Conversation, by Mike Prestwich

"The most frightening experience I ever had", said Nigel, "was when I was a student, living in lodgings in a scruffy part of town. I woke up in the middle of the night and found a man sitting on the end of my bed. It was too dark to see clearly, but it looked like he had a knife. He asked me, "Where's the drugs then?" I was terrified"
     "Did you think he was a burglar or a policeman?" asked Martin. "Because if you thought it was the police, you should have demanded to see his search-warrant".
    "I don't know what I thought. I was trembling all over and I couldn't even think straight, let alone talk coherently!"
     Martin said, "If I was sure it was a burglar, I'd have said the drugs were hidden in the kitchen, and I've have taken him there. Then I'd have grabbed the big kitchen knife, and I've had said, "I'm a trained fencer, so now I've got the advantage over you!" - though I suppose that legally I should have told him to clear out rather than just go for him".
    "It's all very well for you to talk! You weren't there! I bet you'd have been every bit as scared as I was! In the end he went away, but by that time I was a gibbering wreck! I couldn't sleep the rest of that night, and I couldn't face staying in those lodgings any longer. I went and dossed down with a friend until I found somewhere else to live. I still have nightmares about it".
    "So this intruder: he didn't find the drugs, then?" But Martin hardly bothered to listen to Nigel's reply. He was running through in his own mind how he would have seen off the intruder, or, if the man did after all prove to be a policeman, the sensation he would create in court with his brilliant orations in his own defence.

Deep Freeze, by Peter Morford

He was quite comfortable really, wrapped up like a space man; double- glazed goggles, moon boots in a temperature of minus 30 degrees centigrade.  At first it was silent and totally dark, but after a while he could hear a background hum, almost like tinnitus and, here and there, see tiny glimmers of light.  Otherwise, dark cold and quiet.

     His instructions were clear. “Do not move around – it could be dangerous. Rest. Even sleep. Save your energy.”

     He lowered himself to the hard floor and leaned against the wall. Perhaps he did doze.  He wasn’t sure. There was a rumbling and he knew the machines were moving. He might have imagined it, but he thought he could see a greater moving darkness; hear a faint hissing; see a tiny light snuffed behind a moving object.

   After a few minutes all was near-silence again. He was beginning to wonder if he was hearing and seeing things which weren’t there. He had no idea of the time. That was part of the experiment. Nothing happened until it all started again. Longer this time.

      He looked up to the roof, fifty metres above him.  The cold was reaching him now and it was an effort to control his shivering. He heaved himself up, stretched and swung his arms. Performed three perilous crouches.  “Don’t move around – it’s dangerous.”

        It shouldn’t be long, he thought. 

   More movement. He could see better now. Although the glimmers were like a fob-light seen from 100 metres he was aware now of what was going on. Around him, 24,000 tons of frozen food, stacked 24 pallets high.  Eight automatic cranes shuffling the stock, ready to find and despatch 240 pallets an hour to the trucks waiting in the collection bay. He may have dozed again.

       He felt a gentle kick on his shoulder. A man with a light in his hat gestured to him. His muffled voice said, “Congratulations.  You’ve made it. Come with me. You’ve earned your breakfast.”

      They passed through two sets of airlock doors into the dazzling light and oppressive heat of the control room.

            “It never ceases to amaze me the things people do to raise money for charity,” the manager said.

Church Cottage, by June Pettitt

The caw - caw of the rooks from the rookery in the tall beech trees was the only sound that broke the silence of the hot summer's day. Occasionally the song of a blackbird tried to compete, but the continuous noise would be too much and it would fly away in defeat.

  When Daisy first started to visit Church Cottage she had been constantly aware of their noise. She felt they were objecting to her presence.  Why shouldn't they? She was the stranger, an intruder, this was their domain, had been for centuries. Strangers were not welcome. From the beginning, when she had first found Church Cottage, she'd felt as if they were always watching her.

  Daisy had been on a touring holiday. When looking for somewhere to stay for the night she suddenly came across a sign: Bed and Breakfast, Church Cottage. Following the direction down a narrow country lane she was led into a valley with picturesque cottages dotted amongst the trees. She was looking around to see which one was Church Cottage when she saw the tiniest church she'd ever seen. It had brightly coloured stained glass windows standing out against the grey stone. The graveyard in front of the church was only as big as Daisy's front garden. The headstones were crooked and covered in yellow-green moss. She got out of her car to inspect it closer, when she was deafened by a noise. At first she couldn't make out what it was. The sun was suddenly blotted out by a black mass of wings. Rooks! Rooks! Hundreds of them, flying from the trees and cawing at her presence. She was terrified and just about to get into her car when a voice stopped her.

  It was from a little old lady leaning over a white wooden gate. ‘They always make that noise when strangers appear. Don't be frightened, they won’t hurt you. They act as my watchdogs, they do,’ said the old woman.

