Claredale

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A rat the size of a small dog was looking straight at me from no more than 3 feet away.  I shivered in my doorway; the wind was finding its way through my trench coat and was seeping into my skin. Thank god the rain had stopped, but there were still large puddles dotted around the pavements. The rat took one last look, decided I was no threat, and scampered away. I hugged my knees closer to my chest and pulled the brim of my hat down over my eyes. A stray firework brought brief pinks and golds to the grey skies above before fizzling out. I closed my eyes, I could feel my toenails in my shoes. That was a sure-fire sign that I was beyond tired, but sleep would not be an option. All I could do was rest up here for a bit, and then when I knew the coast was clear continue the journey.

I’d spent the afternoon in the Bethnal Green Washhouse, a ghastly place with the poorest of the poor doing their laundry and washing their bits, but it was warm and safe; no one paid anyone any heed in there. So I was washed and scrubbed but I’d decided not to shave, the beard added 10 years, maybe it would fool the public even if it wouldn’t fool the police. But I was regretting it now; the hair was beginning to itch around the nape of my neck. I tried not to scratch, but the urge all too often beat my willpower. When I’d left the bathhouse I’d gone past my flat to see the place swarming with police. No way I could go back there in a hurry. It was time for plan B.

    “And what are you doing out here sir?”

I looked up to see a truncheon dangling in front of my eyes and a copper towering over me. I knew there would be an all points warning out for me, I guessed the copper was trying to work out where he’d seen me?

    “Nowhere else to go,” I said, trying to sound as working class as I could.

    “Couldn’t get in the Sally?” he asked, his voice was kind, not what I’d been expecting.

    “The Sally?”

    “Salvation Army, just around the corner, they’ve got beds for you lot.” I nearly said I am not one of that lot but stopped myself just in time.  “C’mon, I’ll take you,” he said leaning down and pulling me up by my arm. I resisted.

    “I’m okay,” I said.

    “You can’t stay there sir, I have to move you on.” He yanked my arm and pulled me up. There was a heavy clunk as metal met concrete. We both looked down to see the gun lying there beneath us. We stared at each other for long, slow seconds.

    “What have we here sir?” despite the sudden shift in circumstances, the copper was still as courteous as you like.

I pushed him hard in the chest, he toppled, taken by surprise. I grabbed the gun, grabbed my bag and ran, behind me I heard the police radio crackle to life and the policeman talking, but I was flying now. I could hear sirens; they were calling my name, like a cat owner calling for her precious kitty. 

In front of me was an archway, an entrance to an old tenement building, I tried the gate, it was locked. Could I get over it? I hauled myself up, that was the easy part, now I had to scramble over and jump down. Sirens were getting louder. I had no choice. I closed my eyes and jumped.

I ran across the courtyard and slipped down behind a car as torchlight swept the place. But they didn’t see what they were looking for and moved on. Hopefully, I would be safe here until morning. I’d found being a fugitive is easier in the daylight, you can get lost in the crowd. My breathing was returning to normal, my heart rate beginning to slow when I heard a noise, I jumped. I looked up to see a rat the size of a small dog looking straight at me from no more than 3 feet away.

The Alleyway Part 2

For the Alleyway Part 1 click here (But I think it works as a stand alone story.)
For audio click here.

I didn't know how long I'd been out for, but it was long enough for them to move me from the alley and into a room. I had a pain in my head and a pain in my arm, but at least I wasn't dead, not yet anyway. I wasn't restrained, but three men stood between me and the door meaning restraints weren't necessary. I recognised one of them, it was Whitefoot of course. I knew he was in on the whole thing. I’d been so busy questioning his actions,  that I'd not seen the obvious, Whitefoot wasn't the target, I was.
The man in the middle had grey hair with a big forehead and unruly stubble. He dressed like a teacher and frowned like one too. He had slits for eyes, and he peered at me suspiciously. The third man was the muscle, his arms were as thick as my chest, and his head looked like it had been forced into his body like a whack-a-mole game. His face gave nothing away, but you could tell he was ready for action, if action was needed.
Hail clattered against the window like a jazz drum solo, the sound echoed around this empty room. I thought of Molly; I hoped she was sleeping and hadn't noticed I hadn't come home. Otherwise, she'd be listening to the rain and worrying herself silly. I stared at my captors, wondering what they wanted.
They were waiting for me to talk first, but I knew their game and I was good at it. They'd break long before I did.
Finally the schoolteacher spoke.
“We want you to work for us Mr Archer.”
“It’s Mr Stanley,” I corrected him, ignoring his other words.
“Sorry,” the teacher said. “Mr Stanley, we’d like you to work for us.”
Again he left it there, it was up to me to ask who they were.
“I already was working for one of you,” I said, staring at Whitefoot, “and look where that got me.” 

