The Blueberry Cheesecake by Gill James, whisky

"Will that be all then, Mr Willows?"

Would that be all? What was she thinking? Work here was never done. Gordon glanced at the time display on his computer. Oh yes, he would have to let her go. It was already half past five and she was supposed to finish at five. Didn't young people have any stamina these days? When he was her age he used to stay in the office until the work was finished. He would often be there until ten o'clock at night back then.

"So where are you up to with the Johnson files?"

"About three quarters of the way through. I'll finish it first thing tomorrow." Steffi bit her lip. "Only it's my mother's birthday today and I wanted to buy a cake on the way home. That patisserie on Chaplin Street is open until six tonight."

Gordon sighed. “Very well then. But we must have that report by midday tomorrow."

"Thank you Mr Willows." She turned to go out of the office and then turned back. "You'd be very welcome to join us. My mother doesn't get out too often and she always likes some company." 

"I hardly think so." What was she thinking? That wouldn't do at all.

Steffi pursed her lips and made her way out of his office. 

Gordon started to pack up. He would take his laptop home and work there. There was no point in heating the office and keeping the lights on for nothing. It was cheaper to heat his home.

He decided to walk. Why spend money on a taxi? And no way did he want to travel on germ-laden public transport.

His route took him along Chaplin Street and there was the patisserie that Steffi had mentioned. There were a few cakes left. Oh dear. That would mean that Steffi and her mother would be over-indulging. Would she be too sluggish to work in the morning?

He noticed the sign on the door. The little minx. It was Thursday and Thursday was late-night opening. The shop was open until seven o'clock. Not six. She could have stayed a bit longer and finished that report.

Then he saw the blueberry cheese cake. It would be blueberry. And it would be cheesecake. They should be banned.               

 

He was jogged and jostled as he made his way along the streets. It was nearly as bad as Christmas. People were indulging too much. There were so many of them carrying big packages and taking up even more time than normal. Had they got more money than sense? All these things they were buying- they'd be gone in no time. They ought to be investing their money and watching it grow. All of these other things were nonsense. What was the matter with them? They'd worked hard for their money, hadn't they, and now they were just frittering it away.  

All these pubs and cafés as well. You had to pay so much more for food this way. What was the point when you could eat in the comfort of your own home? They should do as he did. Online shopping, his food and anything else he needed delivered from Morrisons once a week to his flat, and always only what was on offer. He'd even been known to wrangle with the manager, pointing out that certain items were cheaper at Tesco or Asda and even occasionally at Waitrose. He ate well on very little.

He should give these people a course in managing money. How much might he charge for that?

Someone bumped into him.

"Watch what you’re doing.”  He frowned as maliciously as he could at the young man with a clipboard. A student no doubt.  He was dressed in faded denim. Why didn't these people work for a living? Why didn't they dress properly? 

"I'm sorry sir. I couldn't have been looking where I was going. But while I've got your attention, I wondered whether I might talk to you about our work. We're a charity that supports the homeless."

"Certainly not. I pay my taxes for that sort of thing, thank you very much. You should too. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get on."

 The young man shrugged and nodded.

           

Gordon survived the streets and arrived home in one piece. He sighed with relief as he punched the numbers into lift's keypad. Once inside he pressed the button for the penthouse.

"Going up," said the lift's automatic voice.

Gordon shuddered. It reminded him of Annie. He'd never noticed before but it had exactly her voice. It must have been seeing that cheesecake that did it.

That day when he'd proposed she'd been prettier than ever. She insisted on gathering the blueberries while they were out. "I'm going to make something delicious with these when we get back," she'd said.

And she had. She'd made the best blueberry cheesecake he'd ever tasted, so soft and sweet and tasty. In fact the best cake he'd ever eaten. It made the moment even more right. 

"Annie, will you marry me?" He'd pulled the little case out of his pocket and showed her the ring.   

"Yes, oh, yes, if course I will." She'd beamed at him as he'd placed the ring on her finger.

It was a perfect ring, of course. Nothing but the best for her. And he was going to offer her a beautiful home.

Then, though, the months had slipped by and turned into years. He worked harder and harder, trying to make more money. She should have the most luxurious home ever. Only there was still never quite enough for the exact house he wanted.

"I really wouldn't mind something smaller, darling," she said. "I just want to be with you."

