Closed Doors

Roger Noons

Closed Doors

A large mug of hot chocolate

“Hello Dad.”

    “Ah, come in son, close the door.”

    “How are you?”

    “Not too bad … shut the door, I said.”

    “It’s alright, it’s less …”

    “Close the door, please?”

    I did as I had been asked.

    “They watch you … keep walking past … especially that black one.”

    “The Asian girl, she seems very nice, she always has a smile when she lets me in.” I paused; the look he gave me would have curdled fresh milk.

    “Anyway,” I continued, “They’re just keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re alright.”

    “They’re watching … they want to know what you’re up to, day and night. Always looking in … there’s no privacy here.”

    He sat back, closed his eyes having apparently run out of steam.

    I asked gently, “Has the doctor been?”

    “Yeah, another black un … they’ve taken over …”

    “Now Dad, you mustn’t …”

    “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

    We sat in silence and again he closed his eyes. After he had blinked and given a slight cough, I tried again.

    “Did he examine …”

    “She,” he shouted, “A young woman … they know nuthin …”

    “Did she examine your legs?”

    “Yeah, had a look.”

    “And?”

    “I told you, she said nuthin … ‘I’ll report to Matron Mr Ellis, you can put your socks on now and pull down your trousers.’”

    “And have you asked Matron?”

    “Is that door closed?”

    “Yes, why are you worrying about the door?”

    “Cos a door’s not a door unless it’s closed.”

    Frowning, I decided not to pursue the subject. We sat in silence once more and I thought he might have dropped off to sleep, until he asked, “Were there any matches last night?”

    “Oh yes, the Villa had a good win, four one …”

    “Which blind school were they playing?” he chuckled.

    We discussed football, until I sensed that he could no longer be bothered to think about what I was saying.

    “Well, I think I’ll see about it,” I said. “I’ll come again Sunday morning, about eleven.”

    “Righto lad,” he smiled, and as I turned to say cheerio, added. “Leave it open Tom; it gets hot and stuffy with the door closed.”

About the Author

Having spent the best part of thirty-five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non-fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CaféLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CaféLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for theBest of CaféLit 2012.

Eve's Apples

Bruce Roush

Eve's Apples

Cider

"Eve, what are those?" asked Adam as he stared at the bright red fruit on the table, his brow furrowed.

     Slightly flustered, Eve answered "Those? Oh those are Adams apple … I mean apples, Adam. Serpent has been teaching me how to juggle three of them at once."

     Adam shot an incredulous look at Eve. She was the prettiest flower in Eden, but not the brightest. "Eve, Serpent has no hands, or for that matter, no arms or legs either. HOW does he juggle?”

     "He can do some very creative things with his tail," she answered, her cheeks suddenly reddening, "and he knows so much about them. You know, like their antioxidant, anti-inflammatory qualities and the anthocyanins that make the skin red and …"

     Adam held up his hand. "Stop! You know what the Big Guy told us about apples. Get rid of them, please. I've got to get back to the privet hedge topiaries. It's nice to be given Paradise on a plate with watercress round it, but you'd think it would come with a gardener or two. When I come back for dinner, make sure those apples are gone!"

     Eve thought and thought some more. She hated to waste anything. Finally, she knew what she would do. She would use those apples in that nice tarte Tatin recipe Serpent had so thoughtfully given her.

About the Author

Bruce Roush is a 24/7 caregiver to my wife of forty-eight years. Writing Flash Fiction is his brief escape from life's realities.

Letter to Jasmine

Roger Noons

Letter to Jasmine

A pot of Assam tea, no milk or sugar

 Dear Jasmine,

There is no address above for the reasons which will become clear; no doubt something will be stamped on the outside of the envelope.

               It was great to read your letter, and the Christmas card cheered me up. You obviously did the right thing in moving away, and I’m sure you deserve the success which is coming to you. We always knew that you were the most talented one and would do well. I’m happy for you and proud of you.

               I don’t know if you heard, but No. 78 burned down. After you left, so did Alex, Lizzie and Josh. Then Bryn moved in with his new girlfriend, Naisha. They asked me too, but I felt I would be in the way.

               The new lodgers Mr Ali brought in were different, not students. They seemed to have lots of money and there were parties every weekend; I was never invited. I guess I didn’t fit in; dare I say it, the wrong colour. I assumed he would evict me, although he insisted I could stay until the end of term.

