Saturday Sample: Honour Among Thieves by Robin Wrigley, Coffee

                                                         

The first sense that came in to play when I awoke from what felt like a drug-induced coma was that of smell. The dreadful odour that immediately signifies the presence of unwashed, human flesh. It has an unmistakable stench. I leaned over and blindly retched. It was that dry retch that produces nothing beyond bringing the taste that belonged in my stomach into my mouth. As my eyes became accustomed to the light and a state of semi-consciousness it was clear that the space next to me was, fortunately, free of anybody. However, I was not alone in this fetid cell – and the smell was not just me. I counted seven other figures at random intervals around the walls as my eyes adjusted to the light. Now, I started to recollect to my best ability just how I became to be in this shit-state. It wasn’t easy or quick. First, I looked at my watch. That wasn’t helpful as all that was there was a band of pale skin. This meant I was unable to calculate how much of my life was currently missing. ‘Anyone speak English in here? Please,’ I announced to the room. It took several moments for a reply to answer back in what I took to be a Dutch accent.

‘Yes, I do. What’s your problem?’ It wasn’t obvious which of the seven owned the voice. ‘Any idea what day it is?’ ‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘Do you mind telling me?’ It was essential to contain my anger that the guy could be such a smart arse but no point in falling out over something so trivial. ‘Sure, it’s Sunday.’ ‘Any idea of the date?’ ‘Jesus, you’re more fucked-up than me man. It’s the 24th, June that is, 1976 to be precise.’ ‘Thanks.’ With this important information I was able to get the cogs in my brain to turn and endeavour to calculate and understand just how I managed to be in this current situation. Friday, I had caught the first bus leaving from Peshawar bus station for the Afghanistan border on my way to Kabul and eventually England. Rummaging through my pockets for scraps of evidence my worst fears were realised. My watch wasn’t all I had been stripped of. My pockets were bare, not even my bus ticket but most importantly, my passport. But, from wiggling my toes inside my boots I was pretty sure my money was intact, so I wasn’t exactly destitute and possibly able to buy my way out of the next sticky situation and perhaps even this one. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Jalalabad, or close to it,’ the Dutchman replied. ‘Did you take one of those pick-up taxis at the border that stopped at that big truck-stop?’ That was it. ‘Yes – or at least I think so.’ ‘Well, Englishman, join the club. You’re up the Khyber but not very far!’ ‘Thanks. How long have you been in here?’ ‘Since yesterday, so less than you.’ ‘That’s some slight relief for me, I suppose.’ Just at that moment my attention turned to the door, it was obviously the sound of it being unlocked with crude and unoiled mechanisms resisting the turning of a, presumably, large key. As the lock eventually gave and the door swung open, light flooded into the room making it impossible to see the jailer clearly. However, I was able to feel him as he kicked me rather hard in my right upper thigh and ordered me to get up in broken English, barely understandable, then turned and more clearly growled, ‘Come.’ Holding the wall, I managed to get to my feet and stagger after him as best as I was able. My head started into another spinning action and my hand on the door frame saved me but only just as I had to quickly remove it before I nearly lost my fingers as he slammed the door shut and relocked it. The corridor we entered was constructed of rough-hewn stone, filthy and un-swept and lit with skeleton electric light bulbs.

‘Can I get a drink of water please?’ I asked at his back following him up the cobbled passageway, but he ignored my request. Probably he either didn’t understand me or more likely chose to ignore the request so I went without. It was all I could do to keep up with him even though he was shuffling quite slowly. At the end of the passage, he unlocked another heavy wooden door studded with rough wrought-iron bolts, stood aside to allow me in and locked it again. A few paces after that he opened another door to the right, made of heavy metal and ushered me in and walked away closing the door behind him. The whole scene seemed extremely ominous, and I started to shiver with fear and general alarm. The room was sparsely equipped with a large plain, empty wooden desk and a single chair behind it. It was lit with a single, bare electric light. On the wall was what I took to be a Koranic quotation. Apart from this the room was both empty and intimidating. I leaned back against the rough stone wall and willed myself not to faint. It was all I could do not to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. After what seemed an eternity when in fact it was probably only a few minutes the door opened again and a tall bearded man in a badly creased uniform, presumably a police officer of sorts, of no distinguishing rank, entered. He handed me a glass of water and sat down behind the table.

