so much that he barely had control of it.

There, beyond the narrow gap, was a huge, grinning snout filled haphazardly with jutting, broken teeth, and above it, yellow, glowing eyes set hungrily on Artok. Slowly, it eased a long taloned claw through the gap towards Artok, who, frozen with shock, saw both the hairy, muck-covered humanoid arm and its eerie shadow thrown by the torch, and stumbled back against the gem deposit.

I'm going to die, was the only thought in Artok's mind that made it through the fog of terror.

Unable to reach Artok, the thing suddenly gave a brief flap of great black wings, changed its position, and tried to reach further into the space. The glint in the thing's eyes wasn't hunger, Artok then realized, but wrath. Wrath like molten lead. The creature was still unable to get at the small, quivering form of Artok, no matter how hard it pushed into the crack. The talons snapped together five inches from his face

It can't get me, Artok realised.

The thing gave a low growl of effort and pushed harder into the crack, breaking off pieces of rock, top and bottom.

Oh God, Artok's mind stuttered. Please don't come any closer.

But it was. It gained a little progrees, was stopped by the rocks, charged forwards with a grunt sending pieces of broken stone showering over Artok, and then was stopped again.

Artok's hand rested on something and he looked down. The cross bow. He aimed it directly at the creature's head and set his finger on the trigger, but the back of the thing's claw lashed out and sent the weapon flying against a wall. With a cry, Artok picked up the torch and jabbed it forwards, but the creature grabbed the end between its giant fist and extinguished the flame with a crunch as if it was nothing but a match.

Darkness.

But still sound. Sound that wrenched the core of Artok's being apart with fear. Falling pieces of rock. Grunting and slavering. Snapping of fangs. Wings moving in leathery foldings and unfoldings.

And then silence. The thing had paused before making its final lunge, Artok realized. And with the silence came calm. This is the end, Artok now understood. All men died, it was a universal truth.

Wordlessly, Artok said goodbye to his beautiful wife and precious son, gave the last sigh of his life, and closed his eyes to the darkness.

He waited for it to end.

A moment later, he found that he was still waiting.

“Artok!”

It was someone calling his name, echoed and distorted by the cavern walls.

There was a low growl, followed by the sound of dropping stones and scraping rock, and a gust of musty air, as the creature stole away, back to whatever dark recess it kept.

Artok tensed, waiting, listening, and then nearly fainted with relief.

“Artok!” came the voice again. “Can you hear me, down there?”

He breathed air deep into his lungs, savouring it again as if for the first time. The sensation of the rock under his hands. The ability of moving arms and legs without pain or discomfort. The miracle of existing again, in the here and now.

Almost overcome with gratitude, Artok rose shakily to his feet, feeling around for his other torches and flint pouch and listening to someone climb down into the cave.

“Well? Are you in here, Artok?” said the voice, a little louder now. Laughter followed.

Artok, about to speak, paused, trying to remember the owner of that voice. Frowning in the darkness, he poured a little oil on a fresh torch head.

“Maybe he's fallen down a crack and split open his dirty, thieving fucking head.” A second voice. Laughter.

“Probably all the better for him,” muttered the first.

Flints in hand, Artok paused in mid strike. Something about the tone of the man's voice had opened up a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited, listening.

“Artok! This news is important enough for me to come and deliver it myself!”

Realization dawned on Artok. This was Enock. In person.

What news?

“We've just come from your house!” called Enock. The voice sounded closer. “As you weren't there we had to wake up your family. I'm sorry about that, we had no choice.”

Artok's grip tightened on the flints.

“But to kill them.”

The world dropped away from Artok when he heard those words. It was as if the world had become a rock, falling down a well, away from his oustretched open hand.

“You owe us some stones, Artok. You're overdue again. Floggings are not enough to beat sense into you, it seems.” Enock cleared his throat. There was the click of a cross bow being charged. “Now where are they?” Artok watched the world drop, drop away, with what felt like indifference.

My beautiful wife, he thought. My boy.

He gazed at the vague outline of his hands, holding their flints. They seemed to belong to someone else.

“How can that bastard see down here without having a torch lit?” mumbled Enock's man. “We're never going to find him.”

I don't need a torch, Artok thought. Or what used to be Artok.

I can see without it.

He moved his fingers over the softness of the flints.

“He can't stay down here forever,” Enock grunted. “Isn't that right, Artok, old friend?”

Friend. The word ignited Artok's gaseous soul.

Something flew from the darkness at the two men - some terrible distortion of nature - with talons outstretched and fangs bared. A claw clipped the man next to Enock, knocking him over and sending the torch flying. Enock raised his crossbow and fired a bolt into the thing's wing. The creature recoiled a little, but while still airborne, and with one talon, tore the crossbolt out and cast it to the side. Enock stumbled backwards, his face like chalk, crossbow dropping from his hand. He was muttering nonsensical things when the thing swooped at him. It grabbed Enock by the throat in one huge claw, wings raised high over the man's head in a death veil, and thrust its snarling snout up to his face.

“Artok!” cried Enock. “Artok! Help us!” and he strained to hear any sound from where the gem-stealer might be hiding in the darkness.

