Murder at The Lyceum by Ann Dixon, espresso

 ‘Have you seen this, Cynthia?’ said Leo, his voice trembling with constrained anger.

 ‘The press have a lot to answer for. First, they build us up, saying how wonderful it is to have the old Lyceum Theatre brought back to life again. Then they knock us right back down by publishing this garbage about the ghost of Beatrice Featherstone, causing the death of talented actress, Miss Amy Parsons. We're done for I tell you, thoroughly done for!’ Leo le Brun director, producer and chief mover and shaker in bringing about the resurrection of The Lyceum Theatre, buried his head in his hands.

 

      ‘Well Leo," said Cynthia quietly, ‘you must admit that what happened last night was very strange. What could possibly have made the set collapse? It had been built specifically to hold Amy’s weight, and the Health and Safety bods had also passed it.’

 ‘That's just it Cynth, it can't have been built correctly. Why else would it have collapsed?’

  ‘I don't know Leo. But then there's the mystery of what several people in the audience said that they saw.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Leo guffawing loudly. ‘Sheer unadulterated nonsense.’

 ‘Now that's not fair Leo. How do you know what they saw? You were backstage.’

 ‘Well, backstage or not, I still maintain it's a load of bunkum.’ Leo shook his head and tutted loudly. "

‘Do you mean to tell me that you actually believe that they saw Amy's face turn white with fright, and that she said ' My god it's you. How on earth can it be you. You're dead.'   I told the press quite emphatically, that it was complete and utter rubbish.’ Cynthia returned to her glass of red wine. After taking a large mouthful, she put the glass back on the table, stood up, and with all the force she could muster, punched him forcibly on the nose.  ‘You prig Leo! You self-righteous prig,’ she yelled. ‘Amy’s dead and all you can think of is how to save your precious theatre. You simply don't want to believe that those people could possibly be right, because if they are, then The Lyceum Theatre could end up being a dead duck. Who would want to attend a performance where their very life might be in danger? Anyway Leo, my best friend, - no - our best friend is dead, but all that matters to you is that the success of The Lyceum Theatre be assured.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and held his dripping nose. Leo le Brun looked askance at Cynthia.

 ‘You're mad Cynth, do you know that. Bloody mad, just like the audience and all the rest of the people in this theatre. You’ll believe in ghosts, yes! but believe in straightforward common sense, no! As I keep on saying, the whole idea of murder by ghostly apparition is codswallop.’

 

     Still holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose, he turned smartly on his heels and headed for the door. As it closed, Cynthia Matthews returned to her glass of red wine. Tears trickled down her face, the heavy stage make-up leaving it streaked and damp. She attempted to wipe the mascara from her eyes, but the tears mixed with the oily black pigment and the dark oily emollient of her stage make - up. The result was hideous. She took another gulp of wine, to try and numb the loss she felt at the death of her closest and dearest friend.

   

     Holding his still bleeding nose, Leo walked along the corridor to Amy's dressing room. He went inside, ran some warm water into the basin and began to rinse his nose, the water, quickly becoming tinged with red. He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and, dabbing his nose, swore vociferously under his breath. ‘Stupid bloody women. Can't bloody stand 'em - can't bloody do without 'em.’ He lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a curl of smoke twisting its way under the door and drifting purposely towards him. Leo shivered. ‘What the dickens,’ he muttered. The smoke gathered in a large cloud just in front of him as an army of tiny ants marched double quick time down his spine. His hands became clammy, and his breath came in a quiver of short sharp bursts. The smoke began to take shape as tiny sparks fluttered within it. Leo, now as rigid as a Rodin sculpture, watched with bated breath as the smoke took human form. A shimmering ethereal like body, stepped towards him. No words were spoken out loud, but Leo could visualize a jumble of words, forming in his minds eye. The words slowly rearranged themselves.

‘Do not think you can take this theatre from me. You cannot. It belongs to me, Gerald Featherstone. Do not think you can bring another to replace my beloved Beatrice Featherstone. You cannot. Your pitiful little ingénue Amy, is thankfully no more, so, if you wish to save your miserable skin and those who defile The Lyceum, close the theatre, and leave it to those who truly belong here. Leave it to the ghosts of the past.’

