2m Peter

Robin Wrigley

vodka on the rocks

I remember the first time he came in for his paper for two reasons, one it was Valentine’s Day and secondly Lizzie fell instantly in love with him. He was shy, nice looking and very tall, well over six-feet. When we found out his first name was Piotr, we knick-named him ‘Two-metre Peter’, behind his back, of course.

     We discovered his name and that he was Polish after he had a parcel delivered to our collection service – he said it was a present from his mum, in Krakow. These details however, were the only thing that we found out about him for quite a while. As I mentioned he was shy, very shy to the point that his eyes diverted away from me the instant our gaze connected on the odd occasion that I was able to serve him, which was not often, due to Lizzie all but wetting herself to get there in front of me. I didn’t mind really being as how I had a steady boy-friend and at four-feet ten, me and him would look rather like the monkey with the giraffe as Lizzie put it when she thought I also fancied him.

     It was the week that Lizzie called in sick that I got a chance to observe him a bit better. Firstly he was very polite even though his English was a bit strange sometimes. He didn’t smoke, or at least didn’t buy his cigarettes from us. He read the Daily Express. When I asked him if enjoyed it, he made a slight tilt of his head, looked at me for a split second and said it was okay and bought it because it was the cheapest. He explained he really only read it to practise reading in English. The content didn’t really interest him.

     He always wore a blue coverall that looked immaculately clean unlike the majority of local workers who came in to the shop. When it rained he wore a bright red waterproof jacket which again made him stand out from the local men who never seemed to alter their dress to suit the weather conditions.

     He had a shock of strawberry-blond hair that looked like he had trouble controlling it as it constantly fell over his right eye causing him to brush away with the back of his hand. His hands and fingernails were clean and he didn’t wear any jewellery or have any tattoos as far as I could see.

     I would never confide in Lizzie, though, for fear of her thinking I was competing for his charms; in reality I just felt kind of sorry for him because he seemed – I don’t know -not just lonely but adrift in a foreign place. He was different but in such a nice way.

     Strangely enough he did seem to open up just a little with me, which to be honest was probably because he sensed that I was not trying to flirt as Lizzie always did and enabled him to accept friendliness at face value. I was dying to know if he was married but instinct told me that question would be a step too far.

     I found out he worked at a local boat-builders as an electronic technician which accounted for, I assume, why he managed to keep so neat and tidy.

     There was no question about it; for all the moaning about the number of Polish immigrants in our city this guy certainly was a bonus.

     But no sooner had we got used to Piotr’s face lightening up our drab shop every morning, he stopped coming in, just disappeared and we never saw him again.

For Lizzie it was Love’s Labours Lost I guess, (and me a bit, if I was honest). But guess what? Lizzie’s booked a holiday in Krakow – can you beat it?

Which doctor?

Mike Olley 

 Voodoo Tequila with a pinch of salt

In the morgue, Dr Browning observed Professor Fox's naked lifeless body. It spoke volumes to him; in death the old man was just as curmudgeonly: 'For God's sake use the scalpel, Browning! This is a pathology department, we employ scientific method only. Determining cause of death by occult means is not only reckless, it is also unethical. Pure mumbo-jumbo. I will not stand for it.' But there was nothing the dead man could do now, the department belonged to Browning.

Satisfied with his work, Browning packed away the ouija board and filled in Fox's post-mortem report: death by supernatural causes.

About the author 

Mike Olley writes short fiction. His work has been published in several anthologies. A designer by trade, he's also quite a good carpenter and grower of cactus plants. Originally from London, he spent a few years in Spain before a quirk of fate brought him back to live in an English seaside town.

Mikeolley.com

Tomorrow

Roger Noons

The Glenlivet, a double

He was sitting at the table, glass in hand when I walked into the bar. Eyes staring with no particular focus, his lips forming silent words. I wondered if he was praying.

    ‘Dad,’ I said, too gently perhaps, as he showed no reaction.

    I sat down opposite him, shook my head in the direction of the barman. My father looked right through me. I waited; his lips continued to shape words, no attempt to take a drink.

    After a couple of minutes I rested my fingers on his wrist. ‘Dad?’

    He blinked several times, gradually focussing on me, frowning.

    ‘Ralph?’

    ‘Yes Dad, how are you?’

    ‘All right Son, I’m all right,’ and he lifted the glass and threw the contents into his mouth. After carefully placing the tumbler in the centre of the table, he added. ‘Come to take me home?’

    ‘Yes.’

    As I helped him up, I mouthed how much to the barman, received a gesture of four fives, so placed a twenty pound note alongside the glass. As we made our way slowly towards the door, my father paused and stared at me. ‘I was talking to your mother, are we going to see her?’

    ‘Not now, it’s dark and the cemetery gates will be locked.’