               For a couple of weeks all seemed well, but one Sunday morning when I had not had a wink of sleep due to the racket which had persisted all night, I went down to complain. There were three lads of around my age there and I don’t know if they were drunk or high on drugs, but they were out of control and when, quite reasonably I believe, I asked them to turn off the music, they became unpleasant and one of them attacked me. In defending myself, pushing him away, he collided with one of the other two and fell against the cooker on which a large pot was boiling.

               I’m not sure what happened next, but there was lots of steam, shouting and flames. Someone began screaming and I was knocked to the floor and kicked. When I came round, I was laid out on the lawn at the front, and the house was a furnace. I tried to get up but a paramedic held me down and then he and his partner carried me to the ambulance. The last thing I saw was the firemen spraying water onto the gable and upstairs windows.

                              

               I was in hospital for five days; a policeman sat outside my room. I believed it was to protect me, but as soon as the consultant said I could be discharged, he arrested me. I’ve been here two weeks, on remand, having made two brief court appearances. I’ve not been charged, although I’m told it’s terrorism offences that they are considering.

I will write again as soon as I have more to report. Until then, take care,

Nadira

 

About the Author

Having spent the best part of thirty-five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non-fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CaféLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CaféLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for theBest of CaféLit 2012.

Therapy

Debbie Lechtman

Therapy

Vodka

The office is large but all I can see is how it’s caving in. From the ceiling and from the walls, and I feel the heat rising up my throat, tickling me, like a mild allergy to kiwi or strawberries. Hmph, hmph, I try to cough, itch it from the inside. It’s not working, though.

 The shrink stares at me and her yellow eyes burn holes right through my skin. I want to spit on her, say, look away! Look away from me! You’re hurting me! But then she’ll really think I’m crazy, really think it.

I can’t go back there, to the hospital. The loony bin. I can’t go back. So I chew the inside of my lip until my mouth tastes like metal, raw, and maybe this is how I’ll forget about my skin, how it burns and sizzles every time she looks.

             'You’re chewing your lip,' she says, and her square, thick-rimmed glasses slip an inch down the bridge of her nose. The tip of my tongue swells, and I clench my teeth so I don’t say it. D’oh! I’m chewing my lip! I’m wearing shoes! My therapist just really likes to state the obvious.

            I’m crazy, not stupid.

              'Tell me, Lana,' she says, her voice like syrup. Sticky. My throat itches again, like ants crawling from the inside. 'Tell me what’s wrong.'

            I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I

don’t know I don’t know.

            I need some air.

About The Author

Debbie Lechtman is a 22-year-old writer and aspiring novelist currently living in Connecticut. She posts her flash fiction at: www.debbielechtman.tumblr.com

Mrs Prendacast's Handbag

Elliot Sampford

Mrs Prendacast's Handbag

Cold Tea

Three weeks prior to the eventful, possibly life-changing day, Jack returned to his family village having completed two years of his latest prison sentence. During the last twenty years of his life fifteen of them have been spent incarcerated at Her Majesty's pleasure: punishment for his regular straying from the 'straight and narrow'.

               His parents, Ted and Mary, still live in the ancestral two bedroom terraced cottage. At forty-two years old, he has no option but to live at home. As a result of his extensive criminal record, full-time employment is not an option available to him so he doesn't have a regular wage income, just minimal social benefits. He needs to accept their offer of free accommodation.

               Apart from when he has to leave the village for the pointless visit to the job centre, he spends the majority of his days sitting on one of the benches on the village green breathing the free, fresh country air. The claustrophobia he's developed in prison means he needs to be outside rather than spending his time sitting indoors in the small cottage. He has spent too much 'time' in small rooms.

               He knows the majority of the villagers consider him bone-idle and not to be trusted. There are some who use him occasionally as a cheap, cash-in-hand, dog’s body for the unpleasant jobs they consider below their status. Mrs Prendacast and the members of her social circle are vociferous in their public condemnation of Jack's life style: his sponging off his parents and society.

During his most recent prison term, Jack decided he needs to change before the cell walls crush him forever. The physical fitness routine and the education programme he undertook had the goal of producing a new Jack.

