Kardashia, by R. T. Gething

 One of the oddest Kardashian legends is that they were the only country in the world to have been invaded both by the Swedes and the Chinese. For a long time this was dismissed as a mere folk-tale, but recently dramatic new evidence has emerged suggesting that the story may well be true, for D.N.A. sampling amongst Kardashians has revealed both typical Swedish and Chinese genetic profiles.

Kardashia is a small state with a chequered history. Its language is unique,and unintelligible to outsiders. The early history of its peoples is little known.  In early modern times it formed part of the Ottoman Empire, though the Sultan in Istambul rarely exercised much direct control there. It achieved independence in the late 19th century, when a more-than-usually obnoxious German prince was imposed as its monarch. In the Second World War it was occupied by the Nazis, and then disappeared behind the Iron Curtain. It has now asserted its independence of both East and West, though it is noticeable that the same government leaders appear to be in control as in the Communist days. 

The Swedish link must come from remnants of Charles XII's army fleeing southwards after their disastrous defeat by Peter the Great at Poltava in 1709. The source of the Chinese link is less obvious; one guess being that when Mongol forces pulled back from central Europe following the death of Ogodei Khan in 1242, certain Chinese units serving with the Mongol army decided to branch out on their own account.

(More episodes from Kardashian history will follow)

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Raging Fires, by Peter Morford

 

  It was 6 o’clock of a Sunday morning on a perfect July day. We had a cloudless sky, already 72 degrees, the air con keeping us comfortable. The kids in the back were engrossed on smart-phones while Julia kept her eye on the satnav. In two hours we’d stop for a proper English breakfast and by noon we’d all be on a perfect beach.

  We first caught the pleasant scent of a bonfire. Then we saw a stand of trees on our left was ablaze, sending smoke high, the westerly breeze pushing it towards us. I had to drive slowly. It was like an old fashioned London pea-souper but within half a mile we were in the clear again. No problem.

   We overtook a couple of trucks labouring up- hill and we enjoyed the view from the top. There were more fires on the horizon before we descended again. There was no traffic on the southbound carriageway.

I was beginning to think we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The outside temperature had risen to 80. Soon we were close enough to see the helicopters optimistically dropping water. There was the tree-lined road ahead of us and a line of stationary vehicles. I joined the queue and waited while about a dozen cars stopped behind us. I walked ahead and see what was happening. At the front of the line police cars had blocked the road. The cops were very calm.

“There are fires blocking both carriage-ways about a mile north of here. Three miles south it’s the same. We’ll look after you. Enjoy your camping.”

Back at the car I said were lucky to get through when we did. Julia said,” Is it lucky to be boxed in north and south?”

I turned on the radio on to hear an anxious reporter. “Dozens of cars and lorries are stuck between raging fires which could run out of control. Rescue helicopters are rushing to the site. Drivers are asked to stay by their cars.”

Julia was on her lap-top was “driving” street-view of our stretch of motorway.  “That’s roughly where we are. See the stream and the bridge. No exits for miles. And then where would we go? Just look at the trees – If the fires connect-what then?”

  Tom let out a yell when one of his computer characters came to grief.

A police helicopter landed on the south-bound carriageway. A policeman with a loud hailer leapt over the barrier and asked us gather round.

“We can take five people on my machine. The one just landing can take twenty. That means several trips. We’ll take the disabled and children first. Don’t worry. we’ve got a safe place only ten minutes away. I’m sorry, we can’t take your cars but with a little bit of luck you can fetch them later.”

A larger machine landed quickly. The evacuation had begun.

Build me a grave beside the sea, by J.R.R. Tolkien

 

The Perfume Trick, by Abbas Saqib

  Arif handed the young man a bottle of perfume. “Here—something sharp that hits the brain, a little fiery. Just as you asked.” 

The customer sniffed it once and bought it on the spot. Arif watched him go, faintly puzzled. Good-looking fellow, well turned out — and this was his taste in fragrance? He shrugged it off and turned to the next customer. A while later his phone buzzed—a WhatsApp message from Mehak. Dad, Rashid’s asking again—should I send Mom to talk to you? 

