The irritating noise of the phone breaking through his sleep had been so frustrating, Jude reached up, collected it off the bedside table and launched it across the room. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He could hear a crack as the device hit the wall. At least the beeping noise stopped.
When he did open his eyes, it was with a struggle. He took a moment to register where he was and gather his wits. He was in his own bed. He was alone. He couldn’t remember getting back. He tried to piece together what happened. His wife was gone. Helen was off to visit her sister, Hannah. She had just had a baby. Three summers ago Helen had caught them in bed together. It was best Jude just stayed at home. No point having unnecessary drama when the woman had just given birth.
He had managed to work things out with Helen. They had been married for five years and despite the infidelity she would never leave him. Jude Baxter was a celebrated actor. He had been in front of cameras ever since he was a little boy and these days he was most known as Dr Shardlake on Coldford City’s most popular soap opera, MARCH OF OUR TIMES. She liked the lifestyle too much and your husband having it away with your sister whilst you’re at the hospital with your mother, was a price Helen was willing to pay for it.
It left Jude on his own. He never did too well on his own, especially in the sprawling Cardyne Hills mansion he lived in. It was so vacant when there wasn’t a party going on.
He must have gone out. Jude could vaguely remember heading into City Main for a beer. He would be damned if he could remember the name of the bar he started in. He must have drank a lot from there.
He had kicked off his loafers. They were covered in mud. They were ruined and he had walked muddy footprints into the bedroom with them. He couldn’t remember even walking in mud. Hopefully someone would be able to clean the mess before Helen got back. He’d have a look online for another pair. They were from last season anyway. The more immediate issue was dealing with the headache. It was starting to get worse now that he had woken up. Oh shit! The phone!
He remembered the cracking sound when he had launched it across the room. He picked it up. It was functioning. The screen was cracked. Through the damage he could see:
25 MISSED CALLS
EDNA CALL: ENDED – 25 MINUTES
MSG: CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS – EDNA
UNKNOWN NUMBER CALL: ENDED – 15 MINUTES
1 VOICEMAIL – 4 MINUTES 32 SECONDS
The battery was running low. He wondered what he had been saying to his agent on the phone for almost thirty minutes. He opted to check the voicemail, incase Helen had been calling with flight times. He called the inbox. As the generic voice guided him through the headache became really, fucking painful.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
1:53am
“Mr Baxter? It’s Dr Winslow speaking. I assume you have returned home. The arrangements have been made. I must speak to you urgently about your next steps and small matter of payment. I’ll be at the clinic until four pm.”
END OF MESSAGE.
Dr Winslow? Why the Hell had he been calling a doctor at that time of night for? What kind of doctor even was he?
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The battery completely gave up. He left the loafer and muddy stains behind and drew himself to the kitchens, barely able to keep himself steady. That was no easy task. He found clothes by the door he must have pulled off, leaving him in the underwear he had slept in. A stool from the breakfast bar had been toppled over. A glass of whisky had smashed on the floor. He might have thought he had been robbed. The door had been left unlocked, and the security was off. His car wasn’t in the driveway either.
His hands went to his ribs which ached. They were bruised. He was only just wakened enough to notice. Suddenly the memories of the previous night started to sharpen.
He had been in an accident. He had been driving drunk. He was in an accident. Shit! He had hit someone. What happened to them.
“It’s Dr Winslow. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
The full short story will be coming soon – free on Kindle Unlimited.
It was a cold night. The winter winds were howling and Gil Messin was in a hurry. He had parked his white van in the Rumilaw of Main close to Cabe the butchers. He checked the time. The middleman was supposed to be waiting for him. He had been told not to hang around if he didn’t turn up. He was just about to climb back in the van and leave when he saw a tall, lean man approach. He wore a purple ribbon around his hat. That was the middleman. Messin was relieved.
“You here to confirm?” he asked.
“I am.”
Dennis Platt had been acting as middleman for the Nan Harvester Foundation for years. The titular founder of the charity herself had appointed him. He was discrete. He had a lot of connections at the docks at Swantin. He even had his own vessel called the ‘Lily Ann’ upon which certain packages could be swept away.
“I have some strawberry ice cream,” the foundation worker told him.
“Seems to be the most popular,” was Dennis’ reply.
“Can you just confirm that and I’ll be on my way.”
Transporting goods was always a bit of a process. When he first started with the foundation Gil had been told he would be taking donated goods to factories in Hollyburn to be packed, distributed and donations given for them. It was difficult to pin point when his job became so risky but the pay was incredible. A wind howled around his face causing him to shudder as he watched Dennis take out his phone and arrange the final destination of the highly coveted strawberry ice cream.