               But could he change? Was he fooling himself?

Last Monday morning started the same as the previous three since his release. Jack was sitting at his usual place watching the villagers going about their normal routines. He noted the older folks going into the combination village shop and post office. He assumed they were cashing some of their pension to buy a few bits and bobs. He saw Mrs Prendacast go in.

He doubted if she really needed the money given the large house she lives in and the expensive car her husband drives. When she came out, he saw her checking her money again in her purse to make sure it was safely tucked away. She then put the purse in her handbag which in turn she hung on her left shoulder. The shoulder nearest to the road as she walked away from the shop.

               Jack noticed a cyclist, who he recognised from his prison days, travelling down the road behind, and going in the same direction as the walking Mrs Prendacast. She did not seem aware of the fast moving cyclist, that she was clearly his target, and that the gap between them was rapidly reducing.

               Jack knew what he had to do.

               He leapt to his feet and started his dash towards Mrs Prendacast. He knew his new level of physical fitness would get him to the right position and at the right time for his plan to be successful.

               As Jack's feet left the soft, slippery grass of the village green, still on the opposite side of the road to them, the cyclist drew level with Mrs Prendacast. Jack knew what was going to happen next. As his feet came in contact with the firm, abrasive tarmac he accelerated his sprinting speed to ensure he reached the far side of the road in time. He had to successfully complete his part in the action.

               Jack heard Mrs Prendacast scream out: 'Help! Help me someone! He's stolen my bag! Thief! Stop that thief!'

               The cyclist had violently grabbed the handbag from Mrs Prendacast's shoulder as he passed her. He pushed hard on the pedals of the bike to get away as fast as he could.

               He'd been concentrating on his prey and obviously hadn't noticed Jack coming at speed from his left. He clearly didn't see the flying tackle coming. He would suddenly have felt the full strength and weight of Jack as the body-check crashed into his upper torso. A pair of arms wrapped around his chest as he was forcibly grabbed from his bike and dumped on the pavement.

               The crash onto the paving slabs appeared to knock all the air from his lungs, and the weight of Jack's body bearing down on him, meant there was no struggle to escape or movement of any kind by the cyclist Two workmen who had seen and heard the mêlée of the attempted mugging ran to help Jack restrain the failed robber.

               Once they had control of the mugger Jack removed Mrs Prendacast's handbag from his grasp and handed it back to her, with the sarcastic comment: 'Best to keep a firmer hold of it in future. You never know if there are thieves and spongers about!'

               'Thank you … Thank you … for your help,' she stammered, 'I never expected that of you!'

Mrs Prendacast, the members of her social circle, and other villagers are no doubt now wondering has Jack changed from poacher to gamekeeper? Or is it part of another of his con tricks?

               But they’ll have to wait and see – won’t they?

About the Author

Elliot Sampford considers himself a self-taught novice short story writer although he has maintained a weblog for several years. He moved to Spain in 2006 but now lives mainly back in Lincolnshire in the UK, interspersed with periods in Spain in the winter months. His weblog is: http://www.elliotsampford.blogspot.co.uk

Green Grass Of Home

Margaret Bulleyment

Green Grass Of Home

Espresso – with a tiny spoonful of sugar

Strange stuff, grass. Lightfoot snuffles it; savours the familiar scents and pursues his favourite up the hill, until an enticing new odour launches him on a different trail. For him, every aroma begins an exciting journey, not a repetitive exercise.

   American grass is unforgiving, Anna. Little islands of tough,

tussocky, yellowed blades surrounded by parched earth, just waiting to trip you up. When I started training guide dogs, I'd shut my eyes to imagine what life was like led by one. I'd concentrate totally on each moment, waiting for that minute clue; a distinguishing smell; a familiar sound. No looking back, only stumbling forward, uncertainly.

   All these years later, I can let Lightfoot guide me, while I dream of seeded grasses waving in the warm breeze of an English summer's day. Buttercups, clover, bees, butterflies. Always butterflies. Flying freely, or stretching their wings out in the sun.

   I can even picture the lush, green lawn I played on as a child,

without getting upset at the memory. Feel the daisies tickle my bare

toes and remember when I was carefree.

   Now you're thinking, what sad old person wallows in chocolate box clichés of daisy-sprinkled lawns and an idyllic childhood that probably never happened.