I attempted to sip it slowly but gave up and gulped it down in one. ‘So, Mr Gregory or would you like me to address you as Michael, or David as your passport describes you? Eh? Which do you prefer as I’m not familiar to your customs. Here in Afghanistan, we always use our father’s name before all others. A matter of respect, something your people would not understand.’ His command of English startled me and for a moment my initial fears subsided slightly. ‘As you like sir, Michael would be fine. But as you like.’ ‘You are the luckiest traveller to pass through this town although I doubt you realise that fact. You see, I have been following a gang of infidels who operate in the rest-stop you chose to seek food in on the road from Pakistan for several weeks now. Unlike the rest of the prisoners in the cell you have been lying in for the past few days. You didn’t knowingly take the drugs that caused your unconsciousness. The bandits arranged for it to be put in your tea. My men stepped in and arrested them before they had a chance to strip you of your possessions and throw you into the road as they normally would. I was only interested in what they did to you to give me good reason to grab them, as they have kidnapped my brother. Now I have them I will exchange them for his return. If I’m honest I have no interest in the likes of you. So many young people come here looking for drugs, and disappear, but you did not and appear to be a genuine traveller. A rare beast I can tell you.’ This was all too much to take in, in one go. That and the state my head was in. ‘Whatever it was that caused you to be looking over my shoulder I am very appreciative. Can I ask one more thing of you please?’ I did my best to look as humbly grateful as I could. ‘Certainly. I imagine if I have your passport and am I’m going to let you go? Correct?’ ‘Yes, sir on both those accounts a positive answer would be good as well another glass of water please?’ ‘The answer is yes. You never asked about your watch? It will be returned to you. Timex is not a very desirable make, and my sergeant has a better one anyway. I assume your money is still on you. We didn’t search you and the bandits who drugged you didn’t get a chance, luckily for you. The man outside will give you your possessions and another glass of water. You’re free to go Michael.’ He stood, shook my hand, then placed his large powerful hand over his heart, and allowed me to stagger out, still as if in a dream. A bad dream. It took some considerable time and the cold clean Afghanistan air for my befuddled mind to fully appreciate just how lucky I had been that my capture just happened to coincide with this policeman’s search for his brother. My guardian angel had certainly been working overtime.

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About the author

Robin short stories have appeared in CaféLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed.

Advice from the Grave by Robin Wrigley, black coffee

‘I suppose it really is my fault.’

     ‘Do you mean you are pleading guilty?’

     ‘No of course not!’

     ‘Look Reynolds, this has gone on just a little too long. Either you did it or you didn’t.’ The detective sergeant looked sideways at his female, uniformed colleague raising his eyebrows in apparent frustration.

     ‘What do you mean, it has gone on too long?’ Looking at the clock behind the policeman I said, ‘It is now just gone eleven. You picked me up at half past eight and I’ve been here trying to explain to you that this is a complete mistake. Most of the time has been taken up by me sitting here waiting while you got your act together, if it can be called an act.’

     ‘So why did you say it must be your fault? The detective flipped through his file and shifted himself in his chair, before looking again at me in such a way as to draw an acceptable response.

     ‘What I meant was, I should have listened to my wife who always told me to mind my own business and not speak to strangers, particularly school kids.’

     ‘Where is your wife now? Could she corroborate that advice?’

     ‘She could if you’ve got someone who is capable of communicating with the dead.'

      ‘Oh, I apologise I had no idea.’

     ‘That is becoming quite obvious,’ I allowed myself a wry smile.

     Again the detective looked thoroughly irritated. ‘How long is it since she died?’

     ‘Is this really relevant?’

     ‘It might be – loneliness can cause people to act in many different ways.’

     I leaned forward over the table separating us in order to emphasise my next words. ‘First, who said I was lonely? Secondly if, and I mean if I was, would I molest two whatever-their-age school girls in broad daylight? Do me a favour and give me the benefit of having some intelligence, please.’

     ‘If you had sat this side of this desk as many years as I have Mr Reynolds nothing would surprise you, believe me.’

     It was now the turn of the uniformed woman police constable. ‘Are you suggesting that these two young ladies made all this up? Can you seriously believe that just because you ticked them off for smoking they would go to all this trouble to make up a story like this?’

      ‘Your colleague here has just gone through telling me that stranger things happen all the time, unless I got the wrong impression. First of all they are not ladies by my understanding of the title lady. They are school-girls probably thirteen or fourteen years old. Not ladies.’

     ‘Alright, alright.’ It was the turn of the detective to take charge again. ‘You’re right about their ages, give or take, but old enough to know what happened to them. They are both adamant that you sexually assaulted them.’ The detective looked directly into my eyes again and opened both his upturned hands in a manner to suggest his last remark went without question. ‘Tell me, what is your occupation Mr Reynolds?’

     ‘I assume this, along with being a widower is relevant?

     ‘It might well be.’

     ‘Especially, if I was a piccolo player in a Chinese brothel? But sadly I wasn’t. I was a loss adjuster at Barclays until I retired ten years ago.’