"But it's got to be right."

He worked longer and longer hours. He had to cancel more and more outings with her.

"I just don't see enough of you, sweetheart. Surely you have plenty of money. Surely you don't need more."

"Oh but I do."

Then there was the awful day. "It's no good, Gordon. I can't go on like this. I may as well be a spinster or a widow. You have a mistress and you've forgotten me."

"But there's nobody else."

"Oh yes there is. There's your fortune. I just can't compete." And so she'd left him. He never heard from her again. He'd heard of her though. That she was happily married and had two children.

It had only made him work even harder. Money was his mistress, was it? So be it.                      

 

The microwave pinged. He took out the ready meal. Chili con carne. One of his favourites. But he had no appetite this evening.

He booted up his laptop. Which project should he work on? Maybe the Johnson file. But he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't stop thinking about Annie.

He poured himself a large tumbler of whisky. Perhaps that would make him feel better. He sat down in his comfortable armchair and switched on his television. The news was boring. Nothing new. It should be called the olds. His eyes closed and he fell asleep.

He was in some sort of meeting room. No, wait a minute. It was a church or a chapel. It was a funeral. But there weren't many mourners. Just three women by the looks of it. There was a young man standing at the front, facing them. He recognised him but he couldn't think where from.

The young man started speaking. Ah yes, of course. The student who'd wanted to talk to him about the charity for the homeless. He looked a bit different in a celebrant's suit. His voice was a muffled at first but then he began to speak clearly. "He was a clever man. He knew how to make the most of his money."

A man just like him, then. Clever chap indeed. "But he led a sad and lonely life. We know he had a difficult childhood and he never quite recovered from that." 

Oh yes, the poor old sod. Only four people at his funeral. But Gordon knew about difficult childhoods all right. His own mother had died having him and then his father had rejected him. You just didn't have to let that sort of thing get to you.  

"As he has no living next of kin all of his money is to be reused into the further development of his firm. Fortunately the trustees have also agreed that one tenth of all profits should be given to support the lonely and those who are homeless."

Oh dear. Perhaps he wasn't such a sharp operator after all. But there must have been something wrong with the man. He didn't have many friends, did he?

He found himself standing behind one of the women. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Whose funeral is this?"

She turned to him and oh, what a shock. It was Annie. "Gordon Willows. Such a sad, lonely man." She didn't seem to recognise him.

The other two women were now looking at him. The younger one was Steffi and he presumed the older one must be her mother. They certainly looked alike.

"Yes, he was a bit of a recluse," said the older woman. "The number of times we invited him to our home and he just refused."

"It's a shame," said Steffi. "He was a really talented man and he could have done so much good in the world. People would have liked him as well if he'd given them a chance to get to know him."

The young man had stopped talking now. The coffin was sliding through the opening at the back of the room.

Was that it? Was that how his life was going to end?     

             

Gordon woke with a start. He was sweating. Thank goodness that had just been a nightmare. He looked at the clock. It was only twenty past six. He'd only been a sleep a couple of minutes and he'd dreamt that much?

But there was no time to dwell on that. He looked up for the number of the patisserie on Chaplin Street. He found it and punched the number into his phone. 

Someone answered straight away.

"Do you still have that large blueberry cheesecake?"

"Yes we do."

"Well, hold on to it. I'll be round in a few minutes and I'll be buying a few more items as well. You have some other cakes left?"

"Yes, we're selling everything at half price now. We can't keep it until tomorrow."

"Never mind about that."

He managed to get an uber within a few minutes and at just before quarter to seven he was in the shop buying up most of what was left.

"It’ll be half price," said the assistant.

"That’s a shame. But I have an idea. I'll be back by the time you've packed that all up."

It didn't take him long to find the student he'd spoken to earlier. "Right young man. I would like to make a donation of seventy-eight pounds thirty pence. I take it I can make a card payment?"

The young man's eyes grew round. "Yes of course. Funny amount though."

"It the other half of what the cakes should cost."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Anyway, I have two more jobs for you. You are to take some packages of cakes over to this address." He showed the student Steffi's address on his phone. Yes, it was about time Steffi met a nice young man. She was always looking after that old mother of hers. It wouldn't do if she were to turn out just like him. "If Miss Adams and her mother can't use all of them you can distribute the rest to your homeless friends. Then tomorrow morning you are to come to my apartment for breakfast and we can discuss how I might be able to make a more regular contribution to your excellent cause. And not a word about who sent them, you understand?"

