Snake Eyes

Mirrors are curious things. Monica's was no exception. It had started life in the Penny-Wise furniture shop on Frenton Street. Then, its reflections were fairly mundane and transitory, consisting of an uninterrupted view of three table legs, one wicker chair and the occasional browsing shin. That was until Monica caught her ankle on its splintered frame as she made a balletic attempt to inspect a rusting tumble drier, sandwiched between a Welsh dresser and a rather dubious mahogany fireplace.

        "Jee-sus!'' she screamed, rubbing her injured leg whilst hopping on the other one.

        ''Can I help you at all?'' enquired an elderly gentleman; wearing faded brown overalls complete with sawdust epaulets and paint-splash buttons.  ''Are you hurt?  Do you need assistance? Are you bleeding?''

        The questions flowed from his lips without waiting for answers. It was though he'd been rehearsing in private, and now that the curtains were up, he'd succumbed to stage fright and fluffed his lines. During the interrogation Monica backed into a table, brushed off the dust and sat down, tugging at the hem of her black micro mini which barely covered her thighs. She attempted to cross her legs, but a cast iron sewing machine prevented her from doing so.

        "This place is a bloody health hazard. How is anyone expected to find anything?  I only came in for a tumble drier and got assaulted by a...''

She paused, picking up the offending article...

        ''Poxy Mirror!''

        One of the gilt brackets at the top had captured a little tag of skin and stocking, which flapped as she waved it.

        "Please madam. That is a valuable Japanese lacquered mirror. It shouldn't be in here.'' May I?'' He shuffled towards her, shimmying through the slalom of jagged corners and jutting nails, with consummate ease. The note of urgency in the old man's voice, coupled with the speed at which he crossed the room unsettled Monica. Something tugged at a buried memory, something familiar. It was like a blind tasting, she recognised the flavour but not the food. Before it could crystallise, the shopkeeper snatched the mirror away, and began polishing it with a piece of rag he'd pulled from a deep front pocket.

        "Excuse me!'' she protested. If I'd only known it was a valuable antique, I wouldn't have bled all over it.” 

        He propped the mirror on his knee and continued polishing, with light deft strokes, stopping every now and then to breathe on the glass. The silence was punctuated by the oil-hungry squeal of the letter box followed by a dull thud on the doormat.  

        “Excuse me madam”, said the old man, bowing slightly. He carefully placed the freshly polished mirror in a vacant magazine rack before going to collect the mail. Monica decided against picking it up in case she lost a finger. She bent down to examine her injury and was relieved to discover a small triangular graze close to an old scar. She stroked it, feeling the ridge of dead skin under her fingertips and remembered how it had happened. She was about twelve or thirteen and was trying on a pair of her mother’s tights and high heels. She stood facing a full-length mirror admiring herself in rucked and wrinkled 20 denier, pursing her lips like a page three model. It was when she attempted a full 360 degree twirl that the pedals of a retired exercise bike found her ankles and left three deep lacerations. It wasn’t the stitches that frightened her, but the removal of the tights which were enmeshed with her own dried blood. Soaking only helped a little.

        “Right, where were we?” said the shopkeeper clutching a large brown envelope to his chest.

        “Tumble drier?”

        “No, sorry. We only sell Objet D’art and bric-a-brac. Try Henshaws four doors down.” He turned and started to walk away before Monica could answer.

        “Don’t worry your bald little head about me. I’m fine” she whispered, checking her makeup in the door of a small bathroom cabinet. She couldn’t be bothered to tell him she was leaning against a tumble drier, albeit a very ancient and corroded one. As she tried to fathom the best route out of the musty little death trap, she felt a cool draught at the back of her neck. The fire exit was propped open by an old washing machine and she slipped out before the old man could accuse her of loitering. While she tried to get her bearings she noticed the passage was lined with hundreds of old mirrors. It was like some vast looking glass graveyard.

        “There must be at least a thousand years of bad luck lying around?” Some of the mirrors looked antique, and, had it not been for the ravages of the British climate Monica was sure some of them might have been salvageable.

        “What a waste.” She said. “Mind you, perhaps the old git’s got a thing for old mirrors. When he gets bored with one it ends up here to rot with the rest of them.” She smiled, and saw the shape of a car bonnet flash accross the bottom of the alleyway. Her thoughts switched from mirrors to the hunt for a new, old tumble drier. What was the name of that place? Hentons? Hendons? Henshaws, that was it.

As she negotiated the bags of rubbish and discarded mirrors, her ankle started to sting a little. Instinctively, she bent down to see if the blood had super glued itself to her tights. It had. While she was down there, trying to tease the nylon away from her skin she noticed something glinting in the sunlight. Reaching over she pulled back a dirty plastic bag and saw it was the very same instrument of torture that had caused her injury. What’s it doing out here? He can’t be tired of it already? She lifted the deceptively heavy frame up to check it still held a piece of her ankle, which it did. He was right; the mirror was probably at least a hundred years old and lacked the flawless finish of modern, mass produced versions. Near the gold frame, some of the silvering had flaked off, which added to its appeal. Quickly, she wrapped it in the polythene bag and teetered out into the busy street, turning left instead of right to avoid the old man’s shop window. For a small mirror it was deceptively heavy, and the sharp wall brackets soon dug into her fingers.

Then another childhood memory chose to re-surface. This time she was twelve. It was cold and dark. Martin, her brother was walking in front of her. She could see the breath-smoke rising from his head as he talked.  They were carrying an old sash window, that weighed a ton. Martin kept assuring her they were nearly at the bonfire, and when they got there she could smash the window if she wanted to. She remembered thinking why on earth have I agreed to be his slave for the night? Then the agony in her fingers dragged her back to reality.

The tumble drier will have to wait, she thought. I’ll drop this off first, before I get a blister. Thankfully her flat was only three streets away. Each time someone walked past she experienced a strange rush of nervous excitement, as she imagined a cat burglar might, returning home with some priceless air loom tucked inside his tight leather jacket. Once inside the flat she unwrapped her swag and had a proper look at it. Monica loved the way the glass rippled slightly, like warm toffee, as well as the tiny air bubbles locked-in for over a century.  For someone so obsessed with her own physical appearance one might imagine her being repulsed by such an imperfect ornament. A quick scan around her spotless, minimalist flat would do nothing to suggest otherwise.

The frame was filthy, so she rubbed at it with the corner of a damp serviette. At first the stubborn grime refused to budge, but gradually a few patches of gold started to appear. She rubbed a little harder, and two tiny red dots emerged. They were smooth and hard, like beads or possibly drops of coloured lacquer. This fuelled her curiosity even more, so she decided to wheel out the big guns, in the form of an old tooth brush and a pan of hot soapy water. She’d read some article in Cosmopolitan or Country Life, during a fairly mediocre manicure, about restoring antiques. It cautioned against over cleaning, so she bit the bullet and soaked first before gently brushing off the dirt.