He typed back without pausing. Absolutely not. We don’t marry outside our community. 

Mehak didn’t reply. But that night, when she came in with his medicine, he flinched at the sight of her—hard enough that it startled him too. He collected himself and, after a moment, said quietly, “Tell him to come for tea Sunday. With his mother.” 

The second she was back in her room, Mehak was on a video call, practically shouting into the phone. “Congratulations, Rashid. Dad said yes.” Then she giggled, “You are, genuinely, the cutest devil alive. That perfume trick — I wouldn’t have thought of that in a hundred years.” 

The first step, by Peter Morford

The other day I read in The Times that Samuel Foster’s  weekly book review would be his last.  The fourth leader was a kind of premature epitaph thanking  him for the pleasure he had given his devoted  readers for over thirty years..   “We wish him well in his retirement although we know he will still grace our pages for years to come.”

We had been friends at University. After graduation we soon went our different ways. I bluffed my way into an architect’s office and learned on the job.  Foster wrote a few short stories “For practice before I could write novels,” as he put it. His stories were either ignored or rejected.  He would stick the Thank you but no missives on his wall behind The Hay Wain and write another tale.

As he said at the time it was the first step in his literary career. There would be tumbles but, like the baby learning to walk, he would learn and who knows what would happen next.  If  Austen and Eliot; Dickens and Tolstoy; Fleming and  Rankin survived early rejections so could he.

He got a job as first dragon in a fiction publisher. He usually read twenty  manuscripts  a week. He sadly rejected the worst and  passed  the more promising work to his boss for more filtering. A few were published. Some sold just enough for a profit. One or two might make a fortune.

For years our friendship had been spasmodic. We might meet for a concert or a play. More rarely the four of us would holiday in Scotland or The Lakes with the children. After those delights we might not see each other for months or even years during which we emailed Christmas cards.

             Last week I heard that he lived in a farmhouse just ten miles from us. I thought it would be good to see him again. I emailed him. He answered and said he was pleased to hear from me. “ We’ll have a drink and perhaps Joanna will cook dinner. Saturday?”

Over dinner we talked old times and inevitably, about his colleagues whom he had outlived. Later, before a blazing wood fire, I felt there was something missing. He had his exposed beams, the ingle-nook, appropriately dark furniture, big tv and a music centre – but no books.  He must have read my mind. “No,” he said,” My library is in the barn.  I’ll show you if you like.”

We crossed the cobbled yard. Inside it was warm and, I must say, delightful.  Thick carpets, comfortable sofas for resting and a desk for working. “How many books?”

`“About ten thousand.  A lot of them are first editions which were part of my reviewer’s fee. Others – just my personal books for fun. They’re a permanent record of my literary life. I still surprise myself when I’m browsing.”

 “What are you reading now Sam?”

“The same book as I read yesterday. The Old Man and the Sea.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You see Harry, I can’t read any more.  No, the sight’s all right. It’s the brain. Not dementia but something else.  I don’t have the concentration that I used to have.  A few minutes and my mind wanders.  I’ve always had to be a quick reader when I read two or three books a day- many more when I was a Booker judge.  But now, an odd word will distract me. Sometimes it links me to something else I had read – ten twenty, fifty years ago. I would find myself sinking into  daydream.  My eyes would scan but my brain was working elsewhere.  So now I read the same book every day. I suppose I could recite the whole book but I don’t want to do that.  I still get the suspense of the story. My sympathy for the old man will never change and I go to sleep looking forward  to reading it again after breakfast.”

*

 

Dream cricket fantasy, by JVC

   I dream I'm in a broken-down lift with members of the England women's cricket team. I can see Heather Knight, Danni Wyatt-Hodge, Lauren Bell, Lauren Filer, Maia Bouchier, perhaps Sophia Dunkley and Linsey Smith and some others, so it must be a very large lift. We have been stuck there for some time, and one of the girls gets panicky, but I calm her down and suggest we have a sing-song. Then, as is the way with dreams, the scene shifts and we're playing blind man's buff: I am blindfolded and the others circle round me, giggling and slapping me before retreating out of reach. I announce that if I catch someone, I'll claim the right to kiss her. I do eventually grab hold of one and kiss her: I think it's Lauren Filer, but at this stage I wake up.