A few minutes later he had bundled the young man and the cake into another uber.

 

Gordon was up early the next morning. He smiled smugly to himself and patted his laptop as he prepared himself for the next part of his plan. He had to get the timing right. He must catch her after she got up but before she set off to work.

As he waited for the time to go by he busied himself getting ready for his breakfast visitor. What was his name? How rude of him. He had forgotten to find out. How silly. It would have been easy enough to read his name badge. 

At last it was time to make the phone call. The phone rang out twice and then she answered.

"Good morning Steffi. Gordon Willows here. How was the blueberry cheese cake?"

"It was lovely but how did you know....?"

"Never mind about that now. There's something else I want to discuss with you."

"Oh Mr Willow you're not to worry. I'll get straight to the Johnson report as soon as I get to the office."

"You don't need to worry about that. I've already finished it."

"You've finished it?"

"Yes, so you don't need to come in at all today. You take the day off and take your mother out somewhere nice. In fact, if the offer still stands, maybe I could join you for lunch."

"Well, yes of course."

"And that young man.... The one who brought the cakes?"

"Andy. Andy Browne. But how did....?"

"You got on with him did you?"

"Well, yes, he was very nice. But ...."

"Look, I'll meet you and your mother at that little bistro on Silver Street. One o'clock sharp. And I'll be bringing along a visitor you may want to impress, so put on your glad rags."

"Well, Mr Willows,... thank you ...."

"And Steffi. From now on you must call me Gordon. Then tomorrow when we're both back in the office we'll discuss your pay rise and some extra training for you."

"Mr Willows... Gordon, I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything, my dear."

The doorbell rang. Good, that must be Andy Browne.

He ended the call and rubbed his hands together gleefully. It was rather fun after all being nice to people.     

About he author

     

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

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My “Christmas To Do” List by Leonie Jarrett, a stiff whisky

I give up on the idea of sleep and sit up straighter in bed. I open the “Christmas To Do” Note on my phone and start scrolling.

1.      Wrap puzzle for Billy.

2.      Wrap LEGO for Olly.

3.      Grab MECCA voucher for Lucy. I can strike that one off. I’ve done that one.

4.      Buy flowers for the table.

Robbie turns over and half opens his eyes, “What time is it?”

“6.30,” I say.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Robbie murmurs groggily. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’ve got too much to do.”

“Don’t stress so much Jess. It’s Christmas.”

“I know it’s Christmas Robbie. That’s why I’ve got so much to do.”

“Arghh, I need more sleep. My head hurts after last night’s work drinks.”

Robbie turns over and starts snoring almost instantly. It’s a talent to sleep so easily. I don’t have it.

Anyway, back to my list:

5.      Peel potatoes and carrots and pop in water.

6.      Top and tail beans.

7.      Glaze ham.

8.      Check that enough wine, beer and champagne are in the fridge.

9.      Make pavlova.

10.  Check that have cream and berries to decorate pavlova.

I lean my head briefly against the upholstered bedhead. My head hurts too but not from alcohol; from lack of sleep and a hectic, frenzied brain. I can’t sleep off my sore head. Too much to do.

There is a blood-curdling scream from the kitchen.

Springing out of bed and rushing to the kitchen, I see Billy with his hand cupped over his bloodied mouth.

“Hi Mummy,” says Olly brightly with his mouth full of gingerbread. “Billy climbed up on the stool to get some gingerbread and fell off. He’s lost a tooth but don’t worry it was the front, wiggly one.”

“Open your mouth. Billy,” I sigh. “Why are you two up so early and why are you eating the gingerbread? They are for tomorrow. I only left them on the bench because it was so late last night when I finished making them.”

“I only had one Mummy,” munched Olly. “It’s yum!”

“Back to bed boys. You look fine Billy. You might be lucky and have a visit from Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy tonight.”

I tuck my boys back into bed, terribly cute in their matching Christmas PJs.

Giving up on the idea of going back to bed myself, I make a cup of tea and sit down wearily at the kitchen table.