As they waited a boy of around thirteen approached. He had dark hair, a fresh face and was wearing a sports jacket that was too light for the weather.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “Do you have a cigarette?”
Dennis looked up from his phone. “No I don’t. Move along kid,” he warned.
Messin had been thinking of the pay that was waiting for him. It was going to be sweet. Looking at the boy, alone, a little scruffy in appearance, that payday could become even more lucrative. Mint choc chip tended to be a little more difficult to come by.
“What age are you kid?” Messin asked. “Are you even old enough to smoke?”
The boy looked between them both.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Benny.”
“Are you alone?”
Dennis remained silent during this exchange but he could see where Messin was heading. He hadn’t been signed on for picking up new products. Messin was keen though. Those big paydays were plenty to appease the conscience and stir the greed for more.
Benny wasn’t a member of the Loyal at this time. As a young teen he had found himself on the streets, escaping an abusive home. He wasn’t alone though. Whilst he distracted the foundation worker and the middleman, his elder brother Jamie had slipped into the front of the van. Jamie could hear Benny’s voice outside keeping them focused on him as he pulled out the car radio, stuffed what little cash had been left in the dash in his pocket, and collected a packet of cigarettes that had been stuffed down the side of the door.
He stole a quick glance out of the window. Benny was facing him. The van driver had stepped a bit closer to him. Benny had stepped back. He looked a little threatened in his body language. Jamie’s brow furrowed. Benny smiled confidently. That was when he heard a moaning from the cargo of the van. He had to duck down as Messin looked back over his shoulder.
“It’s nice of you to look out for my health, like,” Benny teased, turning the focus back on him.
Jamie stole a quick look into the cargo and he could see two little girls. They were leaning against each other. Both were heavily drugged. They were still dressed in pyjamas. Strawberry ice cream – code for the sale of a little girls less than sixteen years old.
“You need a ride somewhere?” Benny was being asked.
It had been Messin who had been doing the talking. However, Dennis’ silence throughout was what left Benny ill at ease.
Mint choc chip – code for an underage boy on the foundation’s depraved menu. Dennis knew Messin was considering picking up a little extra as the opportunity arose but he had been in the business long enough to know that was far too risky. For Messin the greed prevailed.
“Do you live around here?” Messin asked Benny. “I can give you a ride home.”
Benny lost sight of his brother. They all heard the driver door of the van slam closed. Turning to the noise Messin wasn’t given much time to react when Jamie came charging round the van with a knife in hand and plunged it in his chest. Jamie’s attack had taken Benny unawares too. They only had the knives to use if necessary. Benny pulled his own one from his pocket. Jamie plunged the knife into Messin’s chest again. He was screaming with rage. Messin gargled the blood from his punctured lung. Jamie stabbed into his neck. Benny called to him but he wasn’t hearing him. He stabbed again, over and over.
Dennis tried to dash. He pushed Benny aside, Benny lashed and cut his arm. He ran off. Benny was going to chase after him but his immediate concern was his brother. He managed to pull Jamie from the body of Messin. Jamie dropped his knife. He was breathing heavily.
When he managed to calm himself he took Messin’s keys and opened up the back of the van. The two girls had stirred through their drugged daze and looked up with widened eyes. One of them was now shivering really badly.
“Chamberlain Docks,” Jamie surmised. “They’d get on a boat there and never be seen again.” They took off their jackets and wrapped them around the girls. Benny hugged the one shivering close to him to help warm her up.
“We’re going to need to go to CPD,” said Benny.
“The police? You must be kidding,” was Jamie’s reply. “You don’t know who you can trust there. For all we know it might have been someone in the department that bought them. Besides, I’ve left a body out there. We’ll stay here to make sure someone gets these girls to safety but as soon as they get here we’re going to need to scatter.”
The disturbance quickly reached the ears of Loyalists nearby. When Benny spotted the black and belt approach he and Jamie scattered. The girls had been told to ask to be taken to Rita Penn. She would know the ones to be trusted within CPD. They agreed they wouldn’t mention the boys that had helped them. The drugs and the trauma of the situation meant they didn’t have much recollection of what happened to Messin either when questioned.
It was quite a memorable night and even after he joined the Loyal, Benny never really discussed it. The girls’ safety was the important thing. He did remember Dennis though. He remembered him clearly. He was the reason those girls had been snatched, still in their pyjamas, shivering.
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He had been so focused on Tabitha he hadn’t noticed Reggie Penn until the triplet’s fingers tangled in his hair and yanked his head back.
“Who’s done?” he asked.
Reggie pushed Mr Heath’s head into his own lap as Tabitha made a call to Marcus on the upper floor.
“Marcus, handsome. Show these people how very fucking serious I am.”