 Leo gulped. “I take It that it was you then, who killed Amy and demolished the stage set. More words rearranged themselves in Leo's mind.

‘Yes, of course it was me.  I simply could not allow a mere upstart to head the bill. You do see that don't you?’

A nervous Leo nodded. ‘I'll see that The Lyceum is left in peace. I can see now that it was wrong of me to try and replace the inimitable Beatrice Featherstone.’ The smokey form slowly dissipated and In Leo's mind the last words of Gerald Featherstone took shape.

‘Go, and all will be well. Stay, and you and your company will meet the ingénue's fate. I bid you farewell.’

 

     Two weeks later the theatre was closed, - left to the mites, moths, and spiders to inhabit. Over the following years, the resurrected grandeur of the theatre slowly faded, but the ghosts of Gerald and Beatrice Featherstone continued to tread its boards, occasionally, plagued by one Miss Amy Parsons.

 

About the author 

I am a 75year old retired primary school teacher. I write purely for pleasure, along with a few like-minded friends. I am happy to write on any theme, but I must admit, that I particularly enjoy incorporating a few ghosts into the storyline. I have written a book entitled ‘The Bewitching of Esme Smart,’ aimed at children between the ages of 8-12 years. My motto: ‘When all else fails – write.’

 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Circle of Life

By Ann Dixon 

flat champagne 

 Money has always come readily to me. As an investment banker, I had what people often referred to as 'the luck of the devil.' I also played the stock market and lady luck  was, it seems, my constant guide and companion. BUT! As the old saying goes, ' Lucky in business - unlucky in love,' and this was certainly so in my case.

      I married young. Helen was the beautiful, blue eyed girl of my dreams and when we tied the knot, a whole raft of manhood sighed,  wrung their hands and wailed morosely.

The first few years of our marriage were sheer bliss but as Helen climbed the greasy pole of media management and I played 'he who dares' on the stock market, our lives slowly and irrevocably drifted apart. Socializing became an endless round of champagne breakfasts and business meetings cunningly disguised as cocktail parties. Looking back we didn't really stand a chance. Marriage, and the ever increasing demands of work, were a sure fire recipe for marital collapse.

      Helen and I went our separate ways three years ago now. We had pots of cash safely ferreted away in a Swiss bank account. With some  the money Helen set up her own advertising company. I, eager to escape the rat race for a while, bought a small island off the coast of Ecuador.

      My only companions on the island was my dog Gyp and Darwin Escaltza, a jovial and somewhat portly naturalist. When he wasn't showing tourists the wonders of the  Galapagos Islands, he was either teaching in the University of Quito, lazing on his own island of Bernita or swilling ice cold lager on my porch. Life was good and my considerable bank account enabled me to live on my island in consummate ease and luxury.

      I remember one particular day, standing on a spit of orange brown rock that jutted out to sea. It was one of those perfect days that lingers in the memory. The air was heavy with the scent of Jasmine. All was quiet save for the occasional cry of the flightless cormorants nestling in the shade of narrow crevices. Out at sea Black Noddies skimmed the waves at breakneck speed, a pod of dolphins frolicked mischievously, twisting and turning in a wild joyous competition. Right next to me, lazy Sea Lions basked in the shade of overhanging ledges, saving their energies for the rigours of night hunting. Overhead Mocking Birds flitted to and fro from bush to bush, bringing back precious twigs for their designer nests and crickets jumped from leaf to leaf in their secret low level world. This idyllic picture was completed as two graceful turtles, swimming in the shallows, raised their heads momentarily before descending into the shimmering depths. Right there and then I thought that life could not be better. Suddenly a tiny iguana scuttled over my foot and brought me back to reality. Life on my island was indeed blissful and yet hardly a day passed when I did not think of my beautiful wife. With Helen at my side I was convinced that a great life, could become a perfect life. There was no denying it; I missed Helen like crazy and the thought of her so far away made my heart ache.

      For many months life trickled by in a golden haze of reverie, until one evening in May my peaceful, quiet, existence was turned topsy-turvy. Hurricane Henry came raging into the South Pacific ocean and decided to pay me a visit. Prior to Henry, I had always been fascinated by hurricanes, seeing them as exciting and thrilling creatures of nature. I was foolishly not prepared for the complete devastation and destruction that Henry would inflict on my island home..