I quickly type a new Note on my phone - SET TOOTH FAIRY ALARM. $2 COIN UNDER BILLY’S PILLOW.

I hesitate for a moment and then I add, FIND A $2 COIN.

OK, now, back to the Christmas list:

11.  Set the table. Red and orange striped bonbons are in the hall cupboard.

12.  Nag Robbie to mow the lawn.

NB. Jess, be mindful. The boys won’t be this little again. BREATHE. ENJOY.

About the author  

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL? by Madeleine McDonald,whisky

 A man elbowed and pushed his way through the tightly packed crowd of revellers, triggering angry complaints. ‘Let me through. It’s an emergency! Let me through.’ Squeezing round a street corner, he stumbled out of breath into the late-night pharmacy, and banged on the screen that protected the counter staff from drunks and drug addicts.

‘Hurry, please. It’s for my baby.’

A woman took the crumpled prescription form with a reassuring smile. ‘You made it just in time.’ She pressed a button and metal shutters clattered down over the front door. ‘I’ll let you out the back way.’

As he waited, the customer’s ragged breathing subsided. He looked round the ordered shelves under harsh strip lighting. A digital clock above the door showed the time and date. It was 23:59 on December 31, 2023.

The street fell silent, waiting. Somewhere a loudspeaker started the countdown and the crowd joined in.

The baby’s father ignored the jubilation. His mind was at home, with his beloved daughter. Would he make it back in time?

A roar erupted outside. The blue figures on the digital clock turned.

Backwards.

 

‘Here you are.’

The distraught father clutched a small brown bottle. ‘God bless you, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me. Thank Alexander Fleming. These antibiotics are lifesavers. Off with you now, and don’t forget, one teaspoonful in her milk, four times a day.’

The pharmacist watched the relieved father run along the deserted street until fog swallowed him from view. He bolted the door, walked through to the back room, and stoked the fire before pouring himself a whisky. He pondered a philosophical conundrum.

The newly discovered antibiotics worked miracles, according to his medical colleagues. He had just handed over medicine that would save a child’s life. However, that very morning he had read an interesting article on overpopulation, predicting wars, famines and migrations on an unprecedented scale.

Only a year ago the parents would have wrapped wet flannel round their daughter’s tiny, feverish body and prayed, unable to afford medicine for her. Now post-war England offered free health care to all. Now the child would survive. She might have a half a dozen grandchildren, and what if they in turn all survived with the help of the new wonder drugs?

He dozed in his chair, and woke in time to raise a glass to the New Year and the post-war world. The socialist government spoke of building a New Jerusalem on the ashes of war, and even their political opponents—of which he was one—acknowledged that the old order could never be restored. One way or another, victory meant change. Were the optimists on the right side of history?

He raised his glass again in mock salute. ‘Dr Fleming, Comrade Atlee, do you know what you’ve unleashed?’

About the author 

Madeleine McDonald's published work ranges from newspaper columns to Shakespearean sonnets and historical novels. 

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A Nice Day for a Funeral, by JD Clapp, whisky

 On a crisp and sunny October afternoon, the Carpenters stood by a freshly dug grave. Emily Jane Carpenter rested in the simple wood casket her father Colton had made two days prior.

 

The widow Bridger, their neighbor who believed in the Pentecost, agreed to pray over the grave. “Jesus,” she said, “Please take this lost soul into your everlasting embrace. She was sinner like us all. But she got on them pills Satan brung to our holler. And she was sick and tormented by his evil demons.”

           

After the praying, each of them threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. Only Emily’s ma, Tracy, cried. No one made a eulogy.

           

Alone at the grave, Colton used the back of his shovel to pat the loose dirt down around the apple tree sapling he planted to mark it.

 

“It was a nice day for a funeral…goodbye baby girl. Rest in peace,” Colton said aloud.

 

Then he lit a joint and headed back to the little farmhouse for supper.

 

About the author 

JD Clapp is based in San Diego, CA. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition. His stories have been published in numerous outlets. Twitter @jdclappwrties; www.jdclappwrites.com 

 

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Janus’ Dilemma by Dawn Knox, a stiff whisky

 I detest New Year.

Such a hazardous time. It’s most disconcerting to be able to look in front and behind simultaneously. People want to know what you can see. But no one’s interested in what I’m viewing as I peer backwards into the year just gone. They know what happened. No, they all want to hear about the future.