   This sad old person, Anna. This sad, angry, old person talking into a machine, because she was stupid enough to break her wrist. I wanted to write you a proper letter, so I could organise my thoughts. Instead, I'm meandering on, with whatever comes into my head. Anna, my love, you deserve something better than this. See, another cliché. They just pop out. I'm full of them. I'm so cocooned in my little box these days, I can't think beyond it.

   I blamed Dad first. You'll laugh when I tell you that he left us for a woman who ran a garden centre. No wonder the lawn was so lush. Mum cried a lot, got divorced and found herself a new job at the NATO base across the valley. Then on the last day of the summer term, I came home to find my brother Tom, tearing around what was left of the lawn, wielding a baseball bat. Some shrieking madwoman was trying to run him out.

   ‘Come and join us, Emmie!’ screamed the madwoman. Mum's hair was loose, she'd never worn it like that before. ‘You're the pitcher now. Oh and this is Joe.’

   ‘Great to meet you.’ A massive hand crushed mine and held it, for an instant too long. ‘We're all gonna get along fine.’ His mouth smiled at me, but his eyes were cold and stary.

   And that was it. Joe, my new stepdad. Master Serjeant Jackson, US Air

Force, yes, mam. One tall black guy from Alabama, who loaded planes.

Months later, I found out he loaded them with bombs.

   Mum had never been happier though and that summer, they got married.

Only then, did they tell me I wouldn't be going back to start Sixth Form. ‘Joe's next assignment could be anywhere,’ said Mum, vaguely,’ but that's no problem. You'll go to the American High School on the base.

That way wherever we end up, you graduate and go to college. Tom can do the same.’

   So that was that. No one had thought to consult us, or even cared about it. I blamed Joe.

   Tom loved every star-spangled school minute, but I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I couldn't fail in lessons – a five-year-old could have passed – but I could fail, socially. If you weren't a cheerleader or dating a Neanderthal footballer, you had to survive in other ways.

   In those days you could smoke around school. Can you believe that? And that's what I did. I smoked for England. It seemed appropriate. Whatever I was offered, I smoked. Sometimes there would be a little pill, so I popped that down too. Mum and Joe were too busy drooling over each other to notice me and Tom lived out on the sports field.

   After a year, Joe was transferred to a base in New York State and I started another high school. I barely noticed the difference and if I did, I smoked a little grass and popped a few more pills. Everything was easier to get hold of now.

   I blamed Mum. She didn't look quite so happy now. Sometimes she would have bruises on her arms and she started pill-popping too. ‘Just for my nerves. Life's different here.’

   ‘Sure, Mum.’ When my school grades started to fall, she was too preoccupied to notice. Then I stopped going to classes altogether and just hung out with the other drop-outs. I'd never wanted a diploma anyway. If you attended class, you got one; so I didn't.

   Carlos was another misfit like me. His mum was Mexican, his dad,

American and a childless couple had been paid to take him away, as their own. He grew up with Repent ye now stuck on the 'fridge, so when he started to steal cars and was told he would be damned in hell, he left home. ‘Ahead of the flames,’ he'd shout, raising his arms to our stained ceiling, ‘with the Devil behind me.’ He'd make us laugh and most days in

that neighbourhood, there weren't too many laughs.

   Carlos was different; he always cared for me. We were frightened of the word love, but we looked out for each other. He graduated eventually; from stealing cars, to selling drugs. It was a rough world and we had to live. And die. Carlos died, protecting me.

   You were just a few months old and they took you away. Took you away from me and our grimy little room. But I was a proper mother. I knew how to look after you. I didn't give you away, Anna, I didn't. They took you. They took you and I blamed them for taking you away and I blamed Carlos for leaving me.

    I have an ordered life now. All these years I've learned, with order and education you can do anything. And if I sound like a teacher; that's what I am. Adult literacy. I got my diploma, I got my degrees and I'm a teacher. I'm sure that's what I would've been if I'd stayed in England, so I've achieved what I set out to do. I want you to be proud of me, like I've always been proud of you.

   I couldn't believe it, when Tom said he'd found you and you were in

England, of all places; adopted by a military family, who'd retired there. You're a married teacher with a two year old daughter. Anna, I'm so pleased about that. I envy Tom meeting you, but at least you know now, I've been thinking about you every day since they took you away.