Each passing minute revealed another bit of the strange eastern design. If she held it one way it resembled a Chinese stylised Dragon, but if she turned it round it looked like a mythical sea monster coming up for air. She expected it to feel hard and unyielding to the touch, but it was almost like stroking the skin of a living reptile, slightly leathery and almost warm. Monica assumed it was warm because of the water, but when she dipped her finger in the pan, the liquid was stone cold.

She glanced up and saw a mobile phone vibrating its way along the edge of her glass coffee table. A well-timed lunge and grab stopped it from committing suicide on the polished parquet floor. Her friend Sophie’s face grinned back at her from the screen and Monica realised she was very late for her Wednesday Pilates class. Ordinarily she’d have taken the call and traded shopping stories with her, but for some reason she rejected it and went back to studying the mirror.

        “It’s only Pilates. Sophie will understand.” Said Monica, tracing her finger along the serpents body. By rotating the frame she realised it was composed of not one, but four monsters all chasing each other towards eternity, or their next meal, whichever came first.

        “Now, the next question is where to put you?” she said, pursing her lips. Only one of the four walls held any decoration. Gordon, an ex-boyfriend (who just happened to be an artist) had donated his own abstract landscape painting. Monica squinted at it, tilting her head slightly. She failed to see any of the ‘wanton desolation’ or ‘stark hopelessness’ he kept banging on about. She thought it looked more like someone attempting to cover up a crack in the wall with a gob of Polly filler. The only reason she’d agreed to put it there in the first place, was so as not to hurt his feelings, and because it was one of his much smaller works. Taking it down made her feel purged of any residual fondness for gorgeous Gordon.

        “Sophie will lap you up” she said, sliding the picture behind her white leather settee. Luckily, the hooks were still intact, as were the brackets on the back of the mirror.

        “Your next mission Monica, should you decide to accept it is to hang the bloody thing up.” The words were spoken in her best Sean Connery Glaswegian accent, which, on reflection she felt was a little too Rab C Nesbitt.

        “Now Gordon, where did you leave my stepladder?” she said, walking from room to room, randomly opening doors and cupboards like a lazy house burglar. In the bedroom, feeling very irritated by her own lack of practical know how, she fell onto the King Sized divan, shouting swear words into the goose down pillow and beating her tiny fists on the duvet. Once the tantrum was over she jumped off the bed, grabbed her faux Louis XIII chair from under the secretaire and dragged it behind her like a spoilt child dragging a well-loved teddy bear.

        “How hard can it be?” she said, placing the chair under the marble fireplace and stepping gingerly onto the hand-stitched upholstery. By standing on tip-toe she could just touch the wall mounting.

        “Hmmm, I need more height. I wonder?” She rocked the chair backwards and forwards until it started to jump a few inches. Eventually, it became wedged under the mantelpiece. From there she used the back struts as a rudimentary ladder and climbed up onto the fireplace. Even though she’d used her new found initiative in assuming the role of handyman there was a fatal flaw in her approach. Unless, by some miracle she’d suddenly become Mary Poppins, no amount of frantic waving would cause the mirror to fly up into her hands.

        “Bloody hell!” she shouted, almost losing her balance on the polished Carrera marble. Then, calmly, with her back to the wall she narrowed her eyes, did a slow neck roll, took a deep breath and dived off the mantelpiece. Three seconds before she made the decision to jump something happened to the mirror. One of the lacquered serpent’s red eyes began to glow, like the standby light on a TV. At the very same time, Monica experienced a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach which spread upwards into her chest and arms. She suddenly felt as though she could do anything she wanted, and what she wanted to do right that very second was take flight.

If someone, say for arguments sake her friend Sophie, had popped over for a chat and had had the foresight to capture the moment on film, she might have dismissed Monica’s blood-red eyes as a common photographic anomaly. Alas there was no Sophie, no camera and no anomaly. Monica’s eyes burned with the same intensity as the serpents, right up to the point she should have landed on the settee’s soft leather cushions. Instead, her confidence vanished at the exact moment the fire in both sets of eyes went out. She overshot it by three feet, hitting the back wall head on.  Monica’s neck snapped, like someone breaking a fistful of spaghetti.

A few minutes later, her phone vibrated again and Sophie’s smiling face appeared. When it stopped buzzing an altogether different sound took over. Sophie, or for that matter Monica may have said it sounded like a dried face-pack cracking, possibly because of uncontrollable laughter or a deep frown.

One of the serpents circling the frame began to swell, as though someone was slowly inflating it. The tail thickened and twitched as it grew. Then the jaws began to rise like a pair of minute bellows drawing life into the creature. It shed it’s man-made skin of gold paint and varnish, revealing a glistening jade green body stamped with black diamonds. It lifted its head and tasted the air with a flicking pink arrow and slithered off its wooden prison. As it skidded over the mirror, it hissed at it’s own reflection and went in search of its first proper meal in a very long time.

The intercom buzzed twice, stopped and then buzzed again. The small black and white monitor above the phone flickered into life revealing a young woman standing next to the security gate waving frantically at the camera. Then Monica’s phone vibrated into life, and from behind the sofa the serpent lifted its head and hissed loudly as if to say “go away, can’t you see I’m busy!”       

Jenny's Sledge

On the first day it snowed very heavily and very quickly, as though the snow itself had something to prove. On the second day it wasn’t quite so keen, and by the third it was very much an ‘Oh, do I have to’ sort of affair, when anyone could count each lonely snowflake – if they felt that way inclined.

Professor Medwin (the third) did exactly that. He laid out an enormous black ‘snow catcher’ on his five acre field and sat up all night with a hot flask of rum and coffee counting flakes. When he got to three thousand he lost his voice and fell asleep, and was soon dreaming about receiving some big flashy award in the shape of a giant gold snowflake.

Most of the children in the little village of Meedham were all snowed out. They’d thrown snowballs till their fingers were numb and made so many snowmen and women that they outnumbered the villagers two to one. The one thing they hadn’t done was sledge.

It wasn’t as though there was a shortage of hills, or snow for that matter. It was mainly because of the ‘incident with the Lord Mayor’ which meant that all sledging was banned for the next five years. Anyone caught with a car inner tube or a tea tray would have it taken away and placed in an empty police cell until after the ban. There were even sledge police who patrolled the village in hollowed out snowmen disguises, so they could spy on any would-be sledgers with super-powered binoculars and beefed-up microphones

They were quite easy to spot, with radio aerials poking out the top of their round snowy heads and large glass eyes that blinked in the winter sunshine. Even ‘accidental sledging’ was frowned upon, and children and old people were encouraged to wear huge heated boots that hissed when they walked, leaving large steaming footprints wherever they went.

That was four years ago.