The thing opened its jaws with a growl.

“I am Artok,” it said, and gnashed its fangs.

High above the Black Heart the rainless storm clouds continued to rage.

© Chris R Young 2021

The Dead Broad - A Short Story

This popped out of my head one day in 2001 when I was living in Japan. I was frustrated by my inability to stop smoking, and how in the grand scheme of things whether or not someone smokes is not really that big a deal.

"Okay, fine!" I said, and grabbed my jacket.

   As the door slammed behind me, I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit up, pausing only to shove open the gate on my way out the garden.

“Manipulative bitch,” I mumbled to myself while striding down the empty street. She had a nerve, she really did. Talking to me that way. I couldn’t believe it! After all we’d been through together. After all I’d sacrificed for her. I shook my head in disbelief. 

“The world is a dark, dark place,” I spat, to no-one in range.

As luck would have it, it was dark, the time being a little before 11 pm. And here was I, yet again, scouring the streets like vermin, searching for scraps, leftovers, of respect. Because that was all it seemed I was worth.

I puffed and raged, raged and puffed, and it wasn’t long before I could feel my anger begin to subside.

At last I came to rest, sitting on the low wall of a churchyard. 

It could be worse, I mused, gazing round at the headstones before the church building. I could have croaked. I could have been born in the nineteenth century, kicked the kettle nigh on fifty years ago and now be fodder for maggots and beetles buried six feet under in an old, wet, rot-bitten coffin, grinning through lipless, nicotine-stained teeth.

I blew smoke through my nose. I knew my method of obtaining optimism wasn’t the same as other folk’s, but it seemed to help me feel a little better when I was down.

Then it occurred to me she might have a point. Had I not gotten rat-faced last night I probably wouldn’t have slobbered all over the nearest bit of cream puff I could lay my saliva glands on. Still, one night of debauchery is no excuse for giving up alcohol entirely, now, is it? That’s just ridiculous. Where did she get that Jekyll and Hyde syndrome bollocks from? Hello? She spends too much time reading those magazines, and watching those goddam afternoon TV shows for the dead, or mentally dead, or at least some part of their brain must be dead to sit in all day glued to that fucking box watching people in tall hats show them how to spice their sardines and juice their lemons.

I flicked the stub into the graveyard where it bounced off a headstone sending a satisfying shower of sparks out into the grass.

Then I sighed and sat with my head in my hands.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe I do drink too much. I’m no spring chicken any more, that’s for sure. I patted my paunch. More like a Christmas turkey. All right then, I decided, for the sake of my wife, and my liver, I will give up alcohol for ever. No more nights out with the lads — more quality time at home playing scrabble with her indoors and expanding my intelligence reading, what were those things again, oh yeah, books. And no more hangovers. Thank God! Those are some things I will never miss. 

This is it. No more beer. Here begins my NEW LIFE!

That’s when I heard a noise behind me. 

It sounded like a sandcastle being kicked over by an old man  coughing up his insides.

I turned round. And there, dragging itself out of its grave — the one I’d flicked the cigarette butt at — was a corpse.

I watched it make its progress, myself unable to move a muscle, as the cadaver laid one knee, and then another, on the ground next to its grave, before rising shakily to its feet. Dressed in what had no doubt been its favourite red dress during life, the corpse staggered in my direction. It — she — no, it — was perhaps three years gone. It was hard to gauge, having never actually seen a dead body before, least of all one walking around the land of the living like it owned the place. As she approached me, I saw my unfinished cigarette butt between her teeth.

She stopped just short of the wall, placed one semi-skeletal hand on the small of her back, used the other to remove the cigarette from her mouth, leaned back and disgorged a terrible, lung-rattling cough up into the starlit sky. Then she looked at me.

I tried to think of something to say, but could not.

“Fancy a drink, deary?” she spluttered.

“A-All right,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Think I could use one.”

We went to the Ship and Anchor pub, just down from the church and on the left. 

It crossed my mind how churches and pubs had been common features of towns and cities throughout the ages, but failed to make any other connection. Perhaps people needed God and beer.

She was slow at walking. Bits of her kept dropping off as we made our way downhill. As we passed the opening to the park, a couple of stray dogs threatened to take her leg off. A few people stopped and stared. One woman screamed. Someone, amusingly, shouted that we should call for an ambulance.

We sat at the bar, which had quickly emptied when we’d opened the door.

“What’ll it be?” asked Mick, glancing sideways at the woman-corpse-thing.

“I’ll have a large whatever comes to hand first,” I said.

“And for the,” he paused, “lady?”

“A G and T, my darling,” the corpse said, grinning. “Ice but no lemon, thank you.”

We consumed our drinks. I drank mine, she spilt hers everywhere. Mick wiped the bar.

Suddenly the door burst open. I turned round and saw my wife standing there, her face full of love and forgiveness. “Danny!” she cried, and ran towards me. “I’m sorry! I should never have told you how to live your life. Please come home, I hate it when we fight. I’ve got something for you.” 

She smiled that smile, and gave me a huge hug.

I'd tried to block her view, but she saw over my shoulder.