  Daisy walked towards her and asked her if she knew where Church Cottage was. The old lady answered. ‘Yom at it. Why, dun yo want a room?’ The old lady saw her hesitate then said, ‘There’s no need to be frightened of them there rooks, there just being protective towards me.

   After the old lady had reassured her about the rooks not harming her, she agreed to go into the cottage and accept the cup of tea that was offered.   The old lady opened the gate and Daisy had no alternative but to follow her. When she entered the cottage the smell of home-baked bread filled the air, complimenting the warm friendly atmosphere of the kitchen.

  The old lady held out her hand and introduced herself. ‘My name is Miss Adams. Now, while I brew the tea yo go and view the room, should yo decide to stay. It’s up the stairs and first on the right.’

  Daisy went up the rickety dark oak staircase and entered the room. She stood there open mouthed. It was a lace fairy tale room, painted white and decorated with a bright yellow flowered wallpaper. On the small marble washstand was a china jug and bowl in which stood a bunch of dried flowers, their aroma filling the air. There was a small pine dressing table and matching wardrobe. The setting sun was sending a shaft of sunlight that shone on the brass bedstead knobs, reflecting rays of light around the room. Daisy sat on the bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress succumbing to the temptation to lie back.

  She was brought round by a friendly voice from the stairwell. ‘Tea’s ready.’   Not only was a cup of tea waiting but a plate of tea cakes.

   ‘Well, have yum made up yo mind,’ asked Miss Adams.

     Daisy Brookes stayed, not only for one night, but for the rest of her holiday. She couldn’t estimate the age of Miss Adams Daisy because her complexion was fresh and rosy with hardly any wrinkles. But from the conversation they had she must have been quite old. Her hair, which had once been black, was streaked with grey. Daisy noticed a deep discoloured scare on Miss Adams’ arm, but was too polite to ask how she came by it.    

    Daisy really enjoyed her stay and over the years she returned time and time again. But she never got used to the noise of the rooks. Miss Adams was the village healer and taught her all about the healing power of the herbs and where in the woods to find them. Most of them she grew herself in the garden. Daisy spent a lot of her time tending the garden and exploring the woods but always she felt the rooks watching her, even following her when she went for a walk. Despite Miss Adams’ reassurance, she was still a little afraid.

    Many nights they would sit by the Aga, her host telling her of country tales and superstitions. She became Daisy's dear friend, teaching her the country ways and the magic of the herbs.

   The Vicar from the church would sometimes join them for supper. Daisy didn't like him, he looked too much like one of the big rooks with his blue-black hair and beady amber eyes. His nose was long and hawk-like, his features and the black robe he wore made him seem quite sinister. The little church was not used very much, but when it was for a burial or a christening, the strange thing was, the rooks were quite. Miss Adams liked him, so Daisy thought he must be alright.

   One night Daisy couldn't sleep.  It was so hot and she went to open the window. Looking out she saw what looked like Miss Adams and the Vicar talking to several rooks that were perched on the gravestones. The window catch made a sound and within seconds the tableau had disappeared. Next day when she mentioned it to Miss Adams she shrugged it off saying it must have been her eyes playing tricks.

   When Daisy returned home she forgot about the incident. Not long after an official letter arrived from a firm of solicitors informing her Miss Adams had passed away and could she come to their office.

   Daisy sat in the solicitor’s office speechless. Miss Adams, having no relatives, had left everything to Daisy, including Church Cottage.

   In the early days Miss Hazel had asked Daisy about her family. When Daisy had replied saying she was an orphan and had no relatives that she knew of, Miss Hazel smiled and said how sorry she was. Daisy supposed that the old lady had felt sorry for her and that was why she had left her all her possessions.

   She got out of her car and opened the gate to the cottage; the rooks were making their usual cawing noise. As she went to unlock the cottage door it slowly opened, the smell of home baked bread filling the air. The Aga was alight and warmed the kitchen. She expected to see Miss Adams sitting in her favourite chair, but instead a big black shiny rook was perched on the arm. It turned its head to one side, giving it a look of Miss Adams. A beady amber eye watched her. Suddenly it flew at her, pecking a piece of flesh from her arm and swallowing it. Blood spurted everywhere, staining Daisy's clothes. Screaming, Daisy fought it off and ran from the cottage right into the arms of the Vicar.

   He asked her what the matter was. Hysterically, she managed to tell him what had happened. He didn't seem surprised and remarked calmly, ‘They sometimes do that.  Come, let me dress that wound.’

  He tried to get her back into the cottage but she screamed, ‘No, no, the bird, the bird.’

The Vicar assured her that the rook would have gone, but Daisy made him go in first to make sure. He came out saying, ‘It’s not there. I told you it would have left.’