Jenny was exactly twelve years old and had never even seen a sledge. She’d seen home videos of her Brother Albert sledging down Bandstand Hill with Mum and Dad. She always paused the film at the bit where Alby shot through some old guy’s legs and scattered a group of people like skittles. Even though she knew what was coming she still roared with laughter and pushed her nose into the TV Screen when he ploughed into the small crowd.

Dad had promised to build her the best sledge in the world, once the ban was lifted. She even bought a special ‘1 year to go’ calendar so she could cross of the remaining days with a thick red marker pen. Today was day number 350, and she felt 15 days was ample time to build a super-fast, show-stopping sledge. After seventy four pleases fourteen car washes and countless dog walking, he finally gave in.

            “I’m gonna get a sle-edge, I’m gonna get a sle-edge” sang Jenny, doing that ‘stirring with a large wooden spoon’ victory dance that girls of a certain age like to do. Meanwhile, her father started thumbing through the yellow pages for flat-pack sledges. It turned out there weren’t any such businesses and even those companies that did do flat pack furniture hadn’t got anything remotely sledge like. It was no good; he’d have to go round all the second hand shops in the village and look for an old sledge to do up. How hard could it be? A pot of varnish, some rust remover and a few new screws would surely transform any creaking, wonky death-trap into a sleek snow-lovin missile.

The huge ‘DO NOT DISTURB – MASTER SLEDGE BUILDER AT WORK’ sign, propped up against the garage doors only made things worse. Instead of acting as a deterrent it turned his daughter into a proper ‘Peeping Jenny’.

            “Da-ad, is it finished yet? I think the snow’s melting.” Inside, Dad sat in his old battered armchair banging a plank of wood with the head of a broken hammer, sighing heavily.  

            “Not quite Jen. You don’t want me to rush and spoil it do you?” Jenny’s face hatched another frown, and she kicked at the snow.

            “Spose not. I don’t mind if it’s not the best sledge in the world. The second best will do fine – honest.” This made her father’s voice change from a confident deep baritone to a rather strained tenor.

On day 364 Jenny could hardly contain herself. In terms of nervous excitement, Christmas Day was a walk in the park compared to this. Each time she tried to steer her Dad towards the ‘big unveil’ he steered her back to safer territory like cute boys and X-Factor. In the end, her mum beat her to the punch line.

            “For heaven’s sake Roger, is it finished or not? The forecast says it’s going to turn to slush by Friday.” Roger winced at the mention of the ‘S’ word and waited for Jenny’s reaction.

            “Slush! Slush! If it melts I’m going to live with Candice. Her Dad’s built her and her brother a sledge each. And they’re convinced theirs are the 2 fastest toboggans in Meedham.” She glared at her Dad before storming out of the room. Roger felt like the Grinch who’d stolen Christmas and Easter. He decided to take the dog for a long walk, so he could think what to do next.

Brinks, the podgy Labrador was already on his third dream and had to be tipped out of his giant padded life-raft. Roger clipped on his extendable lead and dragged him out of the house. The night was cold and clear and the moon looked so big and so near that he almost ducked underneath it as he closed the front door. He liked this time of day. The roads were quiet. He also liked sneaking a peek through the windows of the houses as he trudged along. Brinks was slowly coming out of unconsciousness and began sniffing his favourite yellow snow. Roger realised he hadn’t got any poop bags in his pocket, so every time Brinks approached a lamp post he yanked him away.

On the edge of the village he decided to walk as far as the canal and come back via the new gated estate, so he could check the football scores on the big plasma tellies. He passed a large Skip and Brinks started doing that ‘special walk’ that all dog owners dread.

            “Brinks! No! Not here! It was too late, Brinks meant business. After an awkward thirty seconds with lots of whistling and pacing, Brinks scratched a hole through the snow and started pulling like a homesick Husky. Roger almost fell over, and steadied himself on the top of the skip. As he stood up he noticed something sticking out from under a large plaster board. He tilted his head sideways and couldn’t make his mind up whether it was a rocking chair or a… He leaned in a little closer. It was a sledge. A very old, rusty sledge, but a sledge nonetheless. By now, Brinks was straining and grunting and Roger was almost pulled off his feet.

            “Brinks! Stop that!” The tension in the lead relaxed a bit, and Brinks sat down. Roger had a quick look around to check no-one was about, before hauling the sledge out of the skip. It was definitely a two-seater and had the words DAVOS painted in black along both runners. He placed it on the snow and tied the dog lead to the front.

            “Mush Brinks! Mush!” Brinks looked back over his shoulder, his tongue fell out the corner of his mouth and he lay down.

            “Come on Brinks. Home!” This seemed to do the trick. Brinks heaved himself up and started walking. Roger thought he’d better not sit on the sledge in case Brinks had a heart attack, so he walked alongside, kicking the runners to get it back on track. The grooves left by the sledge slowly changed from rust to beige, until by the time they reached the house they were standard snow colour. Roger also noticed that he didn’t have to steer the sledge as often and it glided almost noiselessly across the icy pavements. In fact a couple of times it went so fast it hit Brinks up the bottom, making him yelp with surprise.

Roger picked the sledge up and was amazed how light it was, as though the journey home had burned off a few woody calories.  He placed it on the garage floor behind his armchair, and closed the heavy doors. Tomorrow he would assess the damage. With any luck, by lunchtime Jenny would be shooting down Bandstand hill like it was her very own Cresta Run. 

That night neither Roger nor Jenny slept very well. Every time Roger turned to the right Jenny turned to the left, like very bad synchronised snoozers. At 6am they met on the landing, muttered ‘morning’ to each other, before going their separate ways.

Roger left a note on the kitchen table. It said:

IN GARAGE WAXING RUNNERS – WOULD LOVE A COFFEE AND 2 ROUNDS OF TOAST AT 10AM. P.S NO PEEKING JENNY.

In the daylight the rescued sledge looked even better. It was a vintage wooden toboggan fixed together with wooden dowels. The only none wooden bits were two strips of polished steel riveted to the runners. The varnish had flaked off here and there, but that could be easily fixed. Roger opted for a more modern, distressed finish and scrubbed the whole thing with a coarse wire brush.

For some reason, Brinks had decided to follow Roger into the garage and if he didn’t know any better he was sure the dog looked a little slimmer.

            “It must be all that pulling you did last night boy”. He gave Brinks a friendly pat on the head and set the sledge down on the ground. “I think my work here is done Brinks.” The dog went over to the sledge, sniffed it, growled and then barked once before backing away.

            “What’s up lad, can you smell another dog?” Brinks was out of the garage before Roger had finished speaking. He threw an old towel over his new baby and went to find Jenny and her Mother. He didn’t have to go far, as they were standing outside the garage comforting Brinks, who was whimpering softly.

            “Right, said Roger. Would the Meedham Ladies Bobsleigh team care to inspect their new beast?” He opened both doors and gestured for them to follow. With a rather tuneless trumpet fanfare and his best bullfighters flourish he swished back the towel.