     ‘Why did you visit the public toilets at seven-thirty yesterday morning? You only live about half a mile from there. Wouldn’t you normally use a toilet in your own home?’

     ‘Normally is an interesting word officer. Can I ask how old you are?’ I skewed my head slightly, enjoying the moment of being the giver of a question.

     ‘No you can’t, I’ll do all the questions if you don’t mind.’ The detective’s level of irritation moved up a notch.

     ‘Keep your shirt on officer, the only reason I asked is because if you were as old as I am with a prostate problem, sometimes half a mile can determine whether you arrive home with wet or dry pants. Not always. At the risk of incurring your wrath by asking another question, did you ask them why they were behind the gents’ toilet yesterday morning? Because if you didn’t I can tell you why. They meet up there quite frequently to smoke before going to school. I’ve told them twice this week that I would tell their parents.’

     ‘And did you tell their parents?’

     ‘Of course I didn’t. Had no intention of doing so. I don’t have a clue where they live. I just thought if I ticked them off they might think twice about what they were doing. Janet was right.’

     ‘Who is Janet?’

     ‘My wife. She always said I would get myself in trouble and it looks like she was right! Even from the grave. Damned irritating; ironic really, you see she died of lung cancer. That’s why I went to the trouble of trying to put those young girls off smoking.     

About the author

  

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

Dinner for Two + 1 by Robin Wrigley, gin and tonic

 

Dinner For Two + One

 

‘James?

            ‘Yes, is that you Angela?’

            ‘You mean you don’t recognise my voice, James. I realise it’s been four years.’

            ‘What, since you let me down at the last moment on Christmas bloody day?’

            ‘Oh, come on James that was four years ago. Is this going to be held against me forever?

            ‘Tell me, dear girl when was the last time you ever cooked a Christmas dinner? I imagine that this is the reason for this call after all this time.’

            ‘Look how many times have I got to apologise for heaven’s sake.’

            ‘In number – a lot.’

            In truth the last time she pulled out at the last minute worked out okay. I invited the old boy from next door instead. He’s been at my table every year since. In fact, I have invited him again this year. He’s a taxi driver in the city, never married and he has no family. I’ve always wondered if he was gay. You know - for no other reason than he lives on his own, (like me you might say). But he’s never given me any cause for concern.

I only invite him at Christmas. I refer to him as the old boy but I doubt if he is more that five years older than me. He’s a bit worn around the edges but he’s well-scrubbed up – well has to be working in the city I suppose. Since the second year he always brings me a bottle of Scotch. Doesn’t wrap it up. Do I care?

‘Well, dear girl, is this call to precipitate an invitation for Christmas dinner?’

‘No not entirely.’ She couldn’t help herself from an embarrassed giggle which I could have done without. ‘Please, pretty please James if you can find it in your heart after the last time, that is.’

‘The answer is yes. But you had not better let me down again. I don’t care if Rod Stewart or the Prince of Wales makes a counter offer. If you are not ringing my doorbell at one-thirty on Christmas Day I will hunt you down. Understood?’

Her giggle broke out into a full throated laugh.

‘Oh James, you are such drama queen, aren’t you?’

‘I’m deadly serious Angela. Oh, and by the way I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘What? You haven’t bought a dog, have you? I could just see you with a dog I really could.’

‘No.’

‘A cat then. I like cats.’

‘Honestly, I’m still petless and will die that way. Now get off the line and go and get your hair done. It looked a mess if memory serves me.’

‘You really can be so horrid at times. But I still look forward to spending Christmas day with you. You really are so kind. Bye James.’

With that she was gone. If she is good to her word she is in for a surprise. Her fellow diner will be a rather large taxi-driver from Jamaica. 

 

About the author 

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

So Far Away by Robin Wrigley, pink gin

When you live in Dunkirk, a small town on the banks of Lake Erie, you really don’t understand much about the world and the peoples in it. That all changed on Thanksgiving this year when I drove over to Boston to stay with my older brother Andy. He had an Australian guy called Michael staying with him.

            This was the first year that I was spending out of Dunkirk as I lost my Mom back in the summer. Dad had already passed two years earlier. Andy usually came to us on Thanksgiving and sometimes at Christmas.

            That was two weeks ago and this morning as I was putting the coffee on it struck me for the first time, that I’m going to drink this on my own. Meeting Michael made me feel lonely for the first time in my life. Usually, my life teaching maths at Dunkirk High kept me busy and always had. That, looking after Mom in her last years and keeping her guessing about the apparent lack of a man in my life.