      On that fateful night the wind began to build and I guessed that I was in for a humdinger of a tropical storm. I gathered together some essential supplies, turned off the generator and headed down to the basement. Among other things, I had installed a triple glazed safety window so that I could, in an emergency such as this, keep an eye on anything happening above ground.

       

       As the day slipped into midnight black, I knew that things could only  get worse. Gyp padded too and fro whining softly. He too could feel the air pressure dropping and hear the howling of the wind. We sat there we listening to the house creaking and whimpering and the doors clattering. Then came the rain. Hard and fierce at first battering its fists against the walls and windows. By the time the full force of the storm hit us, the rain was travelling horizontally and an angry wind was bending the trees almost to the ground. Every time a gust hit, it shrieked and wailed, and the house groaned and moaned against the relentless onslaught. Even though I knew the house was incredibly strong and brick built to the very highest quality, I worried that the roof would not hold. I had visions that when the storm moved on, I would find the roof in tatters and strewn about the bedrooms.

      Slowly and irrevocably the storm worsened. Then, as a particularly strong gust of wind battered the ever weakening structure of my home, I heard it cry out, as if in terror. The ceiling shuddered and shrieked. Gyp yelped as a small lump of plaster fell onto his legs. I knew at this point that we would have to leave the basement and brave the raging monster that was Henry. Holding Gyp in my arms I headed up to the kitchen. Already my home was in tatters. For a few moments I stared  open mouthed at the wreckage. The roof had indeed been blown off and all that remained of the bedroom ceiling was a few joists. The furniture was mangled and broken and some of it had lodged in the nearby trees. Initially I stood there, rooted to the spot. Gyp began to struggle in my arms and  reality kicked in.

      The rain was cold and hard and stung my face. I fumbled into my rucksack and brought out my high powered lamp. Leaning against the gale force wind, I pointed the lamp towards the path that lead to Carris Cavern. At least Gyp and I would be safe up there but the way up was steep and rocky and with Hurricane Henry dogging our way, we were exceedingly lucky to reach the safety of its open arms. I slept fitfully, dreaming of Helen. For sure, life had been good to me but I would have given away every penny I owned to look once more into her deep blue eyes and feel the warmth of her body next to mine.

      Come the morning all was quiet and still. I woke Gyp and we tentatively made our way back to the remains of the house. It was such a sorry sight.

The skeletal remains looked forlorn, as a fighter might, who had just lost a title fight. The island had fared no better. On the sand palms lay motionless, their bodies snapped clean in two. The shoreline was littered with flotsam and jetsam. Delicate green-blue plants were flattened by huge boulders, thrown by the mighty hand of Hurricane Henry. Even the lazy Iguanas usually found basking in family groups in quiet pools, now meandered about aimlessly, unsure of what to do or where to go. Ignoring the devastation I walked over to generator housing where I kept a transmitter. I tapped out the statutory s o s signal and waited to be rescued.

      When help finally arrived it came in the guise of Darwin in a naval launch. As there was now no jetty, the boat anchored in Sandy Bay. A dinghy was launched and as I peered out to sea I noticed a woman step aboard. It was her. My brain did a double take and my heart danced the jitterbug. Once ashore she raced towards me and flung her cold wet arms around my neck. "Jake! Oh my god Jake I thought you might be dead." She cried.

      "No way Babe," I retorted. "No hurricane could ever get the better of Jake Dempsey."

Needless to say, the reunion was glorious. I was in seventh heaven. It was as if we had never been apart. I gazed into her azure blue eyes and held her close. At long last I felt complete. Then, from the corner of my eye I glanced up at Darwin. He sauntered up and gave a short embarrassed cough - my bubble of joy slowly faded into the warm  Pacific air.

        Later that day,  I salvaged the remnants of my island life and stowed them aboard the launch. I bid my island adieu and with Helen at my side, we headed for the mainland. From there, we flew to the safety of a hotel room in Quito. We were decidedly pleased to note it had an ample king sized bed. The rest as you say - is history.         

Jimmy and the Inspector

by Ann Dixon

strawberry frappe     

 Jimmy West ambled into the school library and sat down next to an elderly gentleman sporting a mop of unruly grey hair. "Are you one of them inspector chappies ?" asked Jimmy. "Only Mrs Butterthwaite said I was to come and read to one of em."