What should I make of this?  

Surrender, by Dennis Clarke

“Hello! I know who you are; you’re detective inspector Robertson; but you don’t really know who I am. You think I’m a harmless old woman called Suzi Marginton, and that’s true enough as far as it goes; but you’ve probably also heard of me as Sheba, after the Queen of Sheba in the Bible. Yes, that’s right: I’m the person who supplies all the drugs in the town. Or rather, I used to. Surprised to see me? You’ve been after me for years, but you never even got close, did you? But now I’m here.

  “Let me explain. You’ll concede, won’t you, that we only ever traded cannabis and LSD: no harder stuff. And it was always clean; never cut with anything dangerous. Furthermore, we never used violence. This town was peaceful for years, wasn’t it? Bur now times have changed.

  “A new group’s trying to move in and take over. They call themselves the Elite. Sometimes they spell it backwards: ETILE. You’ll likely have seen this sprayed up on a wall, and wondered what it means; now I’m telling you. This mob pushes skunk, heroin, crack cocaine: anything you can name. And they’re a violent mob: there’ll be killings on our streets soon, if you don’t act quickly.

  “So I’m here to tell you this; and I want you to arrest me and lock me up. Because, right now, I reckon it’s the safest place for me to be.”   

Pagan Philosophy, by Peter Shilston

 (Dedicated to the people of the Caucasus, which I visited many yaers ago)

The people are like their mountains,

beautiful, but untamed

implacable against those

who do not show them proper respect

They know that

to leave an insult or injury unavenged

serves only to invite more.

Silly people in the cities

may talk of dying for a cause

but a seious man knows that

if your cause is to triumph

you musy kill for it

In the end we all die

but what better way to die

than in defence of your home

sword in hand

surrounded by the bodies of you enemies

The only true immortality

is when children yet unborn

tell stories of your mighty deeds

The mountains and their people

once inspired Pushkin and Lermontov and Tolstoy

and now they inspire

Vladimir Putin

- a serious man

.

Injury Time, by Matthew Stewart

 

Words to tunes, by C. F. Sharpe

(In all these, I often choose words largely for their sound)

Lullaby for a friend's baby (Tune: Brahms's "Lullaby")

"Little Daisy, my darling, sleep soft on your pillow

With a smile on your face, not a tear in your eye.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side."

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

Pilgrimage (Tune: Schubert's "Trout")

"I hear the brooklet gushing, from its rocky fountain near

And down the valley rushing, so fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me, or who the counsel gave,

But I must hasten onwards, all with my pilgrim's stave."

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

Homage to Rupert Brooke (Tune: prelude to Act 3 of "Carmen", by Bizet)

"The boy who sang by Granta's stream

Of spires and fenland, tears and laughter in the morning

Taken by a wider dream

Out eastward sees the rising sun of early dawning

Hears a voice calling loudly now for songs of war and duty

Beauty

Youth and honour lie in Flanders field

And by the banks of Somme and Yser seek for fame

A sword to draw, a lance to wield

A shield to bear the man who dies to win a name

So hear him sing: Now may God be thanked, who matched us with his hour

Power

Loud rejoicing as the boat sails away

To sunbaked islands, seas that once were dark as wine

Where heroes fought a burning day

And deeds as brightly as the Hellene sun would shine

And so he goes, seeking Ilium's walls and Hector's martial story 

For the

 

Boy who sang by Granta's Stream 

In storm and glory to the war 

Is gone"

(Footnote: Rupert Brooke, the beautiful heart-throb poet of the early 1910s, hailed the outbreak of the First World War and volunteered for the Gallipoli campaign of 1915. From his classical education, he would have known that Gallipoli could be seen from the ramparts of Troy. The imagery of this poem is deliberately archaic, because Brooke had no idea what the war would be like - but, the, neither did anyone else)   

Actresses, by John Garland.