Bodies rained past the window as the first victims of the Freefall Massacre plummeted from the top of Beckingridge Tower.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
A short while later, Reggie’s phone chimed. He answered, still keeping Mr Heath pressed down. Reggie raised his knee up and pressed it the banker’s back as he clutched the phone to his ear.
“Yeah?”
It was Simon who was calling. “We need you up here.”
“What’s wrong.”
“We could use some extra hands,” Simon told him. “Actually, you had better bring Tabs with you too.”
“Lock the meeting room,” Reggie could hear Marcus instruct in the background. “The Heaths and the last of the investors are welcome to take the more direct root should they wish.”
When they got to the upper floor there were still quite a number of drugged and drunken bodies around that would be exiting the tower via the window. They weren’t the concern at that point.
“What’s going on?” Tabitha demanded to know. “I was just about to give the old Fullerton troll her last rights.”
“We met a little resistance,” said Marcus.
Tabitha rolled her eyes. “You mean like the resistance of the old boy in the reception on security? We just walked past him. He exhausted himself trying to pull a taser. Simon had to help him to a seat. He’s still catching his fucking breath.”
“Not that resistance,” Marcus told her. “I mean this.”
The eldest triplet led them down to a back room where a monstrously fat woman had fallen from her scooter. The flab of her arms and legs were flailing as she tried to correct herself. She was number nineteen, Kayleigh Clifton.
“There was some hor D’ouvers set up here. One can only assume it came down to feed. We can’t switch the lifts back on so It’s going to take all of us to get it up off the floor, roll it up the stairs and out the window,” said Marcus.
“Maybe we just leave her to last,” suggested Reggie.
Simon disagreed, stretching his neck. “No this is one you want to get out the way early.”
Tabitha started to chuckle. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the heap on the floor.
“I know you,” she said. “You think you run the Shanties. I was kind enough to send you a gift from the Knock Knock Club and you didn’t even thank me.”
***
“C’mon Tabs!” Reggie cried. “I’m going to miss out. We should have been there ages ago.”
“It’s not my fault you had to stop and smoke a spliffy or whatever. My feet are killing me in these shoes already.”
What had gotten Reggie so excited was the release of the new Coby Game – Plague Survivor. It was releasing at noon and crowds had already started gathering.
“Your dad is King of Main,” Tabitha went on. Couldn’t he have just told the game store to hold one for you?”
“No,” Reggie grumbled. “He said he wasn’t calling in special favours. He said if I really wanted the game I had to queue like everyone else. C’mon they’ll be opening the doors soon.”
‘Junior gets lifted and laid way too much,’ had been the king’s sentiments. ‘He needs to learn if he wants something sometimes effort has to go into it.’
“Urgh. You owe me, cunt,” Tabitha claimed.
“We’ll get to the movie. I’ll get you a milkshake at Bobby’s too,” Reggie offered as compensation. “Here hop on my back.”
Relieving the strain of the kitten heels Tabitha had been wearing, she climbed onto Reggie’s back and he carried her into City Main’s Coby Game store.
Tabitha had been browsing the oldies music in the jukebox room when Reggie emerged again beaming with pride having managed to get a copy of the new release. Tabitha pursed her lips and gave a sardonic applause for his effort. He stuffed it in his back pack and pulled back a headphone.
“What are you listening to?” he asked.
Sharing the headphones their attention was caught by a huge mountain of flesh on a scooter barging its way through those still waiting to get a copy of the new release, screaming about being disabled.
“What a cunt,” Tabitha sneered, peeling off the headphones.
“She’d be able to walk if they drained some of that fat,” stated Reggie.
“You want a grease fire to burn down the whole city?” Tabitha remarked, chuckling at how witty she found herself.
The smell of body odour from the rotund creature lingered. It didn’t take long before she came zipping back out again with the last game in hand. Still crying about being disabled to whomever was disapproving of her rudely pushing through those that had been waiting some time for their chance.
It would seem someone had told Kayleigh Clifton that the game was going to be popular, so she snapped up a copy with the intention of making some profit on it.
There was a young man there with what Tabitha and Reggie assumed to be his mother. He was a sweet, smiling sort with Down’s syndrome. They had been waiting in the queue patiently. They would have been the next ones in.
“Was that the last one?” the mother asked.
The bloated cretin on the scooter replied, “aye it was.”
The young man was a little upset. The mother hushed him. Then again it could have been the heavy stench of sweat that was doing it. That was upsetting Reggie and Tabitha too.
“If you want you can buy it from me,” Kayleigh offered.
“That’s kind of you,” the mother supposed.
“A hunner.”
“Hunner? Hundred?” the woman was astonished. The game only cost sixty. That was quite a mark up for Kayleigh’s fully loaded behind to carry it out of the room.