            “Da-da!” Jenny ran forward and immediately sat on it, jamming both her feet into the upward curve of the runners.

            “It’s big isn’t it Mum?” Her mother smiled, folded her arms and raised both eyebrows.

            “Where d’you get it? Junk shop or Skip?”

            “I, I … found it in a skip, near the canal. It was in a terrible state. I had to virtually rebuild it and make all the dowels…” The look on mum’s face had ‘pull the other one’ written all over it. Jenny was too busy negotiating imaginary obstacles on her maiden run to notice the parental stand-off. She didn’t see her Dad placing an index finger to his lips, or Mum unfolding her arms to give Roger a grade 1 hug.

            “We need some string, on the front. So I can pull Davos along” said Jenny, getting off the sledge and running her fingers over the name on the side. Her Dad did another, quieter ‘da-da!’ and produced a pair of pink leather bootlaces tied together. He looped the ends around the runners and carried it out of the garage. As soon as the runners hit snow Jenny was away, up the drive, pulling her sledge and whistling  

            “You’d better get after her, Master Sledge Builder.” Roger mimed ‘thank you’ and started running. He finally caught up with her as she rounded the bend near the police station. All the policemen were in the garden having a big bonfire. Jenny wasn’t quite old enough for irony, but she still thought it odd to see them throwing Snowmen into the flames, and doing a sort of weird fist-pumping war dance.

            “I can’t see many sledges”. Said her Dad, slightly out of puff.

            “I must have scared them off.” Said Jenny, laughing. A few minutes later they both realised why there weren’t any sledges in the streets. 

At the entrance to Meedham Park they could see Bandstand Hill covered with people, most of them pulling sledges. There were home-made sledges, plastic car-shaped sledges, sledges in the shape of animals, as well as padded bin bags and old tea trays. Presiding over this ‘Sledge Fest’ was the Mayors number two. The Mayor didn’t want to tempt fate and risk another repeat ‘incident’ so he barked orders at the little man through a megaphone from the safety of his swanky limousine.

Jenny and Roger made it to the top of the hill just as the Deputy snipped the red ribbon strung between the bandstand and a large oak tree.

            “Happy sledging!” shouted the deputy. His good wishes were drowned out by the deafening sound of two hundred excited children and parents all screaming “Go!” Jenny and her Dad squeezed onto Davos and started scooting along using their feet. Whether it was their combined weight or the fact there was a slight incline before the crest, who knows. By the time they got to the down slope, most of the sledges were being pulled back up for a second run. Jenny felt silly inching down the hill in her two man hearse and snatched the laces off her Father when she got to the bottom.

            “This is not how I imagined it!” she said, marching back up the hill without him.

            “You go on your own. I’ll wait here with my camera and capture your big finish.” Jenny wasn’t listening. She felt so embarrassed she could almost taste it. When she did get to the top, Candice and her brother Charles were waiting for her.

            “What sort of stupid name is Davos?” said Candice, pointing at Jenny’s sledge.

            “Is it Swedish for loser”, said Charles, moulding a fresh snowball.

            “Actually it’s in Switzerland and is Europe’s highest town.” Where did that come from? Thought Jenny as she lined Davos up next to the ‘smug twins’. She bent down to tie her laces, and when she stood up Davos had slid sideways off the crest of the hill, coming to rest underneath the oak tree.

            “Fancy a race?’’ said Candice, grinning like an idiot.

            “Just you and me then” said Jenny. She looked over to where Davos had stopped.            “I’ll start over there, if that’s ok with you?”

            “Start where you like. I’ll see you at the bottom.” Candice pushed past Charles and jumped onto her sledge, lying face down. She ordered her brother to give her a push start. Jenny hadn’t time to call her a rotten cheat. She ran down to Davos and did her own running start. The sledge hardly moved at first, sinking into the deep snow, and Jenny had to do a sort of swimming action to get any movement at all. Meanwhile Candice had just disappeared from view and was already flying down the hill.

            “Come on Davos! You can do it”. As soon as Jenny placed her hands back on the sledge something very strange happened. She felt as though the sledge was rising up through the snow. As it started to lift, the speed increased. The loud creaking stopped and was replaced by a sort of soft whishing sound, like the sound the reeds made next to the canal when a light breeze blew in. Jenny glanced over at Candice, who was still way in front. Then, she felt a jolt in her back and had to hang on for dear life. The whishing stopped and all Jenny could see were the other sledges going backwards. She felt the icy wind pushing against her face, and for one brief moment she thought she might break free from the ground altogether.

Her father didn’t press the shutter on his camera phone, because he never saw her. He did see a red blur fly past him and thought it was just a piece of the giant ribbon blown by the wind. Jenny came to a stop half way up the next hill and rolled off Davos, breathing hard. She gazed up into the blue sky, until the face of her Father loomed over the top of her.

            “Did, did you get me?” said Jenny, smiling broadly, her hands still frozen in the    ‘hanging on position’.

            “Erm, I think so.”

            “Well did you or didn’t you?” Roger felt a shiver run down his spine because Jenny sounded just like her mother.

            “Not really”, said Roger sheepishly. Jenny got to her feet, brushed the snow off herself and looked back up the hill. She looked first left and then right. Where are my tracks? She thought. Her Dad was busy examining Davos. He was ninety nine per cent positive he hadn’t varnished it. He gleamed, like a brand new, fresh out of the wrapper sledge. The painted lettering along the side looked almost wet. The runners shimmered like polished silver and Roger thought he could smell fresh Pine resin.

Candice slunk into view, shook Jenny’s hand and slunk away, muttering something about ‘a fix’. Jenny didn’t pay her much attention. She just gazed back up the hill with her mouth open and pointed. The last few flakes of snow slowly turned first to sleet and then rain.

When everyone else had gone, the only people left at the bottom of Bandstand Hill were Jenny and her father, sitting silently next to each other on Davos. Both of them were staring back up the hill as patches of grass started to appear through the grey slush.

The rain was falling quite heavily now, and the Mayors Limo glided past with the back window down.

            “It’s raining you know. Haven’t you got a home to go to?” No one answered. Neither Roger nor Jenny seemed that bothered by the downpour. They just stared up the steep hill, looked at each other and smiled. 

Weir Thoughts

It began with a slow freezing

My emotions frostbitten 

into unfeeling.

Robots have it easy

doing but not knowing.

Repetition till extinction

I, on the other hand

stopped on the 1^st of August 2006

pronounced dead by my wife

who could not smell the decay

until it was too late.

She propped me up

And doused me in compassion

Before hauling my body out of bed

Like some bad tempered ventriloquist.

 I remember seeing her mouth

Shouting obscenities.

So much spit in the words

Stupid! and shit!

Hot tears sliding off my chin

All I could think of

Was one question

searing my mind like

An SAS make or break

Interrogation.