Whitest looked embarrassed and so he should.
“We’re sorry,” he said, “we couldn't exactly invite you here, we had to do it this way?”

“Why not?”
“Mr Arch...Mr Stanley,' the teacher said, “we're the secret service, but we have a problem, we have a mole, a bloody big mole, in fact I think we have a company of moles,"
“A labour,” The teacher looked at me blankly. “The collective noun for moles is labour.”.
“I thought it was company,” he said. I shrugged, it wasn't important.
“We'll give you three names, we need you to eliminate them from our enquiries.”

“You think they’re guilty?” I asked.

“We want to eliminate them from our enquiries, you know what that means.”
“Why can't you do it?” I looked at them each in turn, “you're the spies.”
“Only the four people in this room know about this Mr Arch... Stanley, we think someone in our department is passing information on to the spies.”

There was silence again, just the rain on the window and the breath of four nervous people.
“Boy, you are in a pickle,” I said. “What if I say no?”
“We kill you,” the muscle said.
“In that case, count me in.”

The Collective Noun for Moles

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The cafe was quiet, just me, the staff and the girl on the next table. Actually girl is the wrong word, she was a woman, all woman. Surrounded in a fug of smoke, her red hair and green eyes shone through like a landing strip in the fog. Her face said don't mess with me, but there was something in the way she tapped her finger to Aretha that suggested there might be a softer side. She was a pleasure to behold, but I wanted to do more than just behold.
But I’m hopeless at this sort of thing. How on earth do you break the ice with a complete stranger who has don't even think about it written across her forehead? If I get started, I’m not too bad. Once the conversation is flowing I can ride the canoe, but how on earth do you get into the flow in the first place? I longed for her to drop a pen or a coin so I could pick it up for her, say something clever to get it going. But she was not the careless type; maybe she'd learnt from previous experience that carelessness attracts unwanted attention. I racked my brains, desperately trying to think of something to say. Maybe just a compliment would do, I love your hair, your glasses are great, I just love the way your top hugs your breasts - okay maybe not the last one, in fact, maybe not any of them. Were compliments sexist? Did they show that I was just seeing her as a sexual being? (I was, but she needn't know that, nor do you for that matter, so strike that.) Gosh, I really was bad at this.

Then I had a brainwave. It was obvious, why hadn't I thought of it before. I was trying to write a story, but I was stuck on a word. Maybe she would know it. I leaned over and caught her attention.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, with the most innocent look I could muster, “what's the collective noun for moles?’
She looked at me like I was the village idiot.

“No idea at all,” she spat and, needless to say, the ice remained intact. 

No Choice

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A droplet of sweat inched its way down my spine like a raindrop on a windowpane. I wondered if glass has an overwhelming desire to scratch itself when the rain leaves a trail. Like the glass I was unable to sate my needs; even if my hands hadn’t been crudely tied behind my back, I still wouldn’t have been allowed to move to scratch the itch. The six of us were kneeling on the hard cobblestones - two rows, three columns, hands bound, heads bowed. My knees hurt; I could feel sand and grit digging into my skin, but I just had to bear the pain. We’d been told a single movement would mean certain death, and we didn’t want to find out if they were bluffing.

19 minutes ago I was sitting on a train minding my own business, reading my Kindle and trying to subtly watch the girl opposite me, who had the most delicious, stocking-clad legs I’d ever seen. But my enjoyment was ruined when the compartment door slid open and an armed man poked his head in.

“Passport,” he spat.

We all offered our passports, but the man only took mine. He looked at my picture and then put the passport in his pocket. The girl in the stockings looked out of the window, the other man in the compartment looked at his boots.

“Come with me,” the armed man said.

I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t have much choice. I stood up and followed the man. He opened the door and yelled something in a language I didn’t understand. Then he stood back and signalled that I should jump down onto the tarmac below. Again my choices were limited - jump off the train leaving behind

all my things or get shot. I jumped.

An armed clone was there to meet me; he grabbed me by the arm and marched me to the front of the station, where I was instructed to kneel.

Two men paced around us, their boots clicking on the cobbles, their guns hanging from their sides. I could smell cigarette smoke and alcohol and hear sobbing from next to me.

The train chugged out of the station taking my suitcase and laptop with it, and leaving us in a dark, deserted station surrounded by a ragtag group of militia.

The tension built; the two ringleaders continued to pace, shouting at each other and laughing, the other men joining in their mirth. This was it, this was surely  the end.

One of the men crouched down and quite tenderly touched the chin of the sobber, lifting his face, looking into his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you are not going to die,” he stood up and spat on the ground. “yet.” The men laughed.