 "Yes, I am." replied the man. My name is Mr Knowles and I'm a HMI. That means I'm one of Her Majesty's Inspectors of schools."

Jimmy began to snigger. "What's so funny young man?" asked the bewildered inspector.

 "I shouldn't really tell you," replied Jimmy. "But, Mrs Butterthwaite said we must answer all the inspectors questions as truthfully as possible."

 "That's very sensible guidance," replied the inspector. "So then, what's so funny?"

 "Well Mr Knowles; Mrs Butterthwaite says you lot ought be called HMNPs."

 "HMNPs" replied Mr Knowles frowning. "And what exactly are HMNPs?" 

Jimmy cleared his throat and gave Mr Knowles a knowing stare. "Her Majesty's Nosey Parkers." he replied. 

Geoffrey Knowles coughed and tapped his lips in an attempt to disguise a smile.

 "I see," he said "I think that Mrs Butterthwaite has rather a low opinion of the inspectorate." 

 "No she ain't Mr Knowles. Its just that she's bin teachin' sproggs like me for over twenty years, and I suspect she thinks she could actually teach you lot a thing or two." 

Geoffrey Knowles bit his lip.

 "Mmm, You're probably right Jimmy, but an inspector has to check that all teachers are as good as Mrs Butterthwaite. I take it that you do like Mrs Butterthwaite?" 

Jimmy wiped a grubby sleeve across his nose and sniffed. 

 "I wouldn't say - like exactly. Bossy Beryl Butterthwaite can be a bit of an ogre, if you know what I mean." said Jimmy giving the inspector a knowing wink. "But er's fair. Mrs Bs got a sayin'  Be good, kind and considerate, work hard, stay on the right side of the line and all will be well. But! Cross the line and I'll .... "

"Yes, yes Jimmy, I ... I get the message." Jimmy sat back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him.

"This is a good school Mr Knowles. All mi brothers and sisters 'ave come 'ere. Our Jack did so well in 'is exams that 'e went to college to do some extra studying and now he's a fully qualified car mechanic. Joe's a manager at Bentley and Barlows, our Evelyn's a personal secretary to some big-wig and our Cathy's training to become a librarian. That ain't bad now is it Mr Knowles?"

 "Indeed that's very impressive Jimmy, but what about you? What do you want to do when you grow up?" 

 "That's easy," said Jimmy, as a wide grin spread across his cheeky face. "I either want to be a professional footballer or I'd like to teach little uns 'ow to read, write and do sums."

 "Very laudable occupations Jimmy, but just how do you expect to achieve one of these goals?"

 "By workin' 'ard an' keepin' mi nose clean - like Mrs Butterthwaite always tells us. She says anything is possible if you word 'ard enough. She also says we must kind to each other, be thoughtful, think of others and not just ourselves."

 "I think I'm beginning to warm to Mrs Butterthwaite," said Mr Knowles. "I think I'll enjoy talking with her tomorrow. But to business. What book are you reading at the moment?"

 "I'm readin' this ere book called A Christmas Carol by a chap called Charles Dickens."

 "And do you like the book Jimmy?"

 " Well at first I din't think I was going' to like it cause it was set a long time ago."

 " And just how long ago was that ?" asked Mr Knowles.

 "Well I don't rightly know, but mi gran got right uppity when I asked if she were alive when it was written, but If you hold on a minute Mr Knowles I'll be able to tell you." 

Jimmy stood up and walked over to one of the computers in the corner of the library. He tapped the keys then turned to face Mr Knowles.  " It says 'ere that he wrote the book in 1843 that's er... 174 years ago."

 " Quite right." said Mr Knowles. " I can see that you're a bright lad Jimmy."

 " It's not me that's bright Mr Knowles its Mr Google. He knows a thing or two does that Mr Google."

   

 "I suppose he is a bit of a know all," said Geoffrey Knowles, stifling yet another smile.

 "So what made you change your mind about the book then?"

 "Well I suppose I got to enjoy the characters. Them Marley brothers were right tight fisted and Jacob Marley (the one with the chains,) reminds me of mi dad's friend George  Binley. Mi dad says 'es as tight as a ducks arse. Oh! Sorry about that Mr Knowles, but I was just repeating what mi dad said.!"