“Who’s THAT!” she yelled, jumping back, her face drained of blood.

I swallowed and shrugged. “I dunno. Just some broad I gave a cigarette.”

This and other daft stories and poems will appear in the anthology 'Hidden In The Old Stone Wall' coming soon (hopefully).

© Chris R Young 2021

The Missing 'Old Mice' Ratty Chapter

I had a feeling I was on thin ice, so I skated gingerly over to where Ratty Rathbone was standing near the edge of the rink selling dope to teenagers.

Scraping to a halt I showered them with shavings.

“What the —” Then he saw me and all the blood drained from his furry, narrow face.

“Hello, Ratty,” I grinned. “Betcha didn’t expect to be seein’ me here?” 

“J-Jake!” he stammered. “No, yeah, well, I didn’t know you could skate!” Ratty’s whiskers twitched sporadically. His long nostrils flared. A thin, pink tongue flickered over his protruding front teeth. Crumbs of cheese fell from his stubble when he ran a scrawny claw over his chin. His long, tan overcoat was crumpled and stained in contrast to the shiny new skates he’d rented, upon which he tottered precariously. For balance, his other hand was hooked on the barrier rail surrounding the rink.

The teenagers drifted away as soon as they saw me. Some of them were already pretty high. One as high as a kite.

“Whatcha sellin’ these days, Ratty,” I said, peering up at them. “Helium?”

“No, Jake, j-just the usual mix, ya know. Herbal really, for relaxation purposes. Helps them study. Some o’ these kids have stressful home lives.”

“Aww, you’re a real do-gooder community figure,” I said, patting his jowls.

“W-what can I do you for, Jake?” Ratty sniffed, his eyes darting hither and thither. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m here for some intel.” I watched the skaters of all ages, speeds and creeds whiz by in a clockwise direction. “What’s the lowdown on the Bayview Hotel?”

“The B-B-Bayview?!”

“You seem kinda nervous,” I growled. “Maybe you should take some o' your own medicine.”

“Aw, naw, Jake, I’m fine. It’s just that … every time you come around askin’ for info … well, somethin’ bad happens.”

“Come on, Ratty,” I said, gesturing around at the ice rink. “We’re in a wide open public space. What could possibly happen to you here?”

“Well,” he said, his tiny eyes like grains of salt burning through ice. “Okay. I guess. The Bayview Hotel is a hotel overlooking the bay.”

“No shit.”

“It was built in the 60s back in the boom years when racing car drivers and the like came down the coast rolling in dough. Then it got taken over by some shady new management and went downhill. Rumours of guests going missing didn’t help.”

“Rumours?”

“Yeah, nothin’ was ever proved but—”

“You sayin’ it’s haunted?”

Ratty sniggered, unable to hide the tone of hysteria which had crept in. A bit like the acrid stench of body odor his cologne was futilely charged with combatting. I could almost see the vapors rising from his tattered, ill-fitting garments. My eyes stung. “Naw, Jake, ha ha, that would be ridiculous.”

“You mentioned a take over.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, some shady new management, you said.”

His eyes darted about in a pitiful rendition of how they darted about a few minutes ago, except even more so. His tongue flickered over his dry, chapped lips. “It was a business venture run by a guy. Big, powerful. Dangerous.”

“Guy got a name?”

“Yeah,” Ratty gulped at the air like he had trouble breathing. “You’re not gonna believe this, it was Roger —”

We were interrupted when a huge, muscular slab of beef in a dark business suit shoved between us. He grunted, “‘Scuse me, ladies,” in a gruff voice and skated off, disappearing into the crowd.

When I returned my gaze to Ratty I found his expression had altered. 

His scrawny face, which had been flushed with the excitement of disclosure, had become ashen and drawn. He was looking down, one hand covering his abdomen. Red drips seeped through his fingers and dropped onto the white ice.

“Ratty?” I said. 

One knee buckled and I grabbed him by the shoulders, and then the other skate shot out from under him and he went down.

“Ah, shit.” I scanned the skaters but there was no sign of the hulking form that had pushed between us.

“Jake,” he muttered.

“Ratty,” I said. “The name. You were about to tell me the name. Roger who?”

“Jake,” he mumbled again. “Why? Life is so … futile …”

“No it ain’t Ratty, life is great. Now tell me the damn name!”

His head tipped sideways and his eyes half closed.

“Hell.” I stood up. “Medic!” I shouted. “We got a medic here?”

The skaters near us stared, gasped and cleared a space around us. A guy in white came running towards us from the direction of the office.

I knelt down. “It’s okay Ratty, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Cold,” he whispered. “So cold …”

With my number one informant and drug-dealer safely wheeled into an ambulance and whisked off to St Mary’s, I was free to continue my investigation. 

I figured the next stop was the Bayview Hotel.

Guests going missing? Guy called Roger? And who was the muscular giant who’d stabbed Ratty to shut him up? Was I being followed?

Ratty had given me more questions than answers.

And a desire to wash my nose out with disinfectant...

Many thanks to the team at West Lothian Writers for their valuable feedback on the above last night.

Read more of Jake Jones' 1st case The Old Mice Killer available on Amazon.