            But now little old me has gone and fallen hook, line, and sinker in love at the age of forty-eight with a damned guy who lives in a place I know nothing about, Australia. When we met, I felt such a parochial dummy I was even surprised we spoke the same language.

That’s what living in a small town in nowheresville in New York State, does to you.

            ‘So, this is Andy’s little sister Mary all the way from Niagara Falls.’ Michael was a bit short for my liking in men. But his wavy dark hair and the most piercing blue eyes made up for all that lack of height.

            ‘Correction,’ I stammered as we shook hands. ‘I live in Dunkirk, a fair drive from Niagara.’

            ‘Dunkirk? Isn’t that in France?’

            ‘Sure, that one is but my Dunkirk’s where Andy and I were born and on the south shore of Lake Erie. That’s one of the Great Lakes in case you never heard of it.’

            It wasn’t one of best starts to a relationship but the welcoming group of Andy’s family, his wife Maggie and their two boys were definitely enjoying it and mainly at my expense.

            That night at the dinner table where Maggie had put me next to Mike, I got the chance to find out a little more of this foreigner. He lived in Melbourne lectured at university in geology. That was his connection with my brother, a geologist with a mining company.

            The following morning, I was up before everyone else, or so I thought, when I walked into the kitchen Mike was at the table on his laptop.

            ‘Gee Michael, I’m sorry I expected to be first up.’

            ‘No worries, Mary. I’m pleased in many ways but at this moment, are you allowed to start the coffee percolator?’ That smile. Those eyes.

            ‘I think I might manage that, Michael. How do you take your coffee?’

            ‘Firstly, it’s Mike. I haven’t been called Michael since I was a boy. Just plain old black please.’

Now, taking my coffee into the veranda overlooking the lake I sat down and reviewed my time in Boston. I suppose it was inevitable that my affair with a married colleague ending when his wife discovered our affair and Michael’s recent divorce made late night room changes in my brother’s house inevitable. Leastways that was how I looked at it.

            Now I’m drinking coffee on my own and thinking doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?

About the author 

Robin'd short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

Slow Country Dance Mary Chapin Carpenter by Robin Wrigley, whisky sour

It was Saturday evening and Eleanor had just made her weekly walk to Lionel’s grave. It was her habit, weather permitting that she preferred Saturday evenings as opposed to Sunday mainly because it gave her the privacy she craved and in memory of the night she first met Lionel and his brother.

As she passed the village war memorial she stopped and read the names of all the villagers who had given their lives in both world wars. Reading them to herself she could recite them by heart. It came to her in the same way the Lord’s prayer did when she attended Morning Song in St John’s church every Sunday morning. That and the first dance she ever had with Lionel’s older brother Mark whose name she had just read in the list on the memorial.

She could hear Jane’s voice in her head. ‘Oh, come on Ellie you’re such a stick in the mud.’ Smiling to herself she continued her walk. Jane was her best friend – a tear away if there was ever one. They were both educated at the grammar school in town, but Jane just went and got a job in Woolworths. It was just like her and in some ways, Eleanor envied her as she went on to a secretarial school which she never liked.

‘Honestly, Ellie, this is the best chance we’ll ever have to get to meet with the local talent. Your Mum even said she wanted me to get you to go.’

‘You are a big fibber, Jane Marshall. She didn’t did she?’

‘Well not exactly,’ she admitted. Funny after all these years Eleanor mused being able to remember her words after all these years.

That Saturday came so quickly Eleanor couldn’t find an excuse not to go and Jane was in their lounge waiting for her to come down.

‘You look smashing Ellie, you really do.’ Why oh why was she thinking these thoughts when she should be remembering Lionel. But it was the sight of the Bailey brothers that came to her as she continued her walk.

That last dance with Mark was the pinnacle of life at that stage but it was the only time he was to hold her in his arms. The very next day he joined the RAF left for the war never to return.

It must have been a year after Mark’s death that Lionel called round to visit Eleanor one Saturday evening. Not long after that he called and said there was a country dance in the village hall and would she like to go.

‘Thank you, Lionel it is very kind, but no.’ She had offered no excuse, and it was her mother during a conversation who had advised her to go and she did and called him of her change of mind.

It was a slow number after an evening of much joy and bouncing around the room. Seeing Jane twirling around six months pregnant she was able to bury Mark. Now she was able to remember lovingly and fondly his younger brother of that dance and the years of devotion they enjoyed.

Tears of both joy and sorrow slipped down her face as she continued home so pleased that it was Saturday evening, and she was the only one walking down from the cemetery.