A Roman god can easily fall out of favour especially the bearer of bad news. I usually nod wisely and make rueful sounds whilst smiling enigmatically.

Let them interpret that as they wish!

About the author 

 Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. 

You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

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Silent Speculation by Doug Jacquier , neat whisky

Grace had seen the future in her mother and was not having it. Parchment skin that bruised at the slightest touch. The lingering smell of incontinence in the corridors of the nursing home, despite all attempts to mask it. Immigrant staff who did their best to be kind when feeding mush into one end and wiping it up at the other. Through it all, her mother sitting, vacant but seemingly anxious and recognising no-one, including Grace. So Grace stopped visiting and looked at family photographs instead, so that she could remember who her mother was.

She continued to teach at high school out of force of habit. Dedication and idealism had long left the building. Until the day Bruce came home and found her sitting on the back verandah with a half empty bottle of red for company. ‘Pupil-free day?’

‘Pupil-free life.’

Bruce fetched a glass, re-joined her and waited.

‘I gave my screenagers a general knowledge test this morning. I wept through most of lunchtime and then retired.’

So began her ‘new’ life. Except it wasn’t. Picking away at the edges of painting, re-reading her favourite novels, digging out her recipe books and experimenting. Soon she realised there was no going back.

No going back to a life she had loved when she was another person. Endlessly curious, scathingly witty, travel-obsessed, and in her element entertaining people she found interesting, with Bruce ultimately proving the most interesting of all. No going back to raising Jane and Simon, now voices down the line from far-flung cities. And no going back to the fantasy of finding at least a handful of students who would escape the suburban mire.

So she decided it was time to go. Mere existence held no appeal. She and Bruce had discussed ‘the end’ many times and despaired at society’s obsession with longevity. As they sat drinking coffee outside cafes, they watched ancients on walking frames shuffling their way to the chemist for more of whatever was keeping them alive.

They got the ‘fear of the unknown’ thing but could never really understand why more people just didn’t say ‘Bugger this for a joke.’ Except you couldn’t. Guns not handy these days, razor blades messy for whoever found you, chemists making sure you couldn’t stockpile your potions, and just as likely to fall off the chair before you could manage to hang yourself. And of course the nanny state forbade such crimes against humanity unless doctors said your case was hopeless and you’d already been in agony long enough to deserve an early minute.

So they’d agreed. Whoever decided first that they had had enough would help the other one. And the Devil take the hindmost became their wry catchcry.

 

 

‘Grace,’ Bruce said, as they sat, in their re-cycled ancient armchairs on the back verandah, watching dusk descend upon on ‘The Farm’, aka the backyard patch they had laboured long and hard to rescue from suburban desertification.

Knowing she was listening, he continued, ‘When did you first decide that you loved me?’, he said.

She paused in her thoughts about the soursobs and how she should have nuked them, rather than having to keep pulling them out.

Eventually she said, ‘When you told me how much you regretted buying the cow.’

Not long after they first met, he told her that one Christmas, in a fit of idealism and youthful sanctimony, he’d decided to buy all of his family a sponsored animal in Africa. You know the sort of thing. A card reading ‘Congratulations, you just bought two goats for an impoverished family in Kenya.’

Everyone else seemed pleased with their non-gift (or at least said they were), but as his mother opened hers, she could not conceal her disappointment in having bought a cow. Written on her face was a look of unforgivable betrayal of the annual present-giving ritual.

Every year thereafter, when he handed her his Christmas gift, that look would return to her face and she would glance at the card attached as if it were a live hand grenade and say ‘Thank you, I’ll open it later. I must see to lunch.’

Grace and Bruce re-lived the scene in their minds, silently

‘The tomatoes are just about finished’, he said. ‘The birds can have what’s left.’

‘I’ve taken the screen off the top of the fish-pond,’ she said. ‘The bin-chickens can have a banquet.”

‘I’ve left a note on the table for Sarah to take the chooks and the mobile hutch. The kids will love taking care of them.’

‘Has Arfer gone to sleep now?’ she asked. He reached down into the dog’s basket and there was no rise and fall from his belly. He nodded in his wife’s direction. They knew he’d pine once she was gone.

‘I’m ready’, she said. ‘Do you have everything organised for the continuing adventures of Bruce.’