   They told you, I didn't want you. It was devastating to find out the truth. I don't want to disturb your life, Anna, just meet you; even if it's only once. Meet my daughter and my granddaughter, like any other mother.

   Lightfoot's here beside me waiting for his evening walk. It'll be the last one for both of us. I've walked puppies 18,251 times. I've recorded every walk. How sad is that? I told you, I like an ordered life. Perhaps I might write a book about this place one day and use all those old diaries.

   I've tried to imagine your life, as I've mechanically gone through mine. I've thought of you eating breakfast in a high chair; sitting in a classroom; your first date; your wedding day. My imagination grew with you.

   Every day's the same here. I get up, decide between green pants, or green skirt and take Lightfoot up the hill, thinking of you and my granddaughter, Amy, in rainy-green England.

   Then I'm off to work. I have the best record of anyone who has ever taught here. Every student of mine, passes their literacy test, first time. I'm very proud of that. After lunch it's committee work, a nap and then dinner and the evening walk with Lightfoot. Dull, isn't it. Dull and boring. I like that. I know where I am.

   It can get tough here sometimes, but the puppies have kept me sane. I train only the very best guide dogs and that's something else I'm proud of. Tomorrow Lightfoot goes, his training complete and I will leave after him. I'll miss him. He's been my absolute favourite. Keeping the best 'til last. There I go again.

   Puppies behind Bars. It's a good name isn't it? It sounds like they're caged and restrained. They're not.  We are the ones behind bars.

We're the ones being restrained.

   Tom didn't tell you everything, Anna. I haven't broken my wrist. I just couldn't bear you receiving a letter with Blackwood Hills Correctional Facility, stamped all over it. As soon as I'm back in England, Tom will deliver this to you. I'm coming back, Anna. The whole family will be back where they belong and that's why you need to know everything, before you decide if you'll meet me.

   I could say I didn't mean to kill Pablo, just hurt him; but I hurt him, grabbed the knife and went on hurting him and hurting him. He killed Carlos, your father, in front of you and he paid for it. This time tomorrow, I'll have finished paying too. I don't blame Pablo.

There's no one left to blame now; not even myself.

   It's difficult not to get sentimental. Tom told me you have a long lawn in front of your house and you've even a Labrador, like Lightfoot. That's the picture I'll have in my head tonight, as Lightfoot and I walk over that scrubby old grass, for our last little journey together.

   The moment has come, Anna. I'm finally ready to escape out of my cocoon and spread my wings. All I ask, is that you let me fly across that lawn to meet you. If you can't face that yet, just send your Labrador out ahead. He'll find me stretched out in the sun.

About The Author

Margaret Bulleyment is a retired teacher. She has had short stories

published in small press anthologies; her children’s play Caribbean

Calypso was runner-up in Trinity College of Music and Drama’s 2011

International Playwriting Competition and she has twice had short plays

performed professionally, as a finalist in the Ovation Theatre Awards.

Paint Job

Roger Noons

Paint Job

Carlos Uno Cognac, a Spanish measure.

It was just after nine hundred hours when I arrived in the Port. Pep was seated outside El Pirata, a glass of cognac by his right elbow.

    ‘Bon dia,’ I shouted cheerily.

    He nodded.

    ‘Where’s Toni?’

    He took his time deciding whether to answer. I found I was deserving of the honour.

    ‘He is touching up Emma Marshall’s bottom.’ He raised his glass and took a drink.

    ‘Emma …?’

    ‘Emma Marshall, from Salcombe, in your country,’ he concluded, in totally unaccented English.

    ‘Ah, a boat,’ I smiled.

    ‘Of course Senor, what did you think?’

    ‘Thanks Pep,’ I said, as he began to shake his head.

 

I made my way around the harbour, past the area reserved for the Fishermen’s Craft. I heard him before I found him; a falsetto ‘Bésame Mucho’ at high volume.

    ‘Hey, Antonio … que tal?’

    He screwed up his eyes, removed the mask from over his mouth, and then grinned his recognition.

    ‘Amigo!’ He carefully placed the brush across the opened paint pot, and stood to shake my hand. His left hand he used to clasp my shoulder. ‘Good to see you my friend.’

    ‘How soon will you be free of this lady’s bottom?’