“Stand up,” he shouted. It’s hard to stand up when your hands are tied. “Get in the van,” he instructed.  I hadn’t noticed the van there. Militiamen helped us in and slammed the door. Then the engine started and we moved off; scared, confusedm but still alive.

The Poppy

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“Where’s the PM?” Caroline, the press officer, asked no one in particular.

“Oh it’s Sunday, you won’t see him until at least Monday afternoon, he’s probably at home, or at Chequers or something. Why?” Donald, the deputy spin-doctor, took a lazy bite out of his bacon roll.

‘It’s Remembrance week,” Caroline said, “and I don’t have a picture of the PM wearing a poppy.”

“Well, you’re not going to get one now are you?” Donald said, looking pleased with himself. He knew they were all on the same side really, but he liked it when one of the newbies fucked up.

“Thanks for that,” Caroline mumbled under her breath, Donald was a lecherous old bastard; he’d been in the Tory party for years. Caroline was pleased she hadn’t worked with him when molestation was seen as part of the job.

“So any suggestions?” she said.

“Photoshop it.”

“Photoshop what?”

“God do I have to do everything myself “ Donald muttered, “what’s it for?”

“The website,” Caroline said wishing she hadn’t got the Sunday shift.

“Leave it with me,” Donald said. He sighed but deep down he was smiling to himself’ he’d solve the problem, he’d get the plaudits. That’s how he stayed ahead of the game.

“Who the fuck is responsible for this?” Eric, the assistant to the chief spin-doctor, roared at his startled colleagues, not ready for a volcanic eruption on a Monday morning.

They looked up on mass to see him holding his iPad up. The PM looked handsome, but there was something wrong with the photo.

“Since when did we employ 5 year-olds?” Eric roared. “Caroline, is this your doing?”

Caroline looked at the image and smiled, “um no Eric, Donald did that,” she said.

“Where the hell is he?” Donald’s desk was strangely empty.

“Caroline, take this down before anyone gets wind of it.”

“Too late boss,” Pete said, “look.” Pete had done a twitter search for the PM, tweet after tweet were of the PM with a cartoon poppy photoshopped somewhere close to his lapel.

“They are having a field day already,” Pete said. 
“Caroline remove the picture, Pete put out an apology and Donald,” Donald had just come into the room, “You’re fired.”

Don't believe this could be true? This was the Official Twitter picture of Cameron yesterday. 

The Smokers' Pub

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The smoke hung low and thick like an autumnal fog enveloping a valley. The whitewashed wall were grubby yellow, the ashtrays had scars burnt into them and the grey moustaches of the clientele had a mustard tinge; this was a smokers’ pub and no mistake.

Cliff sat alone at the table by the toilets not smoking, nursing his beer, he could feel the smoke getting onto his clothes, his skin, his hair. He was already wheezing.  He couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d tried. Cliff was no good at blending in, no good at all.

There was no music but it was loud - the constant chatter of a thirsty crowd; all men apart from the middle-aged barmaid. Cliff watched her; she was incredible. She carried 5 beers in each hand while smoking a cigarette. She worked alone, pouring, serving and clearing tables. Occasionally someone ordered a pickled something or other, and she clattered with jars and plates and breadbaskets before throwing the food at the customer. Those customers were all over 50, silver, grey, or Grecian 2000 or whatever the local equivalent was. Which one was Petr? Or maybe Petr wasn’t here yet. Cliff watched the door, watched the men, watched the barmaid, he sipped at his beer whilst all around slugged at theirs. He was waiting for Petr while Petr was watching him.

For some reason ‘As Time Goes By’ was on loop in his brain. ‘It’s still the same old story, the fight for love and glory, a case of do or die.’ 

He’d drunk about three-quarters of his pint, when the barmaid whisked it away and replaced it with a fresh one. She was long gone before Cliff had a chance to complain. A man from the furthest table stood up and approached him.  Grey hair, grey beard, grey face, his fingers stained from a million cigarettes, his teeth from a million coffees.

“Jak se maš, Jsem Petr” Petr said loudly and shook Cliff’s hand. Cliff felt the paper in between their palms.

“Yack see marsh” Cliff said back to him and smiled. Before Petr continued his route to the toilet, he leant into Cliff, patted him on the back and whispered in his ear. “Now get the fuck out of here, they know who you are,” his English was perfect.

Cliff was only too pleased to do as he was told. He left some money on the table and went through the door sucking in the cool night air like a drowning man might gasp for breath. Despite smelling like an ashtray and knowing that he was still not out of this, he was happy; he’d got what he’d come for.