   The Vicar rolled up his sleeve to wash her wound. It was then she noticed an indentation on his arm as if the flesh had been torn away. This sight stirred in Daisy the memory of Miss Adams’ scar.

   After the Vicar's reassurance and a cup of sweet tea Daisy felt calmer. Walking with him to the gate she thanked him. It was then she became aware of the silence. She looked up expecting to see the rooks gone, but no, there they were watching her. Daisy looked at the Vicar and whispered, ‘No cawing?’

   The Vicar smiled, his amber beady eyes shining as he said, ‘Why should there be cawing, Daisy, you are no longer a stranger, you are one of us now.’

The Hitch-Hiker, by Peter Shilston

A huge black-purple cloud like a gigantic sinister mushroom had sat menacingly over Cheshire and south Lancashire all afternoon, threatening imminent downpour up ahead of me. Soon it was officially night-time, though this made no real difference to the visibility, or lack of it.

    I don’t generally pick up hitch-hikers, but the state of the weather made me more merciful usual. Besides, this was a woman, so I daresay some old-fashioned chivalry kicked in too.

   She was good-looking in a slightly blowsy way, but her clothes were unusual. She wore a hat a bit like a traditional gentleman’s topper, and a black dress, with lace-up boots of the Doc Martin’s variety. The most striking feature was her eyes, which were intense and piercing.

       As we drove off I commented on the foul state of the weather. She replied that she didn’t mind it, and then surprised me by talking about how in the past storms were caused by witches, and that some still possessed the power to do this. I don’t talk much when I’m driving, and I reckoned that any human contact would be preferable to the third-rate pop music and inane chit-chat that you get on the radio, so I responded with some vague interjection like “Oh really?” This set her off, and soon, with no further encouragement from me, she was into a detailed discourse about black magic today, and her part in it. She kept turning round to face me; fixing me with those unsettling eyes of hers. I was increasingly puzzled, and uneasy.

    As we joined the M6, the storm was going full blast, the rain came lashing down and we were reduced to a crawl. My companion was delighted. “What a storm!” she chortled, “There must have been some really strong cursing going on to get this! I think I can make a guess as to who’s responsible! I wonder why they did it!” For no reason that I could discover, she began discoursing on initiation rituals, and Tantric sex as a powerful engine for magical power. I told her I’d never been initiated into anything. “Oh, but you must!” she cried. I daredn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

   How was I to get rid of her? It occurred to me that, although I’d told her where I was going, namely, right up to the Lake District, she’d never told me where she was going or where I should drop her off. What on earth was I to do?

    We stopped at a service station, and I filled up with petrol while she nipped inside. While she was away I came to a decision, and I’m afraid I took refuge in an outright lie. I told her that I’d just received a message on my mobile from the friend I was going to stay with, saying that he was surrounded by flood-water and advising me not to come; so I’d have to leave her there, because at the next intersection I’d be turning round and going home. No doubt a more adventurous man would have taken her home and demanded to be instructed in the joys of Tantric sex, so I suppose you could say I chickened out, but there you are.

   The last I saw of her was in the rear view mirror as I drove away. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her as she stood there. I wondered whether she’d claim credit for it.

501, by Graham Attenborough

It was a dark and stormy night, in the autumn of 1974. I was sat on the windowsill in my cold bedroom listening to David Bowie on the record player. I was bored. Above the rain-filled wind I heard my dad cheerfully whistling as he opened the shed door to put away his bicycle. He'd been working overtime again but whatever time he got home, it was always too early for me. I sighed. I heard my mum greet him as he came in through the back door. Their murmuring voices annoyed me. Suddenly I stiffened, the kitchen door had opened and my dad shouted up the dark stairs.

"Graham! Come down here, I've got something for you". Suspicious but intrigued, I jumped down from the window and began to wonder if this particular dark and stormy night might turn out alright and that for once my dad was not going to make it worse. I began to entertain the possibility that my recent campaign to convince him that he should buy me a pair of 501s had worked. To give him his due, he had listened and had even nodded in apparent agreement when I'd told him how Levi 501s were worth the extra expense because of the superior quality of the denim and that they were double stitched, by hand.

"Originally, they were made for cowboys" I had told him, "real cowboys, you know, in the Wild West". He had seemed impressed, nodded his head sagely and said:

"They sound good. Let me look into it and we'll see".

After making sure I'd switched off my bedroom light (there was nothing that angered him more than lights being left on in empty rooms), I clattered down the stairs two at a time.

The kitchen was warm. I quickly shut the door, sealing in the heat. It smelt of paraffin and over-boiled cabbage. My dad was standing in the middle of the room. His grubby work clothes seemed to steam slightly.

"Now then" he said, "I got Ted to drive me into town at dinner time and I've got you a present. Don't worry, I got your measurements off your mum". He pulled a folded plastic bag room his knapsack and thrust it at me. It was green and looked familiar. I looked at my mum but she had found something to peel at the sink and turned her back to me.