 

About the author 

 

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

Eyes Opened Wide by Robin Wrigley, pink Champagne

 The offer of a lift in this noisy Bedford QL service truck was a stark reminder that a third class ride was better than a first class walk. John pulled the canvas sides apart from time to time in order to enjoy the view of the English countryside in full, glorious summer. It enthralled him and was a relief from the noise of the whining Bedford engine, the rattling of the superstructure and the flapping of the canvas as they wound their way down the A30.

            It didn’t seem possible this was the first time he had seen his own country in nearly three years and that seven days ago he was looking at Miriam coyly waving to him from Haifa docks as they set sail from Palestine. A tear in his eye started to form.

            Three sun-baked years out of his youth, thrust amongst two completely different sets of people who had one common enemy, the likes of him and his comrades. He had enlisted in the Royal Engineers and was posted  to Palestine in a clear-up operation after the defeat of the German army and he had found himself wedged between Arabs and Jews and unsure who he could trust.

            Now, he was shortly to be demobbed and slotted back into the life that had been his before they clad him in khaki and shipped him across the Mediterranean Sea. As he sat bouncing on the rough bench seat in the back of the wagon, his mind spun through a kaleidoscope of scenes and thoughts that at times caused a light sweat to break over his forehead. It all became too much to take in. He was happy before he was shipped away yet even happier before they shipped him back. Now he was home again.

            They dropped him at the railway station as he requested. He wasn’t intending to catch a train anywhere as he was already in his hometown. He jumped to the ground clutching the knotted rope placed there for that purpose to lessen the impact, then tugged his kitbag after him. Hoisting it on his shoulder he walked around to the passenger side and thanked the corporal for the lift and watched the truck drive away, back down the hill.

            He stood for a moment and took in the scene. Nothing had changed in his absence, as he stood soaking it in as though refocusing his eyes after a lens change. Directly across the road was ‘The Station Café’ so he decided a cup of tea was in order before he made the walk to the family home. They were not expecting him simply because he had not informed them of his return.

            The place was empty apart from an old fellow reading a newspaper at the corner table. They made eye contact with one another but neither of them spoke. John placed his kitbag against a chair snatched his beret off and went to the counter where a rather tall skinny girl stood.

            ‘Can I get you something luv?’ she asked indifferently.

            ‘Just a tea please,’ he replied.

The smell of fried food in the air made his stomach rumble. He wished he could order more than a cup of tea but having given the lion’s share of his demob pay to Miriam he didn’t have much choice. It was all he could think of to give her at their last meeting. He returned to his table frankly unsure if this was the correct procedure but not wishing to extend the conversation further by asking. He sat down at his selected table and dropped his beret onto one of the chairs. In all honesty he really didn’t have the faintest idea of how you bought stuff in these places. He’d never been in a café before other than a NAAFI canteen. There, with the bright eyes of Miriam behind the counter he never needed any help.

            Seeing the old man in the corner with his newspaper caused his thoughts to drift to the lack of such basic everyday items as newspapers where he had spent the last three years. Not that it mattered as he was never much of a reader anyway. The odd local weeks-old newspapers, sent from home to individuals did get passed around the barracks. It was understandable that the recipients were delighted to receive them and wanted to share but reading parish news from towns he’d never visited offered little interest to him. He had even resorted to reading the odd comic to relieve the boredom when on the relief parts of guard duty. In fact, when his mind wandered, he often compared himself to one of the heroes in the Superman comic and that his uniform was a disguise for the real him.

            He looked out of the window and watched a young woman pushing a pram with some difficulty up the hill on the opposite side of the road. Another mixture of scenes rushed through his mind before he caught the smell of fried food under his nose as the skinny girl placed a cup of steaming tea on the table in front of him causing him to flinch slightly. No word passed between them.

            This was how his home territory and how its natives behaved, silently as if avoiding social intercourse at all costs. As though extra words would lead to more. How utterly different Palestine and the army had been. People said what was on their mind. Asked questions. Hello mister, where you from? What your name? Always searching for an answer, encouraging, even instigating conversation for conversation’s sake. Open disappointment if you fail to engage.

            Now, he had but the time to finish this cup of tea, walk across the meadows and decide whether Superman would revert to Clark Kent and Lois Lane was just a memory. A kiss under an orange tree in Jaffa. Along with his tan, will it fade?

About the author

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

Cruising with Cougars by Robin Wrigley, pink gin

 Giuseppe Fontana untied his bowtie and hung it carefully over the shoulder of his jacket on the cabin door and dropped back onto his bunk. It had been a long day and not one that he had particularly enjoyed which in all honesty was unusual.