    ‘One hora, perhaps two or even three, El Senor pay by the hour.’

    ‘I need you in town,’ I said. ‘We have a job to do.’

    ‘Cuanta?’

    ‘A thousand euros.’ I looked around, and then added, ‘a man needs to be taught a lesson.’

    ‘Come my friend,’ he said seriously, ‘Emma’s bottom will still be here when I return.’

    Ten minutes later we were aboard the Harley, heading for the main road to the capital.

 The journey took just over half an hour; I had been told where to find the guy who was not settling his bills. I directed Toni and we parked a couple of streets away from the bar which was run by his current squeeze. As we turned the corner I halted my partner.

    ‘That’s him, sitting under the Yucca.’

    ‘Oh!’ His reaction was dramatic. ‘No, sorry amigo I cannot … not that man … it is impossible.’ He turned and began walking briskly in the direction from which we had come.

    ‘Toni, hang on, what’s the problem?’

    When we arrived back at the bike, he turned and faced me. ‘He is the owner of the boat …’

    ‘Boat, what boat?’

    ‘Emma Marshall, the lady who’s …’

    ‘Oh, I see,’ and I burst out laughing.

    ‘So you see, I cannot …’

    ‘Of course not, no way. Let’s have a coffee and we’ll return to Soller.’

***

    Before we parted, I gave Toni a hundred euros.

    He frowned, ‘Que …’

    ‘For your time and trouble, and the fuel for your bike … and for telling me what happens to Miss Marshall after you have completed your task.’

    He looked down at his scuffed trainers. ‘The hoist is booked for tomorrow at ten, she …’

    ‘Thank you my friend.’ I touched his forearm and quickly turned and walked away. As I unlocked the door of the Seat, I saw that he was still staring in my direction.

***

    ‘Senor Maynard?’

      ‘Yeah, this is Eric Maynard, who’re you?’

    ‘I understand you own a boat, the Emma Marshall, used to be moored in the marina at Puerto de Soller?’

    ‘Yeah I … what you mean, used to be?’

    ‘If you visit the Port, Senor, you will find that the lady has vanished.’

    ‘Who is this? Who d’yer you think you’re talking to? You the guy I asked to paint …’

    ‘Senor Maynard,’ I interrupted. ‘You owe money, you borrowed …’

    ‘Okay, so I borrowed thirty grand from …’

    ‘It needs to be repaid, if you wish to see your Emma again, the one with the newly-painted bottom I mean, not the blonde lady who owns La Cantina on the Portals Nous road. Oh and of course with interest and expenses, it is now fifty thousand. You have forty-eight hours.’

    ‘Who d’yer think you’re talking to …’

    ‘Forty-eight hours Senor, from six o’ clock this evening.’

    ‘Just you …’

***

Maynard was not to know that I was just twenty-five metres from where he was sitting when I made that call. I was able to sip my San Miguel and watch him jump up and down and throw his mobile phone on to the ground. When he realised that it was broken, he screamed obscenities. The blonde Miss Marshall appeared, highly perturbed by his behaviour.

***

I rang my boss to advise him of the situation.

    ‘Will he pay up?’ he growled between wheezes.

    ‘I guess so, but if he doesn’t, I have a buyer for the boat. After a name change, she should still fetch three hundred thousand …’

    ‘We would be better off if he did not pay.’

    ‘Seems that way Don Alberto.’

***

As it happened, Eric Maynard did not get an opportunity to pay his debt. On his way to Don Alberto’s office, he was killed in an accident, when his car was in collision with a truck, on the main road between Palma and the airport. A Guardia Civil Patrol investigated the incident, and found that Senor Maynard was at least three times over the drink/drive limit. When the Cabo Primero checked Maynard’s brief case, he found it contained over fifty thousand euros in used bank notes. There was no obvious reason why he should have been carrying such a sum, the officer deduced, unless he was engaged in an illegal activity, so the details did not feature in the officer’s report.

***

When I next visited Puerto de Soller, I found Pep and Toni, sitting together drinking at El Pirata. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked Toni if he was free to do a small paint job for me.

    ‘Just a name change,’ I explained.

About the Author

Having spent the best part of thirty-five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non-fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CaféLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CaféLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for theBest of CaféLit 2012.