 "I quite understand Jimmy. So umm! Do you read at home?"

 "Yes I do."

 " And what are reading at the moment?" 

Jimmy considered the question for a moment before replying.

 "If I tell you Mr Knowles you 'ave to promise not to tell mi dad or Mrs Butterthwaite." 

 "I so promise, " replied a now very inquisitive Mr Knowles.

 "Cross your heart and hope to die?"

 "Cross my heart and hope to die," he replied, placing his hands across his chest.

 "I'm readin' Lady Chatterley's Lover. I don't know what all the fuss is about though. Jack Parker said it had a lot of 'naughty bits in it' if you get mi drift. But I 'aint' found any yet." 

 "Well! I'm not sure you should be reading such a book Jimmy -  but, a promise is a promise. Now then, I think I should be getting down to hearing you read some more of 'A Christmas Carol.' Please turn to the page you're reading at the moment and carry on."

Jimmy West dutifully did as requested.

When the inspectorate left St Peter's Primary School, they were in no doubt that the school was doing a fine good job. Thanks in part of course, to Mrs Butterthwaite and the inimitable Jimmy West.   

About the author

Ann is a retired primary school teacher who enjoys writing for pleasure. She has won a few minor competitions, but her aim is mostly to entertain – both herself and others. 

     

Down by the River

Ann Dixon

sparkling water

       With all her household chores finished Enid Fisher danced her way to her secret hideaway down by the River Clare. Amidst its many twists and turns was a small inlet, hidden from the view of prying eyes by the long delicate fronds of a Weeping Willow tree. From the land, it was hidden by a wide stretch of Blue Elderberry shrubs and a mass of tangled Juniper bushes. With a bit of luck thought Enid,  Harry would be waiting for her. She had thought long and hard before inviting him to the hideaway, but Harry had proved to be a stalwart friend and had even taken on  Jem Galloway, the school bully, when he had tried to steal her school bag. To be absolutely sure though, she had insisted he take a blood oath, swearing never to reveal its location to anyone -  especially grown ups.

Enid twirled and hummed as she drank in the fresh, sweet, smell of summer. and  ahead of her, the River Clare twinkled mischievously  in the sunlight. As she got closer Enid looked around to make sure no one was following her, or could see where she would duck into the swirl of Juniper branches. All was clear - the only onlookers, a few stray cows meandering on Darrow Head.

 "Where have you been ?" asked Harry, as Enid emerged into the dappled light.  "I've been waiting for ages. I thought you might have forgotten."

 "Harry Dempster! You do talk a lot of tommyrot. I know you had to muck out the pigs this morning and that's at least an hour's job. Besides, you know I can't get away before all my chores are finished. Aunt  Gwyneth insists on checking everything I do before I'm allowed out. Anyone would think I was a servant rather than her niece." Enid slumped to the ground and  lay back on the grassy bank. "Let's not argue," said Harry. "Look! I've set up my fishing rod, just liked you asked. If we're lucky we might catch a whale or two." Enid laughed, sat up and joined Harry by the riverbank.

  

The minutes ticked by and the line remained languid and still.

 "I don't think there are any fishes in this river, let alone  whales," moaned Enid. "I've been sitting here for ages. This is boring."

"Fishing takes patience," replied Harry "And clearly you ain't got very much." 

Enid stuck out her tongue and  was just about to throw down the rod in disgust when there was a sudden pull on the line.

 "Hey! Harry, I think I've got something. Come and help. I think I might have caught a whale after all."

It took  Enid and Harry almost ten minutes to land their whale, which turned out in the end to be a monster sized carp.

 "A whale, a whale, I've caught a whale," he whooped.

 "Let me hold him then," said Enid excitedly.

He placed the carp in Enid's hands, and as he did so she leant over and kissed him, firmly on the lips.

 "Wow!" said Harry, and returned her kiss with equal ardour. A cheeky grin spread across his nut brown face. "If that's my reward for helping you catch a whale I think I'll catch another?"

Enid blushed.

 "Now don't you go getting any ideas Harry Dempster," she replied. "I'm not that sort of girl." Harry winked at her.

