The majesty of the law, by Peter Morford

 Mr Marshall Lobby, Barrister-at-Law, had practiced for ten years. He had long ago learned that his task was to present the strongest argument he could for his client or The Crown; strongly cross examine the other side’s witnesses and remember that some judges are allowed to ask naïve questions or berate and tease the counsels. He could not pre-judge the guilt or innocence of his client.

He almost forgot it in the case of The Crown versus Edward Hitman. The case was heavily and gloatingly covered in the media. Mr Hitman was a bad lot dedicated to the life of crime. Mr Lobby happily accepted to take the prosecution case and with some relish started his preparations.

The facts were so convincing that Mr Lobby was wondering how anyone could produce any defence. Mr Hitman did not impress. Everything about him was hard to like. His battered face, his gait, his fat fingers tapping a rhythm for his ears only; the words Belmarsh 2000 and Strangeways 1990 proudly drawn on his face and neck and his butcher’s hands covered in abstract red and blue art.

Lobby patiently built his case. Expert witnesses had a DNA trail and smart phone details. CTV cameras from all over the country shewed that he had been in the right place at the right time for the crimes. He lead a team of drug distributors forgers and smugglers. He was accused of trafficking, laundering and assault. Lobby knew it would be a long case with a fee to match. He was decently sorry for the Defence counsel who had drawn the short straw.

Six weeks later it looked as though no man could outlive the likely sentences. Defence counsel struggled to discredit the witnesses and supporters. The prisoner’s difficult childhood and verbal impediments had limited his education. His father had been a drunken child abuser – what chance had Hitman ever had. Sob sob.

Another five weeks. A juryman reported sick. Another told the judge that his business was collapsing and could he please be excused. The Judge, Sir Martin Geoffries, had several times to rebuke the public gallery for their interruptions. He then disturbed another jury woman for falling asleep. He even took time to tell Mr Lobby that his wig was awry. “Please fix it.”

13 weeks had passed. It was time for the final summaries. Lobby addressed the weary jury. It took an hour to list the charges. He called upon the jury to protect the public from what could be even more assaults if this vile man were allowed to go free in less than fifty years.

Defence called for mercy. This unlucky man had had suffered weeks of accusation on the most tenuous of evidence and conjecture.

The judge called for lunch adjournment. Two hours later he escaped from his tired secretaries and began his summing up. A brief break for refreshments and they re-convened. After twenty minutes jury was released to reach a decision.

They deliberated for just three hours. “Be upstanding for His Honour”

Judge Geoffries walked slowly to his place. He put his i-pad on the desk, cleared his throat and sipped his drink. He looked round the court, studying the jury one by one. He eyed the Counsel and lastly, the prisoner.

“Have you reached your decision?

The foreman stood, holding a clipboard.

“And what is your decision?.”

“Not guilty m’lud”.

The onlookers gasped and chattered.

“Silence in Court!”

“Mr Hitman , you are free to leave the Court without a stain on your record.”

Mr Marshall Lobby fainted.

The Attic, by Peter Shilston

These days, I buy far fewer books than I once did, but still I can seldom resist entering a newly-discovered second-hand bookshop, even one that looks as unpromising as this one did. It was no more than a little terraced house converted to a shop, in a squalid back-street. The meagre display in the window scarcely invited further investigation, but even so I ventured into the dark and cramped interior. The aged custodian in her fusty dress did not speak as I entered, but glared suspiciously at me as though she suspected me of intending to pilfer her stock. And this was indeed as feeble as might have been expected; faded paperbacks, redundant outmoded textbooks with battered covers and what are essentially non-books, puffing transitory media and sporting “personalities” and forgotten TV soap-operas. I might have walked out at this point, but instead something prompted me to approach the aforementioned custodian and say I was really interested in old and rare books.

To my surprise, she responded. “Och, we keep those up in the attic”, she told me, in a strong Glaswegian accent. “I’ll go and unlock it for ye”.

I followed her up the creaking staircase to the top of the house. The attic, under its low and steeply-sloping roof, was unsuitable for the display of books, most of which lay in heaps on the floor.  I soon discovered that, whilst old, they could hardly be considered valuable enough to merit being kept under lock and key. There were Victorian novels by writers whose very names had been forgotten, and 19^th century collections of the works of Byron or Wordsworth, in very small print. They felt grimy to the touch. But now that I was in the attic I continued to scrabble amongst them, hoping against all the evidence that I might chance upon something worthwhile. The custodian continued to watch me with silent suspicion, and showed no sign of animation until I picked up a volume which appeared no more promising than the others.