Does some water never leave the weir?

© Simon Daniels

The Fifth

Last night, bonfires blazed

While rockets dizzied the stars.

Today, all is grey and forgotten.

A bored child kicks at a charred Guy

And slits open the spent skin

Of a Roman candle.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/groups/northstaffordshire/news/340309/

The North Staffs branch of the RSPB have produced a book of poetry celebrating local wildlife. I'm one of the contributors. If you'd like a copy please click on the link and hey-presto.

Cheers

P.S I don't normally do plugs or links, but in this case it's a writing plug, so, what the hell. Take it or leave it.

P.P.S Please.

Shop Talk

Shop Talk (1)

Due to popular demand, (an old lady who breezed in to the shop, failed to rent anything and said I should be a writer) I have decide to distill, condense and generally compress the funnier conversations, incidents and observations into a weekly blog-type format. So here goes :-

 Thursday

All quiet until about 7pm, whereupon a couple came into the shop arguing about which dvd to select. The woman, an elfin be-pierced beauty, smelling like a 10 stone bath-bomb, demanded that her lust for blood be satisfied, or as she put it "What ave you got with ghosts and lots of blood in?" As she uttered these words I noticed her eyes brighten and both fists clench. Her roaming, gawky partner tutted loudly and shook his head. I dread customers who ask my opinion on must-see Horror flicks. My stock answer is something along the lines of  "I'm afraid I don't watch much horror, but this is a popular rental." At this point I select a film at random and wave it around a bit. "Seen it." replied the elf, crouching down to peruse the older films. Clearly out of my filmic comfort zone I clutch at straws, churning out titles like a captured soldier, fearing imminent torture. While she rummages, he grabs two of the latest releases and slams them down on the counter. "Come on, we haven't got time for this!" he barks, thrusting a fiver in my direction. I ask for his membership details and deposit the warm, crumpled note in the till. The woman stands up, takes the two films and glares at the man, hand on hip. "Not these again. I don't know why we get two anyway. You always fall asleep before the end." I smile like an unpaid Marriage Guidance Counsellor and they both leave.


There are two types of housefly - Those that buzz in through an open window at speed, do a quick reccy of the place and then leave. The other type, those locked-in, lazy, brazen, blighters that crawl over every surface, probably realising  their wings are now redundant. A swarm of these has taken over the shop. I attempt to ambush them with all manner of swatting implements - newspapers, flip-flops, tea-towels and all of my limbs, without success. They are probably the most fragrant insects on the planet, relishing the clouds of choking Febreze that I spray at them. Their favourite haunt is my laptop screen. Whether it's the warmth that attracts them, or the bright images I'm unsure. They even have the temerity to pause, clean their wings and legs while my quivering hand hovers inches above them. Enough is enough!Tomorrow, I'm going to buy some runny honey and lure them to a sticky end.  Do flies like honey?

More Roaches Pics

A few more pics of the Roaches, taken  a couple of years ago.

Far Off Sadness

 

This far-off sadness

Waits on a hill, until it sees

My burning house

Then it runs

Like a mother would

Towards the flames

Screaming my name

Over and over 

Poem Pigeon Share an existing poem

Poem Pigeon Share an existing poem

Poem Pigeon Share an existing poem

Poem Pigeon Share an existing poem

Basic (To any members of Jee Troop reading this, I apologise in advance for any inacuracies and embelishments)

On a cold February morning, as I trudged up the steep, winding dirt track towards Keogh Barracks, carrying an enormous suitcase, I was grateful for sticking at the bodybuilding. I stopped briefly to switch hands and noticed someone had thoughtfully daubed ‘This way to Hell’ on an old public footpath sign, so we wouldn’t get lost.

As the path opened out I could see several recruits ahead of me. They too were stopping at various intervals to switch hands and re-check their joining papers. I wondered what had brought them to this point in their lives. Looking back to those ‘army barmy’ times I can only recall fragments of my 18 week basic training. As I write this I’m studying 2 group photos – one taken in civilian clothes on the first day and one in No. 2 dress uniform at the passing out parade. In the 'before' picture we are arranged in two lines of 16, one kneeling one standing. There’s a slight kink in the line at recruit number 10 where the ground fell away slightly. From what I can see, there are only two smilers, one grinner and 29 scowlers. This was obviously meant to be a serious passport style photo, one of the ‘say cheese and you die’ variety.

I’m bursting out of my light grey sports jacket on the back row with a German helmet haircut, dense eyebrow foliage and Arab moustache. My expression looks pensive with a hint of nervousness. I never dared commit myself to a full-blown toothy smile, on account of my overcrowded mouth and misaligned molars.

In the ‘after’ shot it’s difficult to see who’s who in the strip of khaki wallpaper with its repeating pattern of caps and crossed arms. I look a shade thinner with a more Mexican influenced moustache, and I’m definitely happy to be free - at last.

The period in between photographs was painful, exhausting and mind numbingly repetitive. The only way to survive all the relentless humiliations and spit-in-the-face interrogations was to switch your mind to a sort of closed-off autopilot setting. I took to reciting elegiac poetry and making up limericks about the abusive corporals and sergeants.

      “Private Daniels, are those salt stains on your DMS boots?” screamed a corporal, so close I could tell he’d eaten a curry the night before.

      There was a young corporal named skinner

      “Yes corporal. I mean no corporal.” I didn’t know what the fuck I meant.

      “Well, what is it, yes or no?”

      Who always looked forward to dinner

      “Yes corporal.” I braced myself for the onslaught.

      “Yes!”

      “I perspire heavily corporal.”

      He scoffed new recruits like raw bamboo shoots

      “Is that right?

      “Yes corporal.” Each reply was a shovel full closer to completing my own shallow grave

      No wonder he’s fatter not thinner.

My sleep-deprived brain wasn’t terribly adept at multi-tasking, so I stopped composing limericks and just ad-libbed myself into even more trouble.

      “When did you last have a neck shave Private Daniels?” enquired the C.O in a slightly feminine voice.

      “Half an hour ago” I replied, looking at the wall clock. Corporal Skinner stepped in at this point.

      “Next time stand closer to the fucking razor!” No curry breath this time, just lots of decibels.

I must have marched half way round the world, shuttling between guardroom and barrack room. The fun didn’t stop there though. At the end of every high speed march were certain specially selected cleaning duties for me to perform. My top three - in ascending order of excruciation were:

1

.. Brasso’ing the aluminium dustbin (which had first been thoughtfully kicked across the parade ground)

2. Cutting the guardroom lawn using a pair of child’s plastic nail scissors

3. Sweeping the parking space in front of the guardroom with a toothbrush.

These were the military equivalent of doing lines. Personally, I’d have preferred to write ‘I will not answer back’ until my fingers bled.

The coup de grace was losing my I.D card, which was historically a court Marshall Offence. I was shown some leniency by the C.O. who commuted my sentence to a week’s R.O.P ‘s (restriction of privileges)and 2 weeks cleaning duties.