 "As if I would. I'm a knight in shining armour I am, a veritable Sir Lancelot. Chivalry's my middle name." Harry bowed low and within minutes they were both in fits of laughter.

 "I think we'd better return our whale to his watery home," said Harry.

Together they bent down and replaced the carp in the river.

 "Goodbye Tommy Whale," whispered Enid. "KEEP SAFE!" The carp flipped its tail and swiftly darted away to the safety of deeper water.

For a few moments they stood looking nervously at each other. Enid was the first to break the awkward silence.

 "Thanks for teaching me how to fish," she said quietly.

 "And thanks for that kiss," said Harry. "I must admit, It was a bit of a surprise.  Does this mean you actually like me Enid Fisher?"

 "Course it does you ninny. Otherwise I wouldn't have told you about this place."

Harry reached over to Enid and swung her round. " Then from now on then you're

 my girl," he said.

The sun  began to set over Darrow  Head and Enid and Harry said their farewells. "Same time tomorrow?" asked Harry hopefully.

 "Why yes, dear sir, " replied Enid. "I do believe I have a space in my busy diary," and together they walked to the top of the hill hand in hand. Many more assignations followed over the years  and in 1913 Harry and Enid married.

     Their bliss was unfortunately short lived . Harry joined the army at the outbreak of the War and for five years its monstrous shadow  blocked out the sunshine of their love.

When Harry returned to Blighty he was not the same man that Enid had married. He had become quiet and introvert. The lively, outgoing, happy go lucky man she knew, was locked away in a distant land of memories  that he would not -or could not share. Enid so much wanted to help Harry but he resolutely refused to talk about his war experiences. She surmised that the memories were just too painful.

One morning when Enid was cleaning out the cupboard under the stairs, she came across their fishing rods which had fallen behind some wooden shelving. Her thoughts immediately ran back to those early days when she and Harry would meet in their secret hideaway down by the river. She smiled to herself as she recalled the day that she first kissed him. His expression had been one of complete surprise and also of absolute joy. From that day, all those years ago she knew that they were meant for each other.

Enid was about to replace the rods when a sudden idea popped into her head.

 "Hey! Harry. You'll never guess what I've just found."

 " You mean you've actually found something in that cupboard? Its like the black hole of Calcutta under there."

 "Well! I've just found these," said Enid extracting the rods. "How about we brush them off, grab some bait, and go fishing?"

 "I don't know about that," replied Harry doubtfully.  "It's been a long time, love, and I've probably lost the knack after all these years."

 "Well ! Harry Dempster, you'll never know until you try, " said Enid resolutely. "I know just the place down by the River Clare?" Harry laughed. "Come on Harry, just

 for old times sake."

Harry looked across at Enid's smiling face. How could he say no.

That afternoon, the two of them pushed their way past the juniper bushes and emerged into their secret river bank world.

 "Come on then Harry. Let's get cracking!" said Enid encouragingly.

 "I will," said Harry,  "But not before you give me a kiss. No kiss means no whales and we can't have that, can we?"

Enid eagerly complied. The kiss was long and tender.

Two hours later Harry was happily chattering away and  Enid caught a heart-tingling glimpse of the man she had married all those years ago.

That day, fishing by the river, was to be the first of many. They were days when  Harry could free his troubled  mind and focus on the beauty of nature. His battle was not now with a fierce some enemy but with an array of clever and intelligent fish. On those days that  Enid  and Harry fished  together, he would  smile and talk joyously  about their carefree, childhood.

So it was, that gradually, day by day, week by week and month by month,  Harry Dempster slowly recovered. Harry would always say that he  put his recovery down to the love of a good woman and the quiet search for Tommy, the riverbank whale.

On one particular summer morning, as he waited patiently by the riverbank

 for the fish to bite, he took out his pen knife and carved a heart in the bark of the Willow Tree. Underneath  it read - Harry loves Enid 1926 He stepped back to admire his handy work.

 "Oh dear," he said after a while. "I do believe I've forgotten someone." He returned to the tree and added the following:    Harry loves Enid 1926 and Tommy - our whale.

About the author  

Ann is a retired primary school teacher and has written many short stories in a range of genres. She has also written a fantasy fiction book for children entitled The Bewitching of Esme Smart. She hopes publish this sometime next year.