“That’s the colonel’s book”, she told me. No further elucidation was forthcoming, but I felt I should at least open it. I ruffled through its leaves until I came to a full-page engraving entitled, “The Skraelings greet the dawn”, which in the inadequate light appeared to show a party of mounted figures. I find it very difficult to describe what happened next, though at the time it seemed perfectly normal. I can only say that as I peered at the picture I somehow found myself absorbed into it, so that I was no longer in a slum attic but on the summit of a low ridge, facing a party of warriors. Very fierce they looked, bearded and helmeted, though their equipment did not resemble any I had seen before, and to call them horsemen would be a misnomer, for the beasts they rode were monstrous multi-legged creatures. Exultantly they raised their spears to salute the crimson glow of a rising sun. (Did I explain that the engraving had mysteriously acquired colours?) I realised I had strayed from earth to some other planet: perhaps one where the coming of the dawn was less frequent than on earth; separated maybe by months or even years of our time. It did not occur to me to wonder who the colonel, whose book this was, had first found this place, and how the discovery was recorded in this strange way; for now I was there myself, and if I waited a little longer, the Skraelings would start to move, like a film which resumes after pausing on a single frame, and I would be amongst them ……….

Then I awoke, and found I was at home, lying in bed; but the book was still in my hand. 

Post from the Donbas, by Angelica Shalangina

 Hey friends, I’m alive.

But the night hit hard. It was a massive attack - Shaheds, cruise missiles, ballistic missiles. All night long. I wanted so badly to sleep. Every time I almost drifted off, another explosion. Too loud. Too close. Too real. When it finally ended - 7 or 8 am I fell asleep. But even in sleep, I kept hearing it. Over and over again. Some explosions were insanely loud. They’re still echoing in my head. But I’m here. Alive And I’m really grateful for that.

..................................................................................................

(Angelica Shalangina post her poems on X)

Solstice II, by Alison Lock

 

Appointments, by Peter Morford

 We are grateful that our Council has used our money to buy a shopping parade in a falling property market. It has further endeared itself to the taxpayers by cutting back on services in an attempt to recover some of the capital loss. There must be cuts, starting with changes in the recycling operation.

Recently when I visited the local site I was stopped by a traffic cone and an official ith an I-pad. He asked me in a very suspicious manner if I had a reservation. He stared at his screen.

“Your name?”

I asked him if he wanted to send me a birthday card.

“If you’re not booked I can’t let you in,” he said.

“It’s 3.30. Are you congested?” I asked ambiguously.

“You need an online booking.” 

I told him patiently that I had no idea that this strange arrangement was already in use. I declined to say how daft the whole thing was as I had arrived at off-peak time and the staff were probably enjoying their afternoon tea and crumpets.

Reluctantly and in the manner of a flunkey challenged beyond endurance, he moved the cone and waved me in. But my trials were not over. Another Gauleiter in a glow jacket said the sentry should have sent me away. His three partners nodded like Ernie Wise in the Previn sketch.

“What yer got Mate?”

“Grass for the compost.”

He kindly let me carry on and watched me heave about 50 kilos over the 4ft wall into the dead plant zone.

As I drove off I had one of those fearful visions. It’s no longer 2024, a golden age when we only need to make online appointments to see Bank officials, doctors nurses, onceited restaurants and electricians. I saw my 2028 diary. Whole days, weeks and months were full of appointments. On the third of March I’d booked Sainsburys, 0900 to 0930; Aldi, 45 to 1115; haircut? What for? Only four minutes from 1355. That’s OK. Costa 1415 to 1500; Spoons 1800 to 2300. The spreadsheet warned me. Please observe the times. Do NOT be late or early and do NOT overstay as you will incur charges.

I’d have organised my household. Told Mrs P that breakfast is at 755 so that I can get the weather forecast. Lunch 1255 for 37 minutes. Allocated ten minutes to read The Times online newspaper. Booked TV three weeks ahead and all my personal movements would be held on the cloud. We will thank AI for this meticulous planning.

Meanwhile, back in 2024 I already have a long list of passwords in my key-safe. With my leaking memory I have to keep a note of the safe number so I have cunningly written it on a card covered by a picture of Fido, deceased. Don’t tell anyone.

After a few years these annoyances will cease. AI will do the planning and I will obey because it’s easier to let it run my life. Now, where will I be on 5 th June, 2040?

Never mind. 

Happy Christmas to everyone!

. 

The Collector, by John Garland

 I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.

   I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case,since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
   "Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
   "Can I help with anything?"
   "Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
   She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".

The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
   I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
    "Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
   She didn't say collection of what.
   "I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
   "Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
   "Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
   The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
   "Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".

But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?

That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.