"Thanks" I said, my heart sinking as I pulled a pair of jeans from the bag. They were wrong, all wrong. For a start they weren't the right colour, a light shade of blue and not the dark, inky blue of 501s. They were soft to the touch not stiff and unforgiving like they ought to have been. I looked at the label and saw the word: Littlewoods.

"Got them in Littlewoods" said my dad, "just as good as those Levis but half the price. Go and try them on then". I could feel the sense of shame welling up to engulf me and just as I thought things couldn't get any worse. They did.

"In fact" he said, "I liked them so much I bought myself a pair".

It was a dark and stormy night in the autumn of 1974. I was fifteen and my life was ruined. 

Away With The Fairies, by Martin Needham

In the high dry deserts of Central Asia, life is tough and the people tougher. Iskander was as tough as they come. He practised graceful  martial arts,  on the roof of his ancestral fortress. He stood unflinching  nose to hooked nose with a golden eagle he had raised from a foundling, as it sank steely iron talons into his arm. Initially it was a surprise when he spoke of fairies, but then these were no  bottom of the garden pixies; rather he described tall, angel-like ice queens, raised on the rocky glacial wastes of Nanga Parbat, the killer mountain, the obsessive graveyard of German mountaineers in the 1930s. Iskander suggested that recently, being starved of fresh mountaineers by world events, the fairies had begun to resort to scavenging mortals from the roofs of local homes.

Iskander claimed to have seen the face of a beautiful fairy staring down from the night sky with inquisitive liquid eyes as he lay awake on the perfectly air conditioned roof of his home. But then Iskander's  trade was welcoming tourists, informing them about local culture and folk lore. His closest friend, Najeem, assumed a more modern world view, having studied zoology both down- country and overseas. Najeem now worked for the World Wildlife Fund conserving local fauna. He had supported numerous film makers on the trail of ibex, snow leopards and Marco Polo sheep. Najeem poured scorn on the idea of fairies and suggested the Himalayan griffon vulture, which dwarfed Iskander's golden eagle, to be a much more likely perpetrator. Najeem lavished scientific attention on the facts, searching for patterns in the details of the three disappeared young men, each lost upon a full moon. He looked for tracks, trails and traces. He plotted a single flight path of incidences on the map, as straight as the crow flies from the lonely Targott tree at the start of the highest irrigation channel on the far side of the valley to the summer palace high up in the meadows above the magnificent old Tibetan fort. 

So Najeem set a camera trap focused on Iskander's bed atop the old wazir's house, the highest in the town, on the night of the full moon.  Iskander lay in the bed with his hand on his great-grandfather's loaded  shotgun.

Just after midnight the moon crested the rim of the valley wall and focused by the reflected light  from the encircling snow fields of the high peaks,  which in turn illuminated the details of the jagged lower peaks and the iridescent serpent of the young Indus River far below on the valley floor. The terraced fields, lush orchards and  the tiny villages became clearly visible in the moonshine. Fifteen minutes later a giant wingspan came into view soaring along the predicted flight path. The young men nodded to each other to confirm their shared vision  and watched as it came on across the valley. The creature stayed high and did not deviate. Both men prepared to shoot, when suddenly the angle of the wings changed transforming the direction and speed of flight, too fast for the night  vision camera to follow. Najeem looked up blinking, trying to adjust his now unaided eyes. He tried desperately to focus on the bed, he was instinctively disturbed by the unexpected quiet. He saw the great span of wings powering down on the air to break, stop and climb. At the base of the dive he witnessed the great talons slide  effortlessly and deep into Iskander's uplifted chest and carry him up into the heavens.   

True and false definitions, by Graham, Jo, Peter and Martin

This is a game we played, of making up imaginary definitions for unusual words. Of the five definitions of these words, four are false. can you guess the correct one? Answer will follow!

Mamelon
1. The supposed "missing link" between mammals and reptiles, hypothesized by Gaspar in 1893. It had both reptilian and mammalian features.
2. A rounded hill or protuberance
3. A piece of mediaeval armour, protecting the wrist of the lance-hand of a mounted knight.
4. A style of verse, popular in Renaissance France.
5. The small tendril growing from a guava

Nival
1. The smooth outer layer of suede after brushing. The suede is said to be "nival" after this
2. Growing in snow, like crocuses and snowdrops in a harsh winter
3. A mental state of extreme stress
4. A sail-maker's needle
5. A gymnastics move on the Rings, named after the gymnast from Belarus who first performed it

Patavinity
1. A weakness of the knees,leading to stumbling
2. A belief system found in parts of the Inca Empire in Peru, involving the worship of domestic pets
3. It comes from the Roman name for Padua, and means using words of Paduan dialect, as Livy tended to do: hence, provincialism in general.
4. A mental state of extreme stress
5. Being in a condition to experience visions