Eternal

Ann Dixon

Redbush Tea

Bella De Sang scanned the assembled crowd on the platform. What a dull, lifeless lot they all seemed, she thought. She had hoped to find an interesting and good looking travelling companion to help relieve the tedium of the long journey down to London but none appealed to her.

      The station intercom suddenly crackled into life,  announcing the imminent arrival of the London train to Euston. As one, the crowd picked up their luggage and slowly made their way to the platforms edge. It was then that Bella spotted him., a handsome dark haired man standing near the ticket office. He turned towards her and Bella drank in his rugged good looks. Now there was a man she could happily spend a few hours with she thought. He had a muscular build and a fine chiselled  face that even Apollo might envy. A mop of unruly hair, curled cheekily towards his large almond shaped eyes; but - a sudden pained expression spread  across his face. Deep furrows lined his brow changing his features from heroic to pitiful. Bella watched in fascination, as the young man  limped awkwardly towards the train. Not that his limping  mattered to her of course, her plans did not require physical perfection, just a healthy fascination with the opposite sex.     

      Unaware of Bella's gaze, Ben slowly made his way to the train. He shuffled along the corridor and selected an empty carriage at the rear, hoping fervently that he would be left alone. The last thing he wanted was to be forced into meaningless conversation with someone he didn't know. Through long periods of illness he had lost his lucrative position as chief executive of Marlow and Sons, and  Mira, his long term partner, had recently left him for an oily bank manager. His now somewhat reduced funds, had meant giving  up his beloved luxury apartment overlooking the River Thames, for a pokey little studio flat in Darrington. Life was at an all time low for Ben and he simply wanted to be left in peace.

       After stowing his briefcase in the luggage rack, he sat down for what he hoped would be a silent, solitary journey.  Minutes later however, the door slid open and in walked  the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Dressed totally in black, she was tall, slim and supremely elegant. She closed the carriage door and before sitting,  pulled down the window blinds. Long, diaphanous white hair wafted softly across her pallid face. Her eyes, a  hypnotic violet and her sensuous full mouth painted deepest red - fair took his breathe away. She sat down directly opposite him. Her gaze was overwhelmingly captivating and so intense, that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Ben was transfixed by her fervent, bewitching stare and could not look away.

      The train gradually gathered speed and was soon singing its rhythmic tune.  Bella leant forward to observe her handsome Apollo more closely. It had been an extremely long, time since she felt so strongly attracted to anyone and why this young man should appeal so much to her, was a bit of a  mystery to her.

       As she held him in her gaze she drank in his rugged looks, but then, as she probed his handsome features more intently, she also sensed his pain, his loneliness and an all consuming sadness.  There was a time of course, when despite those wondrous looks, she would have dismissed such a physically weak creature out of hand, but this young man was different  somehow and Bella was determined to help him.

       'Why not come and sit here,' she said to him, her voice deep and sonorous. Her long, china boned hand, indicated the seat next to hers. A  mesmerized Ben did exactly as he was bidden. 'Now!  close your eyes,' she instructed. Ben dutifully obeyed. Bella revealed her fangs and with a delicious tenderness, she drank the exquisite, dark, ruby elixir of his life. The taste was sublime.

       

       When  Ben eventually opened his eyes the train was pulling into  Euston Station and of his alluring travelling companion there was no sign.

His mouth felt desert dry and when he stood, his head was a  little light, but that apart, he felt inextricably stronger and healthier than he had done for many months and his heart now throbbed with a strong, steady rhythm. He collected his suitcase from the rack and made his way off the train without the merest trace of a limp.  

       Before heading off to visit his specialist, and eager to quench his thirst, he headed off to the station cafe. Ahead of him in the queue stood a young, pretty, blonde haired girl and Ben felt strangely attracted to her. He watched as she ordered a latte and sat down in the deserted courtyard at the back of the Waiting Room.  Ben needed something stronger and ordered a double espresso.

       With espresso in hand, he strolled into the courtyard and sat down opposite he, eager to examine those delicate features more closely. . He sipped his espresso. The girl looked up and their eyes met. Without warning, a dark all consuming  sadness flooded his mind and a strange alien feeling stirred within him. His eyes blackened and Ben's ice white fangs slid gently over his lips. Yes! The taste would be sublime.