‘Yes.’

Grace looked at her drink.’

‘Are you sure there’s enough? I want to go now. No mistakes.’

He recalled bringing back the phenobarbital from his last business trip to the States and the frisson of feeling like an international drug smuggler.

Bruce nodded so she raised her shot glass and swallowed.

‘Before I go,’ she said, ‘when did you decide that you loved me?’

‘When I told you about the cow and my mother and you said, ‘Perhaps you could have given 

her a flute. It would have matched her pursed lips nicely’.

They closed their eyes, mirth playing on their ageing faces, as the sun set over The Farm, and over their journey together, for the last time. Bruce waited, to be sure, and then slipped out the back gate that he’d used when he came home that day.

…

 

The inevitable intrusion came. Bruce opened the door swiftly, startling the middle-aged man in the hi-viz jacket planted on the veranda, bearing a six-pack. He closed the door again, just as swiftly. Mission accomplished. By this evening, the word would be around to not bother with that rude, ungrateful sod at old Mrs. Carmody’s place.

Bruce had moved to the sparsely populated country town after Grace’s death ended the only worthwhile conversation left in his universe. All he craved was silence and isolation. His modest savings stretched to a small, solidly built weatherboard cottage and he’d calculated that he had enough to last. He had his castle and his solitude was his keep.

He would write, grow vegetables, chop wood and read until his silence became permanent. He would keep his social interactions to the minimum required to meet the necessities of existence but not meet the social contract to exchange meaningless drivel while he was doing so. No TV and no radio and no newspapers meant that he would be aware of Armageddon when it reached his doorstep.

He withdrew cash for his needs at the ATM. He had no computer and no email address, so most of the world had no idea he existed, let alone how to invade, and steal, his time and space.

He hoped the postal service would tarry through his remaining years, providing the conduit for his writing to reach the ever-diminishing audience for such anachronistic pursuits. Yes, he would continue to ‘speak’ but on his own terms. All mail except utility bills and rate notices would be marked ‘Return to Sender’.

Bruce’s only form of human entertainment these days was Julie, who delivered the mail. Well, not so much Julie herself but her reports of the never-ending cavalcade of rumours about him that circulated throughout the town.

Each weekday he’d meet her at the letterbox. Most days there was no actual mail but she would pretend to rummage through her pannier bags for show. You never knew who might be watching.

Their ‘relationship’ began shortly after he moved in to the cottage, with its rambling over-grown garden and mature, if neglected, fruit trees. He was in the process of hacking away mercilessly at a jasmine vine that threatened to engulf two of the only four windows in the cottage and create darkness at noon.

‘That was Mrs. Carmody’s pride and joy once. Loved the smell.’ He looked up to see an orange-vested woman astride a low-powered motorcycle, stuffing junk mail into his letterbox. ‘My name’s Julie. What else are you going to do to the place?’ She waited briefly and then filled Bruce’s silence with ‘Mrs. Delaney reckons you’re going to gut the place and tizzy it all up.’ Bruce turned back to his hatchet job on the jasmine and she rode off. Thus began a comfortable, if eccentric, exchange between Bruce’s silence and the speculations that Julie carried in her bags.

The girls on the checkout at the Co-Op, after briefly entertaining the idea that he was just a rude old bugger like everybody said, thought he must be a mute because he never spoke. He would simply pay and nod and leave. By the end of the month it had become established fact that he’d had throat cancer and had his voice box removed.

The publican, based on the irrefutable evidence that Bruce never visited the pub, concluded that Bruce was clearly a dry alcoholic hiding from his past. Drinking and smoking was obviously what had brought on the throat cancer.

One morning, Bruce woke from a coma-like sleep, brought on by unfamiliar exercise, to the sound of insistent knocking. Threading his arms into his dressing gown, he girded his loins to see off his intrusive neighbour. Flinging the door open, he found the space filled by a uniformed presence with sergeant stripes on his shirt and a gun on his hip.

‘Morning. Thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.’ The face had a professional smile but the eyes said otherwise. ‘Sergeant Bill Stynes.’ Bruce waited.

Stynes said ‘And you would be?’

Bruce produced a notepad and wrote his name on it.