Basic training wasn’t all bad. The R.A.M.C. motto, In Arduis Fidelis means Steadfast in Adversity. My band of brothers and I did share many unifying and uplifting experiences born out of adversity and misery. Any smart arses and determined loners were given short shrift before being read the riot act. Thankfully they were identified and weeded out quite early on.

It might sound corny, harping on about lasting friendships forged during difficult times. Soldiers sent to war zones such as Afghanistan or Iraq depend on each other for their lives every single day, and I would imagine unspoken kinships and loyalties probably last a lifetime.

There’s also nothing like a bit of extreme team torture to bring out heroes and shirkers. One such torture was the team log run, which took place in the penultimate week of training. It was a competitive 6 mile race over three infamous sand hills with a long flat sprint at the end. We’d gotten very 'up close and personal' with the 3 hills in question over the preceding 16 weeks - a little too much déjà vu for my liking.

On the day in question we were marched up to the start and split into teams of six. The logs were smooth telegraph poles complete with six hemp handles tied round the trunk. You could either run with the log at knee height, or as our team chose to do, balanced on shoulders. Neither method was fool proof. Arms and shoulders come in all lengths and heights. For us, it was a little like high speed coffin bearing with the tallest runners (me included!) taking most of the weight. The strap holders risked getting dislocated shoulders and sprained wrists.

Teamwork was paramount. Every few hundred yards the front runners disengaged and went to the rear to change shoulders or hands. A corporal ran alongside each team, shouting choice words of encouragement such as “drop off the log and I’ll kick your sorry fucking arse all the way back to camp”. If he spotted anyone ducking underneath, they were immediately sent to the front and beasted to oblivion. Beasting is an army term for verbal and/or physical abuse. There was a lot of beasting that day.

Without any shoulder padding, the accumulative effects of a half-ton log bouncing up and down were agonising. After 4 miles I could feel blood running down my arms. I’ve never heard so much profane encouragement in all my life. With every step the log felt heavier and more cumbersome, and our shouting got louder and more insistent. I only glanced back once, half expecting to see bodies littering the track, with the end of the log ploughing a sandy furrow.

Amazingly, we won the race and also set a new course record, although in retrospect, I think this announcement was a device to make us feel better. When I rolled the log off my shoulder   I couldn’t help but notice something glinting in the sunshine, surrounded by a large dark stain. On closer inspection I could see this was the tip of a six inch nail. 28 years later, the two inch scar is still there. I wonder if the nail was ever completely hammered in.

Our rivals in the log run were Russell Troop, a slightly smaller but no less determined group of soldiers. Once we’d passed out of basic training and were given our postings for the next year I met and befriended an ex- Russell troop private called Willis Pigeon. Willis was a softly spoken, old fashioned soul who still believed in practising out-dated courtesies such as standing up when a lady entered or exited the room. A Glaswegian accent is difficult to decipher at the best of times, a murmuring Glaswegian is virtually unintelligible. Willis was five-foot-six in his DMS boots with forearms like a mechanic. He had the largest penis I’d ever seen outside of a farmyard. The first time I clapped eyes on it in the communal showers I almost fell over my tongue. It was as thick as a coke bottle and hung just below his knee. During our pupil nurse training at Cambridge Military Hospital the legend of ‘Willis the Willy’ soon permeated the forbidden walls of the Q.A’s living quarters. This may have been helped by a Polaroid snap of Willis (taken by me) doing a spot of naked ironing, which I pinned to their notice board with the message Any Takers, scribbled underneath.

News travels fast in an army hospital and pretty soon women started giggling, whispering and staring during mealtimes. The more brazen QA’s slipped filthy love notes under his plate as they walked past. One gigantic woman even offered to pay five pounds just to see the extra limb. I volunteered to act as pimp, but Willis wasn’t interested. He regularly undersold himself and became embarrassed whenever we brought it up over a can of lager in the mess. I jokingly asked if he’d mind donating a few inches so that I could have it grafted onto my sorry specimen. This made him laugh, but at the end of the day, a no is still a no.

Willis was forced to take early retirement because some nameless numpty in a white coat failed to diagnose exercise induced asthma during a pre-selection medical. It was only picked up after he collapsed and almost died during a BFT in Hong Kong. He was bitterly disappointed at the time, but since leaving the army he jokingly refers to his army pension as his ‘army asthma allowance’.

I firmly believe I was attracted to people who were everything I wasn’t. At school, Nick Burden was a handsome, confident lothario; I found it hard to even talk to women. Steve Davies was a fearless pugilist; I ran away from other peoples fights. Willis could pole vault his way into bed; while my own diminutive ‘trouser treasure’ looked like a walnut whip rescued from the floor of a barbers shop. Out of all my friendships and acquaintances Mickey Reynolds (a fellow police cadet) was the only one who didn’t have something I envied or coveted, and he died before I could say thank you. 

Back on the Trail

I recently made the decision to return to running after a 17yr absence. I dug out some old running shoes, donned my best black and green Lycra ensemble and power-walked to the start of a local disused railway line, away from the prying eyes of local wolf whistlers and wise crackers. I did a few token toe-touches and thigh stretches before setting off along the track like a getaway driver, minus the car. At first things felt OK. My legs seemed to be working in unison. I discovered my piston-like arms performing a sort of high speed milking action. I’d spoken too soon. The ground suddenly felt like iron under my garish red trainers and I started to feel twinges of pain in knees, ankles and hips. Above the waist, my breathing became laboured and noisy. It was as though my lungs had OCD and were spring-cleaning themselves to oblivion. Then, I had the urge to simultaneously spit and blow my nose, which no dog-walker or innocent passer-by should have to witness at nine am on a Monday morning, especially when the source of the explosions also attempts a hearty “Good morning, nice day?”

As I spat, snorted, wheezed and hobbled forwards I glanced at my watch and noticed only five minutes had elapsed. The tree-lined track closed around me like a cruel winter mirage and I felt death was following close behind, scything the cold air with each leaden footfall. With all these alarm bells going off in my brain you’d think I’d have stopped and walked home, but no, something inside me refused to give up. Thirty years fell away and I was back in the army, running with the RAMC cross country team across the infamous ‘three hills’ of Ash Vale Ranges. While one side of my brain enjoyed this latent memory, the other shouted at me to ‘just give up!’ Before I could make a decision something amazing and magical began to happen. My heart, which had been trying to exit my chest like a mini jack-hammer, started to slow down as did my rapid gasps. The throbbing pain inside my head also dulled and the hot needles in both legs cooled a little. This forced me to check the time and I discovered another ten minutes had gone. I wondered if there were any other born-again joggers out there who’d hit the five minute wall and survived.