            He allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep for a short nap. It was not something he liked to do otherwise the next thing he knew it would be morning and he would have slept in his clothes. Pepe as he was known since a small boy was very particular about clothes. Something many of the other stewards and staff were not. Particularly the British ones. As far as he knew he was the only one who didn’t wear a clip-on bowtie. He doubted if any of the others even knew how to tie a real one. He on the other hand having reached the level of senior Maître d throughout the ship had a very high standard to maintain.

            The moment his eyes closed he slipped into a very realistic dream about his daughter and her mother, his brother’s wife. It was a recurring dream that came all too often and he awoke instantly shaking as though he expected to see one or the other relations actually there at the foot of his bed.

            This dark secret that he has kept to himself for twenty years now has haunted him ever since she was born. Only Pepe and the girl’s mother shared this knowledge and has been the reason why he has spent his life at sea and single, flirting outrageously with rich women all looking for a romance on the oceans of the world.

            In spite of the disturbing content of the dream the half an hour’s cat nap was just what he needed, and he came to and jumped off the bed, finished undressing before cleaning his teeth and climbing into bed. Tomorrow is another day, possibly another dalliance.

            The following evening Pepe spotted Mrs. Clarke across the casual diner floor deep in conversation with two other ladies. In his usual fashion he walked across the room as though he was actually walking past their table, heading somewhere else and spotting the Mrs Clarke at the last minute. It worked perfectly as he stopped by their table and gave Mrs Clarke one of his best smiles and a slight bow.

            She stopped mid-sentence and returned his smile with interest. Maeve Clarke from Houston was an attractive brunette considerably younger than her dining companions. In her late fifties she was  unmarried and wealthy from her inheritance from the family engineering company in Houston. Her early love life had been complicated as a young wealthy woman of beauty, but now she was quite happy and fulfilled in the opulence her position afforded her. A husband or permanent partner would, in her mind mean halving what she wanted to do.

            ‘Good evening, ladies,’ Pepe spoke to the trio, but his eyes were intended for Maeve, and she knew it. ‘I trust your evening’s dining has lived up you expectations?’

            All three nodded in agreement and the elderly one, a Miss Passmore, even managed a small clap to endorse her happiness at being given the opportunity to express herself.

            ‘Thank you and just to advise you we will be passing through the Straits of Gibraltar later this evening before docking in my favourite port Casablanca. I’m quite sure you all saw that wonderful film of that name. I thought I would remind you of the Straits because it is a sight worth seeing if you can spare your beauty sleep which I’m quite sure everyone of you can do easily. Anyway, I will bid you Buona notte signorias.’

            Bowing slightly Pepe turned and left the ladies’ table and walked swiftly to other tables occupied and bade them good night calming one table who thought he was asking them to leave. Leaving the dining area, he went into the kitchen for a quick coffee with the head chef as was his habit. The head chef was French and Pepe always won him over by conversing with him in French. They were not always on the same trip, but it pleased both of them whenever they were. He didn’t stay long because he had his mind on other things like viewing the Straits of Gibraltar from the upper deck.

            But first he went to his cabin and removed his jacket and bowtie replacing it with a light cashmere sweater recently purchased on his last voyage. After a small number of ablutions, he smoothed down his hair and took his evening cigarette and lighter from a drawer and left the cabin.

            Reaching the upper deck as they were east bound, he walked around to the starboard side. Once there he leaned comfortably on the railing, turned his back to the sea for a moment and light his evening cigarette. It was his daily ritual and the first moment of real relaxation. Just as he turned to view the shore lights of Morocco his momentary peace was disturbed by a soft female voice.

            ‘Well Mister Fontana I never put you down as a smoker, I really didn’t.’ The voice belonged to Maeve Clarke as she approached the railing alongside Pepe.

            ‘Good evening, Mrs Clarke I’m not what you would call a real smoker as this is the only cigarette, I ration myself to. There was a time when I was but that is long behind me now. I stopped because I realised guests do not like to be served by a smoker – that’s all.’

            ‘Would you mind if I have a puff?’

            ‘Sorry but I only have this one cigarette.’ He brandished it towards her.

            ‘I realise that. It is that one I would like a taste of,’ she said reaching out and taking the cigarette from his hand and taking a deep inhalation before handing it back.

            Pepe was stunned but before he could put words to his amazement she exhaled and said. ‘That was so good Mr Fontana, I didn’t realise just how much I miss a smoking at moments like this, thank you. But before I go any further my name is Maeve, there is no Mr. Clarke.’

            Again, he was speechless. He simply received the cigarette back and for several moments was at a loss of what to do or say. He prided himself of being able to instinctively react to any situation, but this lady had put him totally on the back foot and he was at loss as to how to respond. The simple action of sharing a cigarette created a very special mutual feeling between them.