‘Some people in the town have expressed concerns’ he shouted, until Bruce pointed to his ears and gave a thumbs up sign and then in a normal voice ‘.. about your welfare and asked me to look in on you.’

Bruce wrote ‘I’m fine.’

‘Thirsty work, policing. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

Bruce shook his head.

Stynes heel-and-toed his sturdy leather shoes and the smallest of creases appeared in the corner of his mouth.

‘See you around, Bruce.’

A non-committal Bruce closed the door.

After watching Stynes depart, Bruce headed outside to attend to his nascent veg patch. He knew enough to know that the spring soil, having not long come off winter, was still too cold for planting. Besides, he wanted to dig in some manure and compost to the depleted ground. And there was still the fence to repair to keep out the roos and the rabbits.

He was breaking up some hardened topsoil with a mattock when he heard Julie’s approach and went to the letterbox. ‘Hear that the Sarge dropped in. What’d he want?’ Silence. ‘Kevin thought it was probably just an outstanding speeding fine. Or a warrant.’ Silence. ‘Be good to see the garden tidied up. Mrs. Carmody would like that.’ And she rode off.

Of course, Julie was now the go-to person for all matters of local curiosity about Bruce. Although ‘fond’ would be too strong a word, she’d come to feel a little protective of him. So she started her own rumour that, when he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, you could just make out a ‘Who Dares Wins’ SAS tattoo on Bruce’s upper right arm.

Over time, the town exhausted all the possibilities that interested them and bored indifference settled around Bruce. He’d been relegated to a ‘character’ and that suited him just fine.

…

But the waves of the past would not stop breaking on his far-flung shore.

Bruce opened his door after a sharp, urgent rap. Two rumpled suits with unknotted ties showed him badges. ‘Bruce Arthur Goodman, I am Detective Inspector Thomas and this is Detective Sergeant Willis. I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Grace Anne Goodman on or about February 17 last year. You do not have to say anything …’

Bruce knew the rest and he didn’t plan on saying anything at all.

In the interview room, Thomas leaned back in his chair and said wearily. “For the benefit of the tape, Mr. Goodman has waived his right to have a lawyer present. Why’d you do it, Bruce? Was she having it off with someone else? That would set me off. Wouldn’t it set you off, Detective Sergeant Willis?’ ‘It would indeed.’ Willis responded.

Silence.

‘There’s a pen and paper in front of you, Bruce, if there’s anything you’d like to say’ Thomas offered.

Silence.

‘I suppose you want to know how we know it was murder. Don’t you, Bruce?’

Silence.

‘You see, we were never convinced it was suicide. No terminal illness. No history of depression. So we started looking at your business trips before you retired. And we tracked down your source in San Francisco. So, you can keep calling it suicide, Bruce, and claiming you don’t know where she got the drug if you like. But we’re going to call it murder.’

Silence.

‘We know you can talk’, Thomas said. ‘The locals might be a bit gullible but not us. In my experience, it’s better in the long run to just get it off your chest. Because of your age, you’ll do time in an open prison and you’ll be out in five years. What do you say?’

Silence.

‘Alright, tell us again what happened.’

Bruce wrote ‘It’s all in my original statement.’

‘Did you attempt to revive her?’

Bruce wrote ‘I didn’t know how.’ Thomas and Willis both laughed. ‘You didn’t know how? You must have seen it on the TV and given it a try!’

Silence.

Bruce wrote nothing else. He knew they were bluffing; they had no information on his source. He’d found a way to get the drug she needed and he’d found a plausible reason not to be around when she took it. Thomas and Willis were on a mission to make someone pay for having the temerity to end their days as they chose. With Grace dead, Bruce was the logical scapegoat but they needed a confession.

Later that night, Bruce was released without charge. As he was leaving the Police station, Thomas snarled ‘I know you did it, Bruce, and I’m not letting this go. So stick that up your silence.’

After that, Bruce no longer appeared at the letterbox.

When the smell from old Mrs. Carmody’s cottage became unmistakable, Julie finished her round and rode to the Police station to tell them. She looked the Sergeant in the eye and said, ‘Happy now?’

 

About the author

Doug Jacquier is an Australian who writes stories and poems. He’s lived and worked in many urban, rural and remote places, and he has travelled extensively overseas. His work has appeared in several anthologies. His aim is to surprise, challenge and amuse. 

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