    ‘Tomorrow then?’

    ‘Yes Dad, we’ll go tomorrow.’

Happy- Hour

Happy- Hour

 Cathy Leonard

Rusty Nail (see recipe)

1 ounce Scotch Whiskey

1 ounce Drambuie

Pour over ice cubes and stir

                          ****

You preferred a Rusty Nail to a Screwdriver in a Saint Louis Highball Glass.

But your special favourite was a Corkscrew in a Double Old- Fashioned.

Shake well and strain into pre-chilled Double, then add a slice of lime.

When you left I didn’t need ice to chill it.

And every Friday night I mix, shake and stir:

A jigger of frogs’ legs, thorns of birr

A pony of beetle-juice, dragon-scale light

A twist of spittle and a dash of spite

Top with a Catherine wheel,

Add a wedge of venom peel

And there you have it-

A Screw-U  

About the author 

Cathy has been writing and teaching for over thirty years. She has published poetry, short stories and children’s stories and has been shortlisted for a number of awards, most recently runner up in the Fish Flash Fiction Award 2013 and the Sceine Poetry Competition 2014. She had a short story selected for publication in Baubles 2016. Cathy lives in Dublin with her husband Stephen, two adult children, Molly her trusty red-setter cross and their new arrival- a stray one eyed three month old kitty- Sherlock. Now all we need is a Watson!

http://bake-a-yarn.blogspot.ie/

White Bits

Roger Noons

a large glass of Verdejo

The man walked up to the swimming pool and dived in. He swam twenty lengths varying breaststroke with crawl. After heaving himself out at the deep end, he stood, posing, allowing the sun to dry his skin. After two minutes he strolled a dozen paces and stood alongside a sun lounger on which a woman was lying on her back. 

    ‘Excuse me,’ he said, but I couldn’t help noticing how attractive you look in that turquoise bikini. If I’m not interrupting, I wonder if I might buy you a drink.’

    ‘Why, thank you,’ she smiled, ‘a glass of white wine would be delightful.’ While he was at the bar, she repositioned the bed so that when he returned she was sitting, having drawn towards her a small table. He placed the glasses on the table and collected a chair.

    ’Cheers,’ he proposed.

    ’Your very good health.’

    They chatted about the resort, excursions they had been on and various holidays they had each taken in the past. As she finished her drink, he said. ’Would you like another, or …’ after he had looked at his watch, ‘shall we have lunch and we can have a bottle?’ 

    While they feasted on a mixed grill of fish, one bottle of Verdejo was followed by another and by four o’ clock, when they had finished their ice creams, they were completely relaxed. Moving closer towards her as the waitress brought their espressos, he whispered.

    ‘I’d love to see your white bits.’

    She smiled, winked and said in a loud voice. ‘I’ve already seen yours, did no-one tell you to remove your wedding ring before sun bathing?’

Stalked

Robin Wrigley

 

a dirty martini

Mandy hung up her flight attendant’s jacket on the back of the kitchen door, took four miniature bottles of wine from her flight bag and opened one. She emptied the contents of the bottle into a glass that had been left to dry on the draining board, sitting down at the breakfast table she kicked off her shoes and took a sip of the wine.

     She looked idly around the room noting the calendar was still on last month’s page, she took a packet of cigarettes from the table pulled one out and lit it. Exhaling loudly, she made the ninety-ninth mental promise to give up when the door-bell rang.

     ‘Oh shit, who the hell can that be?’ She uttered bad-temperedly to the empty room, lodged her cigarette on an ashtray and moved to the front door.

     There was a sheet of porridge-coloured cardboard sticking out of the letterbox; she could see through the glass panels of the door there was no-one outside. She pulled the sheet out turned it over and gasped in horror.

     It was made up of letters cut from a newspaper, rather like the sort of message crooks use for extortion or blackmail-letters in movies. Walking back to the kitchen she mouthed each word as she went.

      She slumped down into the chair, put her elbows on the table, her head in her hands and quietly started to sob.

He was back, the bastard was back. Her life was not worth living.

And Pigs Did Fly

Robin Wrigley

 

a long and spicy Bloody Mary

“Is he my real dad?” Henry looked up at his mother visibly shaken after the most recent fight with the man in question. He had just left, slamming the door so hard it was a miracle it was still on its hinges.

     His mother Jocelyn stopped momentarily from picking up a chair that had been knocked over in the fracas, to wipe the blood that was trickling down her chin from a cut on her lip.

     “That truly is a good question son, I ‘spose you are of his blood, (in truth she wasn’t absolutely sure), but if you want to call him dada, that’s up to you.” She moved over to the sink and wetted a tea towel under the cold water tap and dabbed cautiously at her cut lip.