            Maeve broke the silence of the moment. ‘So, is there a Mrs. Fontana?’

            ‘Ah, no nor a Mister also,’ he laughed at his own embarrassment. Actually, it was an embarrassment back at his parent’s house where his sexual preferences were often discussed with his lack of neither wife nor children. If only they knew!

            Maeve placed a hand lightly on his forearm as she smiled in return both to break the silence and a sense of relief. ‘Thank you for sharing your cigarette. But I must leave you because in spite of your kind remarks earlier I really do need my beauty sleep. But before I bid you goodnight, I hope to see you in Casablanca in the morning?’

            With that she turned on her heel and walked away from Pepe who was still lost for words but took the last drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the night and watching its flight down into the water conscious of how careless and contrary to ship’s regulations that action was. That woman, that Maeve Clarke had been the most disturbing woman he had met since his sister-in-law had enticed him into her bed all those years ago.

            He walked once around the entire deck before returning to his cabin. Sleep did not come easily to Pepe Fontana that night.

            The next morning Pepe did not have any breakfast duty to perform and as the ship had docked during his restless night, he dressed in casual but smart summer clothes checked with the purser and left the ship into the hustle and bustle of Casablanca port. He waived away all the would be offers with the art of a professional, neither brusque nor timid. In many ways it was no worse than the scene in summer at the Amalfi resorts in his own country these days with so many foreign imports.

            He wasn’t precisely sure of what he was going to do but he had one project in mind: to buy a pair of camel skin slippers for his daughter, his young niece to the family. She was his brother’s only child, and he never made any attempt to discover the reason for that. In fact, he had never had a single private word with his sister-in-law since the day she quietly told him that he was the father of the child she was carrying.

            Having found the trader he knew had exactly what he was looking for he bought the slippers surprising the Moroccan seller that he paid the asking price with no attempt to barter. He put his purchase safely into his small backpack and continued down the alley fending off other traders in his usual affable way.

            Retracing his steps back to the port he found the small well-known restaurant with a balcony on the upper floor that gave him full view of the gangways of his ship. Fortunately, being a small ship, capable of docking in such a place there was only one such gangway to observe, the other was for staff and supplies. He ordered a coffee and sat back to wait totally unsure of what he would do if, and when he did spot Maeve.

            It took the order of another espresso before he saw her. She was dressed in a full white dress topped with a broad straw summer hat with a vivid red band that flowed over her shoulder and sunglasses. She looked absolutely stunning rather like pictures of Princess Grace of Monaco.

            Pepe’s mind flew back to his indiscretion with his brother’s wife and in an instant decided to do nothing. After all he was the prey. He continued watching Maeve as she reached the shoreline, turned, and headed in his direction.

 

About the author            

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

 

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.)

Honour Among Thieves by Robin Wrigley, black coffee

 The first sense that came in to play when I awoke from what felt like a drug-induced coma was that of smell. The dreadful odour that immediately signifies the presence of unwashed, human flesh. It has an unmistakable stench. I leaned over and blindly retched. It was that dry retch that produces nothing beyond bringing the taste that belonged in my stomach into my mouth.

As my eyes became accustomed to the light and a state of semi-consciousness it was clear that the space next to me was, fortunately, free of anybody. However, I was not alone in this fetid cell – and the smell was not just me. I counted seven other figures at random intervals around the walls as my eyes adjusted to the light.

Now, I started to recollect to my best ability just how I became to be in this shit-state. It wasn’t easy or quick. First, I looked at my watch. That wasn’t helpful as all that was there was a band of pale skin. This meant I was unable to calculate how much of my life was currently missing.

‘Anyone speak English in here? Please,’ I announced to the room. It took several moments for a reply to answer back in what I took to be a Dutch accent.

‘Yes, I do. What’s your problem?’ It wasn’t obvious which of the seven owned the voice.

‘Any idea what day it is?’

‘Yep,’ he replied.

‘Do you mind telling me?’ It was essential to contain my anger that the guy could be such a smart-arse but no point in falling out over something so trivial.

‘Sure, it’s Sunday.’

‘Any idea of the date?’

‘Jesus, you’re more fucked-up than me man. It’s the 24^th, June that is, 1976 to be precise.’

‘Thanks.’ With this important information I was able to get the cogs in my brain to turn and endeavour to calculate and understand just how I managed to be in this current situation. Friday, I had caught the first bus leaving from Peshawar bus station for the Afghanistan border on my way to Kabul and eventually England.

Rummaging through my pockets for scraps of evidence my worst fears were realised. My watch wasn’t all I had been stripped of. My pockets were bare, not even my bus ticket but most importantly, my passport. But, from wiggling my toes inside my boots I was pretty sure my money was intact, so I wasn’t exactly destitute and possibly able to buy my way out of the next sticky situation and perhaps even this one.

‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Jalalabad, or close to it,’ the Dutchman replied. ‘Did you take one of those pick-up taxis at the border that stopped at that big truck-stop?’

That was it, ’Yes – or at least I think so.’

‘Well, Englishman, join the club. You’re up the Khyber but not very far!’

‘Thanks. How long have you been in here?’

‘Since yesterday, so less than you.’

‘That’s some slight relief for me, I suppose.’

Just at that moment my attention turned to the door, it was obviously the sound of it being unlocked with crude and unoiled mechanisms resisting the turning of a, presumably, large key. As the lock eventually gave and the door swung open, light flooded into the room making it impossible to see the jailer clearly. However, I was able to feel him as he kicked me rather hard in my right upper thigh and ordered me to get up in broken English, barely understandable, then turned and more clearly growled, ‘Come’.

Holding the wall, I managed to get to my feet and stagger after him as best as I was able. My head started into another spinning action and my hand on the door frame saved me but only just as I had to quickly remove it before I nearly lost my fingers as he slammed the door shut and relocked it. The corridor we entered was constructed of rough-hewn stone, filthy and upswept and lit with skeleton electric light bulbs.

‘Can I get a drink of water please?’ I asked at his back following him up the cobbled passageway, but he ignored my request. Probably he either didn’t understand me or more likely chose to ignore the request so I went without. It was all I could do to keep up with him even though he was shuffling quite slowly. At the end of the passage, he unlocked another heavy wooden door studded with rough wrought-iron bolts, stood aside to allow me in and locked it again. A few paces after that he opened another door to the right, made of heavy metal and ushered me in and walked away closing the door behind him.

The whole scene seemed extremely ominous, and I started to shiver with fear and general alarm. The room was sparsely equipped with a large plain, empty wooden desk and a single chair behind it. It was lit with a single, bare electric light. On the wall was what I took to be a Koranic quotation. Apart from this the room was both empty and intimidating. I leaned back against the rough stone wall and willed myself not to faint. It was all I could do not to slide down the wall and sit on the floor.

After what seemed and eternity when in fact it was probably only a few minutes the door opened again and tall bearded man in a badly creased uniform, presumably a police officer of sorts, of no distinguishing rank. He handed me a glass of water and sat down behind the table.

I attempted to sip it slowly but gave up and gulped it down in one.

‘So, Mr Gregory or would you like me to address you as Michael, or David as your passport describes you? Eh? Which do you prefer as I’m not familiar to your customs. Here in Afghanistan, we always use our father’s name before all others. A matter of respect, something your people would not understand.’

His command of English startled me and for a moment my initial fears subsided slightly, ‘As you like sir, Michael would be fine. But as you like.’

You are the luckiest traveller to pass through this town although I doubt you realise that fact. You see, I have been following a gang of infidels who operate in the rest-stop you chose to seek food in on the road from Pakistan for several weeks now. Unlike the rest of the prisoners in the cell you have been lying in for the past few days.  You didn’t knowingly take the drugs that caused your unconsciousness. The bandits arranged for it to be put in your tea. My men stepped in and arrested them before they had a chance to strip you of your possessions and throw you into the road as they normally would. I was only interested in what they did to you to give me good reason to grab them, as they have kidnapped my brother. Now I have them I will exchange them for his return. If I’m honest I have no interest in the likes of you. So many young people come here looking for drugs, and disappear, but you did not and appear to be a genuine traveller. A rare beast I can tell you.’

This was all too much to take in, in one go. That and the state my head was in. ‘Whatever it was that caused you to be looking over my shoulder I am very appreciative. Can I ask one more thing of you please?’ I did my best to look as humbly grateful as I could.

‘Certainly. I imagine if I have your passport and am I’m going to let you go? Correct?

‘Yes, sir on both those accounts a positive answer would be good as well another glass of water please?’

‘The answer is yes. You never asked about your watch? It will be returned to you. Timex is not a very desirable make, and my sergeant has a better one anyway. I assume your money is still on you. We didn’t search you and the bandits who drugged you didn’t get a chance, luckily for you. The man outside will give you your possessions and another glass of water. You’re free to go Michael.’ He stood, shook my hand, then placed his large powerful hand over his heart, and allowed me to stagger out, still as if in a dream. A bad dream.

It took some considerable time and the cold clean Afghanistan air for my befuddled mind to fully appreciate just how lucky I had been that my capture just happened to coincide with this policeman’s search for his brother. My guardian angel had certainly been working overtime.

About the author

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed.

 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.)