Mike came to Pauline's flat and said, "Well, the production's finished, so I'm returning these things of yours I borrowed for it. Did you see the play? Did you like it?"
    "Yes, I did see it", Pauline replied, "but now you mention it: no, I didn't like it at all".
    "Oh? And may I ask why not?"
    "Well, for a start; it's hardly a new concept, is it: a shortened version of Macbeth in modern dress. And Phil Duckworth was easily the worst Macbeth I've ever seen: to describe him as wooden would be an understatement. I suppose you had to choose him because he was the only man in the cast capable of remembering his lines. And as for having the three witches as a kind of drug dream under strobe lights: that should have come with a taste warning instead of a health one!"
  "I see. And did it perhaps occur to you that the intention was to show Macbeth as a rather dim soldier who suffered from delusions because of post-traumatic stress, so it was all deliberate?"
   "So you say. But I say Phil's just a rotten actor. Period".
   "Well, I can see there's no point trying to debate the point with you. But what about Samantha Johnson as Lady Macbeth? Wasn't she terrific? She'd never acted before, you know. Talk about undiscovered talent! Now she wants to be a professional actress; full-time!"
   "And that's another thing. What on earth possessed you to depict Lady Macbeth as some kind of tarty teenager? It wasn't even funny!"
    "Why shouldn't she be a teenager? There's nothing in the play to say how old she is. And Shakespeare's plays are full of teenagers. Look at Romeo and Juliet; and for that matter, Richard III and Anne Nevill in their first scene. So why not Lady Macbeth too? And Sam played the part so well!"
    "Look, Mike; I've known Sam Johnson for a lot longer that you have, and I can tell you, she's nothing more than a common little scrubber. So for her to play a tarty teenager wasn't acting at all: she just had to behave naturally! As a matter of fact, I can see her as a professional actress: on porn videos for sale on the internet; that'd be just her style. And I know perfectly well why you picked her for the part. You've always fancied her, haven't you? and you thought selecting her for the leading part would increase your chances: the old casting couch, of course. Well? Did your cunning plan succeed?"
   Mike stood up to go. "And I know perfectly well why you're being so rude", he said."You're angry because when I asked you if you wanted to help with the production, you said no. Either you were just too idle, or more likely you chickened out. Now I've had to work bloody hard on it, but I've achieved something - and I can tell you, a lot of people liked the play, for all your sneering - and you've achieved nothing. You're jealous!"
    "I wouldn't have wanted to be associated with rubbish like that, thank you very much!"
    Mike snorted and left the room noisily.


The next visitor was Sam Johnson. Instead of her normal scruffy jeans, she was wearing a new dress in what looked like an expensive Designer style. How on earth could Sam have afforded that, Pauline wondered.
   "Hiya!" said Sam in her usual slovenly voice, "I was packin' up my stuff an' I found I'd got these CDs an' fings belongin' to you, so I fought I'd better bring 'em back before I left".
   "I like the dress", said Pauline.
   "Nice, innit?  This guy: he saw me in the play, an' he giv me this dress!"     
   "Are you going away? with him?"
  "Yeah! He's a film director, an' he wants me ter come down ter London ter work for him. Short stuff to start wiv. Adverts; fings like that."

    Pauline thought any comment on her part would be superfluous. 

Taking a Photograph, by C. R. T.

 Our new vicar had asked me to take some photos of the church in a neighbouring village, so I walked there on a path through the woods one very hot afternoon.

   The church was small and built of red sandstone, which was somewhat decayed in the tower which stood at the western end. I stood in the churchyard to the south to take my pictures, but found the view was interrupted by a number of ancient gravestones. One of them, facing the south-west corner, was the size and shape of a cabin trunk and covered in moss; its inscription left quite illegible. I climbed on top for a better view of the church, saying to the unknown occpant as I did so, "Please excuse me for this indignity; the vicar asked me to do it. I promise to say a prayer and put some money in the collection-box when I'm done!"