     “Well, is there anyone else I can choose?” At ten years old and never living with anyone other than his mother all of his life, the question was beyond him.

     On the one hand Henry didn’t want to choose the man who periodically bursts in on their lives creating mayhem, but conversely, somewhere in his undeveloped sense of male loyalty, it seemed wrong to deny him as his father if in fact he was.

     As if to delay answering the question he carried on where his mother left off, picking up bits and pieces that lay strewn around the floor. 

     Jocelyn’s thoughts turned to more immediate problems of what to feed the boy with before she went on her night shift at the care home.

     “I’ll make you a fried egg sandwich for your tea. You like them don’t you?” The boy had not eaten since his school dinner at midday but looking in the fridge she knew there was little choice.

     “Yes, that’s okay and anyway I ain’t that hungry ‘cos I got Abbie’s piece of pizza at school. I dunno why her mum puts her in for school dinners ‘cos she only ever eats the puds and not always them.”

     “That’s ‘cos they’s free boy, that’s why. If she be payin’ herself she wouldn’t, believe me.” She finished tending her lip and set about making his sandwich.

     Looking up from the egg sizzling in the frying pan she glanced over at her son. “What you goin’ to be doin’ tonight boy? Did they give you any homework?”

     “No, I was thinking of going along to see Abbie but she said her dad was a visiting so I might just watch TV for a while, I fink there’s a football match on later.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders he did his best to smile even though he was still concerned over the father subject.

     “Ain’t you got no boys to play wiv?

     “Yea, but the uvver side of Peckham so we only get chance at school or sometimes at the weekend. I’m alright mum, really.” He wasn’t and the truth was he was scared to leave the flat by himself at night. He’d been threatened more than once for not being a member of any of the gangs.

     She finished the sandwich and put it down on the table for him along with their last can of Coca Cola.

     “There you are, I knows it ain’t much but it should see you right till I gets paid tomorrow and we can have a real meal. Now, Leroy said he was coming back later so you’d better keep the door locked. Is that understood? Lock it and bolt it after I leave for work, you hear me now?”

     “Yea momma okay I will.”

     He carried his plate and can to the sink and went into the other room, flopped into the sofa and switched on the television with the remote control and started to channel hop settling on ‘The Simpsons’ halfway through an episode.

     His mother came into the room dressed in her care home blue and white uniform. She had managed to hide some of the cut on her lip with make up.

     “I’m off now Henry, remember what I said about locking the door now. I’ll see you in the morning before you head off, bye. Oh, I nearly forgot if you get into any problem you call Mrs. Ayalougu in number 32. I never thought that we would ever need the help of some Hausa, us bein’ Christian an all but she’s been good to us and she knows how to deal with the likes of Leroy.” With that she left.

    

Henry woke with a start; Leroy had cuffed him around the head. He had fallen asleep during the football game and had no idea what time it was. Startled and scared he realised he had forgotten to lock the door.

     “Where is she? Come on look lively you little shit, where is that bitch? I won’t ask you agin before you get the choice of ‘ospital or the morgue,” he thrust his tattooed fists one after the other at the boy who was attempting to shrink away from him to the far end of the sofa.

     Leroy unsteady and the worse for drink leaned over and grabbed the boy catching hold of him around his slender upper arm. Henry instinctively bent his head and sunk his teeth into Leroy’s index finger and bit with all his might.

     “Yeow, you little shit you’re goin’ to regret that,” he snatched his hand away and Henry shot around the room away from him into the kitchen and out of the main door on to the balcony.

     His first thought was to go to number 32 as his mother instructed but something changed his mind. He knew if he ran he would possibly escape this once but it would not be permanent.

     It seemed as though a red mist took over his fear as he braced himself against the balcony wall and faced the vision of Leroy lunging out of the door at him. Instinctively he dropped to his knees grabbing hold of the big man’s right thigh with both his arms. The combination of Leroy’s mad rush and completely missing his prey he was already off balance, Henry heaved himself upright with all his strength sending his assailant clean over the balcony. With a blood curdling scream Leroy sailed head first into thin air landing with a loud crash onto the rubbish containers three levels below.

     Everything went eerily silent for several moments. Henry sat on the floor his legs now outstretched in front of him. His face devoid of any expression apart from the mildest look of self-satisfaction. Job well done. Several doors opened and residents ran to look over the balcony first to where Leroy’s body lay in an ungainly repose over the bins, then to Henry.

     Amongst the gasps and chatter Henry heard the calming voice of Mrs Ayalougu from 32 who was patting his arm and helping him to get up. She was smiling a huge grin on her broad face showing the big gap where her front teeth used to be.

     “It be alright now there young Henry. You go on back inside and I’ll call the law. You and me will have a little talk before they get here, okay? We’se goin to tell them that pigs can fly ain’t we?”