Up ahead, I could see the end of the trail. The miniature railway sounded its high-pitched whistle and a small group of ramblers were preparing to walk towards me. Like a seasoned pro, I slowed to a crawl and stopped, leaning nonchalantly against the metal barriers, as 30 or so elderly walkers nodded and smiled. I’d done it. My first run in 17 years. Now, all I had to do was come back tomorrow morning and see if this wasn’t a fluke. Somebody once told me “The human body has no memory for pain”. For my sake, let’s hope so…..

The Visitor (Chapter 1)

                                     

         

                                 

Chapter 1

          It was raining so hard at number thirty-three, Matthew had to declare the fourth 'Raindrop Derby' a none starter. Phoebe was cheating as usual, banging the window pane with her tiny fists and saying "come on old nag!'' as the trickles of water ran sideways off the glass, and not across the finish line, drawn with mums best lipstick.

          It had started off ok, with Matthew shouting "Place your bets, place your bets!'' wearing dad's brown velvet cap and chewing on Granddad's old pipe. But the soft summer rain had decided to stir things up a little by changing into a flash flood, so the race had to be called off.

          "Where's Gro and Nana? Said Phoebe, climbing down from the big green cushion that filled the bay window. ''Are they downstairs?''

          "Dunno,’’ replied Mat, licking his tongue out to see the black goo he'd sucked from the old burnt pipe.  ‘‘Tastes like that cough stuff mum gives us.''

          "Yee-uck'', said Phoebe, shaking her head. ''Mines nice and pink, look!'' With that she produced her own stain-free model and waggled it at Mat. "Don't forget to wipe off the lipstick, or mum will find out what we've been doing.''

          Mat spat on the window and rubbed at the greasy streak with the cuff of dad's sports coat.

          "No probs Phee, it's all gone. See?'' pointing at the bottom of the window, now smeared with brown and pink swirls. Phoebe stopped shuffling towards the bedroom door in the great blue shoe boats, borrowed from Granny and glanced over her shoulder.

          "Looks like sick,'' she said, throwing the pink feather boa round her neck and sniffing the air like a proper snob. Mat blew out his cheeks and frowned, writing MAT WOZ ERE underneath his masterpiece.

          "Race you downstairs'' he said, diving off the window ledge and onto the double bed, like a midget stunt man.

          

He was  already through the door and half way across the landing when he heard Phoebe scream "Cheat'', tucking the boa into her knickers, like braces, and kicking off her shoes.  At the top of the stairs she leaned over and threw one at Mat who was already on the second flight. It missed him by inches, bouncing off Kes the sleeping Labrador, who made a funny grunting noise, raising his snout to sniff the blue missile.

          "I wasn't ready!'' she yelled, poking her blonde head through the banisters, while Tigger the Ginger Tom peered up at her from the ground floor.

          "Tough!” said Mat, bursting into the lounge and skating along the polished wooden floor until the sheepskin rug in front of the gas fire finally stopped him.

          "Gra...'' his voice was cut short, as he noticed both Gran and Granddad were dozing on the sofa. They lay together like two sunbathing sea lions; Granny's face squashed up against granddad's brown woollen shoulder so that her cheek moved like an accordion when she breathed.

          Dropping onto all fours, he padded over to the leather settee that creaked and squeaked as he got nearer. Just then, Phoebe hurtled into the room, pin balling off the wall by the door, and flopped into an empty armchair.

          "Shh,'' said Mat, dividing his mouth with a finger. ''I think they're asleep.'' 

          "Why are they grinning like that if they're asleep?'' she whispered, rocking the red tasselled pillow in her arms like a new-born baby.

          "Must be sharing' the same dream,'' said Mat. ''Dad says old people do that sometimes, to save energy. I think they're putting' in some practice for upstairs.'' As he spoke he raised his eyes roof-wards.

          "What, in mum and dad's bedroom?'' said Phoebe, following Mats' gaze and looking slightly puzzled.

          "No numpty, heaven.  Dad says old people slow down as they get older, like motor cars. He says Granddad's bin round the clock at least two or three times.  That's why Granny knits tea cosies and Grandpa falls asleep in front of the telly. They're winding down.''

          "How d'you know they aren't dead?” Asked Phoebe, scowling. "On our sofa!''

          "Get real!'' said Mat, pushing his nose up close to smell a grey trousered leg. He turned to Phoebe, his mouth wide open, a button nose wrinkled up.

          "You look like Tigger when he sniffs the Turkey’s bum”, giggled Phoebe, crossing both hands over her mouth to muffle the laughter.

          Mats face cracked a smile, and he promptly scampered around the carpet making soft snuffling and grunting sounds.

          "What's that noise?'' said Phoebe, letting go of the pillow and twisting her body round to hear. ''Something scratching ,or tapping. I think it's the front door. Shall I wake up Granddad?''

          "No, don't bother.  It's only Tigger wanting to go outside. I'll go and let her out. You stay here and stand guard. Give us a whistle if they wake up''    

           "I can't whistle,'' She said, demonstrating with a tuneless puff for Mats benefit. ''How about if I clap my hands together, like this”… Mat interrupted just in time.

          "I get the message Pheebs, but next time only do it if they wake up, ok?''

          She nodded, and continued patting and stroking the cushion. Mat sprang to his feet and went to discover the source of the mysterious noise.

          As he approached the front door he saw Tigger curled up like a young fern on the stairs. Kes had woken up and was whining, giving the door that  look he normally gave the  T.V when  dog food commercials were on.

          "Kes, d' you want to go out?'' said Mat, flicking up the door catch.  Normally  this would be enough to make the dog sit up and wag its tail, but today he simply let out a short yap before bounding up the stairs. By craning his neck, Mat could just see the tip of a black muzzle  poking through the white rails on the landing.

          "Tap,tap, tap'' There it was again, only louder this time.

            He wished Pheebs would clap her hands and stop the plague of butterflies flying  round his tummy. After about a twenty seconds of listening to his heart beating out a speedy SOS on his chest he took a deep breath and opened the front door.

          Sunlight spilling through the top half of the door dazzled him, so he shaded his eyes.

          "Tap, tap,tap. Come on, open up Mat I know you're in there!''

          Mat  took a short breath, and squinted through the porch window. He still couldn't see anything.

          "Who's there?'' he said in his best grown up voice. ''We've got a big black dog you know!''

          "Woof, woof.''  came the reply, in a deep gruff voice.  ''Please open the door Mat, I'm wet through. Lousy flash floods! And I was just starting to think of the sewer as home. Still, I'll know where to chalk the water line now, won't I ? 

          "How do you know my name?'' said Mat, nervously.

          "I observe, and I listen,'' came the reply, in a high-pitched scratchy voice. ''I wanted to come in  half an hour ago, but I had to wait until your grandparents were asleep. You see it's far too risky with grown ups about, they always spoil things''

          "How do I know you're not a mad axe murderer, or a cannibal or worse?''  said Mat, swallowing noisily.