  I took several pictures from this position before dismounting and walking to the church door. I noticed high up on either side of the entrance two peculiar faces carved in the crumbling red stone. The right hand one was clearly a cat, grinning, but the one on the left, being somewhat decayed, was so grotesque as to be neither clearly human or demonic. It had its mouth open in a snarl, revealing a scattering of teeth. I took a photograph of it, and made a mental note to ask the vicar about it, before entering the church.

   Inside it was rather dark, but I couldn't see any way of switching on lights. There was a rather heavy rood screen, beyond which was an altar with no cross on it. The silence was absolute. I attempted to take a photograph, but my camera was dead. The battery must have expired, and I had forgotten to bring a spare. Damn!

  For no good reason, I felt increasingly uneasy. In consequence I muttered even the most perfunctory prayer before retreating, and on failing to find any collection box for my promised offering fled the building in a somewhat ignominious manner. I took one glance backwards as I walked out through the churchyard. The cat was still grinning at me; not, I thought, in a very friendly fashion. 

   As I passed through the gate I heard a bell toll, to sound the hour, I supposed; and an unpleasing sound it was; less a deep tone than something resembling an old saucepan being struck with a ladle.

   My uneasiness persisted in my journey home through the woods. I kept glancing back to see if anything was following me, though I never saw anything, nor did I meet a single person, and I was glad to reach home intact.

   That night I dreamed that a hooded and shrouded figure was standing beside my bed and leaning over me. I could not tell whether it was a man, a woman, or some creature that was entirely unhuman. I dreaded that the figure might throw back its hood, revealing the grotesque face I had seen on the church, opening its mouth wide and grinning with anticipation of a bite. In a cold sweat of fear I woke up and sat bolt upright.

   "It's not my fault!" I exclaimed out loud. " I didn't mean to insult you! The vicar asked me to take a photo! It was the only way I could do it!"

Turning the Dial, by Brian Bilston

It's not my fault, by Peter Morford

A message found on Mr Gould’s smart phone.

*************************************************************

Dad,

I know you’ll be surprised to receive this attachment as we never write to each other. Since Mother divorced you there seemed to be nothing to say. So I’ll say it anyway.

I heard through the grapevine that you are moving to an open prison and release is imminent.

Don’t come back.

You may not know that Mum married a coach driver – yes, the one who drove us on a tour of the Dolomites in 2017. George is a decent man. He will never be rich.

Thanks to you, Molly and I were privileged kids. Private schools prepared us for University and great careers. We had summer holidays in exotic places and ski resorts at Christmas. Home was always full of guests, friends and clients. We had a paddock for Molly’s horses, swimming pool and a fleet of cars. We lived the life.

To celebrate my A Level results we four plus Molly’s boyfriend and my girl were off  to Sri Lanka. First class of course. After that I would start my studies towards an MBA at Harvard. And then? I expected something powerful in business and politics.

Three weeks later, sated by the sunshine, sights and smells of that beautiful island, we landed in the dark at Heath Row, tired and happy. We cleared customs and Immigration and headed for the exit. We could see our hotel limo waiting for us and the courier’s sign with our name on it.

Standing right by the exit were four policemen, line abreast. One officer stepped towards us.

“Mr. Gould, Mr Jeremy Gould?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest. Come with us please. The rest of your party can go.”

You were handcuffed and thrust into the car and driven away. You know the rest. A few weeks awaiting your trial. Then the trial itself when your finance and investment company was revealed to be a fraud. Investors had lost millions. You were damned by the contents of your phones and computers, revealing money laundering, embezzlement and tax evasion. You were sentence to ten years. Your assets would be seized and our nightmare had begun.

What assets? Our elegant house was mortgaged for more than its market value. All the cars are leased. Your only asset was a few thousands in the bank. Your company would be worthless. Where was the alleged £35m which the court decided you had stolen?

Mother, Molly and I were, crammed into a 7 th floor flat in - but you don’t need to know where. I lost my place at Harvard. At eighteen I had to find a job and use my computer skills. Mother applied for a nursing post. Molly moved to a nearby Comprehensive school.

And what am I doing now, six years after your conviction? I suppose you’d call me a computer hacker working for the Police. I’ll find out where you have hidden “your” money.

Traitor, am I? It’s not my fault.

Ever-Green Palace, by Bethany Rivers

 

I travelled the desert of hunger for a hundred years

thirsting for the goodness and discernment

I thought I did not have.  But I followed the call

 

of the wild geese who announced my place

in the family of things, over and over, until

I had no choice but to listen.  Following their call,

 

I came upon the Ever-Green Palace, feathered walls of leaves,

blackbirds and wrens nesting, steps and streams of light

along the central aisle.  The way opened out

 

like a Tibetan Monastery – the symmetry of grass and trees,

a prayer of stillness, in every blade, every leaf,

singing the smallness and the greatness

 

of creation, the same as every breath I take,

with every step I come nearer and nearer to the throne

grown especially for me, and so I finally understand

 

it is time for the corona of spring

to embrace and bless me, an offering from the hands

of our beloved Persephone.

The labours of Hercules in Shropshire, by Peter Shilston

 .Many thousands of years ago, before half of Britain was covered in ice, the River Severn flowed north, into the Dee estuary. But then the ice came, and when at last it retreated, the god Zeus spoke to Hercules and said, “It is my desire that the Severn should now flow southwards. Put down your club, take up a spade, and dig a new channel for the river”.

Hercules took a spade and began his labour at the northern end of the new river-bed. But the god of the northern marshes, fearing that his wetlands would be drained, sent his reed-girls to distract Hercules. And the reed-girls said, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” and he continued with his work. But he was thinking so much about the beauty of the reed-girls that he dug his channel shallower than was intended, so some of the wetlands survive to this day.

As Hercules worked further southwards, the god of the Severn, annoyed that he had not been consulted, sent river-nymphs to distract Hercules. The river-nymphs danced round Hercules and sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” But he was so confused by the nymphs dancing in circles around him that he lost all sense of direction, and the course of the river-bed he was digging, through where Shrewsbury now stands, instead of being a straight line, now ran in great loops and meanders.

Hercules now reached a line of hills and began to dig a passage through them. But the god of the hills, foreseeing that men would come and cut down his trees to fire their furnaces, and blacken his rocks with their smoke, sent woodland dryads to distract Hercules. The dryads sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Comeback when I’ve finished!” But he was so eager to sample the pleasures that the dryads had promised that he stopped he work early, so that the Ironbridge Gorge was narrower than intended, and it remains a place of fast-flowing and dangerous waters to this day.

At last Hercules finished his labours, and the Severn now flowed southwards in a new path. And Hercules put down the spade, retrieved his club and sat down to rest in the Quarry gardens, and he called out, “Ho! Reed-girls and water-nymphs and tree-dryads! I’m finished at last! Where are the pleasures beyond imagining that you promised me?” But there was no answer, for they had all gone away. And Hercules smashed his club on the ground in frustration, causing a great pit which is now the Dingle. But eventually he fell asleep, exhausted by his labours.

The god of the River Severn saw him asleep and thought, “Now I’ll have my revenge! Reject the pleasures offered by my water-nymphs, did he? Not to mention the reed-girls and dryads too! I’ll cast a spell on him so that he’ll never be able to enjoy such pleasures again!” And he cast the spell, but Hercules did not realize it till he awoke.

Much later, men erected a statue of Hercules in the Quarry gardens. The river-god was already angry because, thanks to Hercules, he now faced a very long and weary route to the sea; and this made him angrier still. His anger continues to this day; and every few years he sends down a flood, which often fills the Quarry gardens and surrounds the statue of Hercules, but he has never yet managed to topple it. And if you go to the Quarry gardens today, you can still see Hercules, with his lion-skin and his mighty club and his gigantic muscles – but if you look closely you will notice that, thanks to the river-god’s curse, he wears only an improbably tiny fig-leaf.

.

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 how 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 posts her poems on X)

Solstice II, by Alison Lock