          "Do you know of any two foot tall feathered axe murderers  with a liking for brown ale, cus I don't. Anyway, aren't you just a teeny weenie bit curious as to my identity?''

          "A little'', said Mat, standing on tip toe to try and see over the wooden partition.

          "I bet Phoebe'd let me in without a fuss.   Phoebe!''  

          "Be quiet!'' said Mat, you'll wake my grandparents. ''How do you know...? Oh all right then, wait a minute'' He slid the chain across and turned the key in the lock until he heard it click. Then, before Mat had chance to open the door it swung open, pushing him off balance. He fell backwards into the large brass umbrella stand under the coats, wedged like an egg in an egg cup, his knees hanging over the polished sides.

          Parting the thick curtain of waxed jackets and synthetic furs he opened his eyes and gasped in disbelief.

          There, on the linoleum stood a most peculiar sight. To Mat it looked a little like a big duck, but ducks didn't have claws, or for that matter curved black beaks. And, if it was a duck it desperately needed to diet. It's black wings were short and stubby, more  like flippers or feathered stumps.

          "That's right, I’m a Dodo. The names Hugh,'' he said, politely, extending a stunted wing towards Mat who merely shook his head and dribbled down his fathers' jacket. ''Now, where's the bathroom? I want to freshen up a bit, and get rid of this blasted loo roll.''

           Mat was gob smacked, following the Dodo's movements with his head as it unwound a long scarf of  pink toilet tissue from around it's neck.

          "Ah, that's better,'' he said, stamping it to a pulp and hurling the soggy lump at the wall. ''Bathroom? ''

          Mat pointed in the direction of the stairs, his head still shaking.

          "First on the right'', he squeaked, clearing his throat.

          "A real Dodo,'' he sighed. ''In my house. And he wants to use my bathroom''

          By rocking the large pot first left then right it finally toppled over, spilling him out onto the floor. Inside he could hear someone speaking softly.

          "Stairs. Hmm,'' said Hugh, patting the first step with a clawed  foot. ''Do you have a downstairs loo? Only I find stairs a bit of a problem you see. Can't quite stretch my legs that far.''

          "Is that your Duck?'' whispered Phoebe, standing in the hallway, clutching the  brown pillow to her chest.  ''Is it a prezzy for me?''

          "A prezzy, indeed!'' said Hugh, puffing out his black chest. ''Young lady, do you have such a thing as a washing up bowl  that I could use?''

          "Wow, and it talks'', said Phoebe, dropping the cushion and skipping towards Hugh. 

          "Stay there Pheebs!'' ordered Mat, his right arm stretched out as though he were a policeman stopping traffic. Phoebe paused in mid skip and sucked her thumb.

          "What's wrong Mat? Shall I wake Grandpa?'' she said, anxiously.

          "No, not yet. Go and sit in the lounge  will you''

          "She's only trying to be of assistance, Mat.'' said Hugh. ''Why don't you let her fill me a bowl so I can get this sewer stench off me. Then I'll be on my way.''

          "What's that stink?'' said Phoebe, pinching the bridge of her nose.

          "See Mat, even she can smell it, from there!''  piped Hugh. ''Fetch us a bowl with some soapy water in will you dear, please?''

          Mat gave her permission and off she trotted into the kitchen.

          "Anyway, I thought you were extinct,'' said Mat, plonking himself down on a small seat by the telephone. ''Eaten by sailors hundreds of years ago, on that tropical island. What was it called?'' 

          "Mauritius,'' said Hugh. ''Well, you know the Natural History Museum in London.

          "Yes, I've bin there with mum and dad, it's great, they've got dinosaurs and ...''  

          "Spare me the details Mat. Anyway, in a certain glass case, stuffed and mounted with glues, sits a relation of mine. Well Sat actually, past tense. Some idiot cleaner left him propped up on the toilet while she dusted the inside of the cabinet. Only when she came to put him back he'd gone. Vamoose, history, get my drift?''

          "I still don't get it. How..?''

          "Does that explain me being here. Well, he was stolen by   some guy that works in the archaeology dept, Watkins or Waddington, the names not important. Anyway, this man whisks him off to the lab in the basement where he's got an exact double stashed away. He puts the new one on the toilet cistern and no ones any the wiser.''

          "Is this one ok?'' interrupted Phoebe, waving a red plastic bowl  from the kitchen doorway.

          "Yes, that's fine. Fill it with warm water. And use the steps,'' said Mat, impatiently. ''Go on Hugh''

          ''Where was I, oh yes. The Dodo he nicked had been stuffed, but the stuffer had forgotten to do one thing. Inside the carcass was an egg, that had been frozen along with the bird years ago to keep it from going rotten. When he'd finished stuffing it he forgot to take it out and their it stayed, preserved by the chemicals  inside. Watkins found this out from the mother of the taxidermist. So he  extracted the egg and did a few tests on it. To cut along story short he somehow managed to fertilise it, or clone it, and hey presto here I am! I escaped from his seedy little squat in Peckham and slipped into the sewers to hide. I've bin down there for months living on rats and left overs''

          "Matthew, are you there?''

          "Oh no, its Granddad. He's woken up. What'll I do?'' said Mat, standing up and sitting down, repeatedly. ''If he finds you here.''

          ''Hey, calm down. Go into the lounge and speak to him. Tell Phoebe to put the bowl outside the backdoor, that way he won't suspect anything,'' said Hugh 

          "Matthew, come in here a minute, I want  a word'' said the gravelly voice.

          "Go on, shoo'', said Hugh, already waddling off in the direction of the Kitchen. ''I'll be fine, Phoebe won't blab.''

          Mat obeyed, running into the lounge to see Grandpa. He was yawning and stretching on the sofa when Mat came in. Grandma was still fast asleep so he  spoke quietly.

          "Where's your sister Mat, is she playing hide and seek?''

          "She, she's in the loo I think,'' said Mat, fidgeting with his fingers.

          ''That's your fathers best sports jacket isn't it? said the old man, fingering the stained cuffs.  ''Fancy dress again, I see. Go and get Phoebe, I want a word with both of you.''

          "But''

          "No buts, off you go'' He tapped the boy on the head, swivelling him round like a clockwork toy.

          Mat trundled out of the room, muttering as he went. Once in the kitchen he saw that Phoebe wasn't there. He ran to the back door and opened it. Still nothing. Back in the Kitchen he noticed the upturned red washbasin was lying on the tiled floor, empty.

          "Phoebe!'' yelled Mat, flinging open the cupboard doors in blind panic. Then, something caught his eye. The cat flap in the backdoor was creaking and banging in the strong wind. Mat raced over to it and saw a something silver glinting on the doormat. He reached down and picked it up. It was one of mums clip on pearl earrings, one of a pair that Phoebe had worn that morning. Hanging from it was a single strand of blonde hair.

          "Granddad!'