“I’m disabled,” she cried again, lifting the parts of her body that had folded over the scooter and adjusting herself so it could carry her immense frame. “I had to come all the way into Main. A hunner and it’s yours.”
Tabitha took Reggie’s arm and the two left the music booth and crossed the hall to address the situation.
“Put your money away,” Reggie suggested. “She’s a conning bastard, like. Excuse my language, ma’am.”
Kayleigh Clifton’s fleshy face rippled into a sneer. “Who the fuck asked you?”
“Do you want me to pop you like a fucking balloon?” Tabitha snapped.
“Suit yourselves,” Kayleigh spat. “I don’t have time for this shite. Get out my road. Fucking chancers.”
At that she zipped off again.
“Sorry about that,” said Reggie to the mother.
“It was a long shot,” she replied. The young man still seemed a little upset. “He just loves those games.”
“What’s your name?” Reggie asked him.
“Jack,” the young man replied.
Reggie smiled. Jack beamed too. Then the triplet reached into his backpack and produced his copy of the game.
“Tell you what Jack, since we’re mates you can have my copy.”
“Oh he couldn’t do that,” the mother insisted.
“It’s fine,” Reggie told them. “You can pass it back when you’re done. No spoilers though.” Jack grinned as Reggie passed him the game over. “I’m Reggie. This is Tabitha.”
“Reggie?” the mother gasped. “I thought you were one of the triplets. You’re Reginald Junior?”
“That’s right,” Reggie confirmed. He drew his phone from his pocket. “You got a gamer tag, Jack?”
“JackAnory,” the young man told him.
Reggie typed it in. “Reg3Online. That’s me. You can add me if you like. I’ve got tonnes of game links I can send you.”
Jack clutched the game tighter.
“Thanks!”
“At least let me give you something for it,” the mother insisted.
“No need, ma’am,” said Reggie. “You can just give me a shout when you’re done, huh Jack?”
“I will,” Jack agreed. He reached out and clasped Reggie in a hug. Then he did the same for Tabitha.
“We’re going to a movie right now but if you’re still in Main a little later we’re having milkshakes at Bobby’s. You should join us,” Reggie offered.
“You’re too kind,” the mother replied.
“I appreciate it,” said Jack.
By the time they got out of the store Tabitha and Reggie had spotted Kayleigh Clifton heave her immense frame from her scooter and hobble to the grey, high rise vehicle she drove. After collecting said scooter, some Clifton handymen had to push her into her vehicle before she drove off.
“Fat, greedy cunt,” Tabitha growled.
“Yeah,” Reggie agreed. “She makes me fucking sick.”
***
“How much do you think it weighs?”
“About 3 – 400 pounds I’d say.”
As the triplets discussed the practicality of moving number nineteen, Tabitha still couldn’t keep her eyes off it.
“Could you lift that, Si?”
“I did 350 the other day. Got it right above my head,” Simon boasted.
“So, get that fat heap off the floor,” Reggie pushed.
“There’s just one problem,” Simon put in. “When you’re lifting weights you have bars to grip, space to take the proper stance and a belt so you don’t shit out your fucking spine, Reg.”
“Fuck you!” Kayleigh spat from the ground.
“No, fuck you!” Simon snapped back. “You greedy, fat cunt. Ever heard of a salad?”
“That’s enough,” Marcus intervened. “Between us we can get it back up the stairs and to the window.”
“I’m not going under an armpit,” Reggie objected.
“You’ve been worse places,” Simon teased.
“Not many.”
“Grab an arm each and I’ll push from here,” Marcus instructed. “We don’t have much time. Once the security guard catches his breath he may very well call the authorities. We need to be prepped before they get here. We have to get it up the stairs and we can roll it to the window from there.”
The removal of Kayleigh Clifton’s lard filled bulk commenced. They managed to get to the first landing with Tabitha following behind the triplets.
The triplets lined up and caught their breath.
Marcus sighed, “Alright, if we shoulder together we can shove it to the bottom of the next stairs … Reggie! Get off it!”
Reggie had laid himself across Kayleigh’s stomach and was rising up and down with her staggered wheezy breaths.
“It’s kinda like a waterbed,” chuckled the youngest. Simon snatched his arm and pulled him back onto his feet.
“Eugh. I’m all sticky now,” Reggie stated, causing Simon to shove him away.
“Can we focus?” Marcus barked at them. “We do have other guests waiting.”
The triplets lined up again. The scrummed together like they were in a rugby match and charged. Kayleigh was bowled over. Reggie let out a shriek as his hand slipped further than he intended into a somewhat tight, moist space.
“Ahhh!” he bawled. “I’m in it! I’m in it. Get me out!”
Simon pulled him back. Reggie’s arm freed with an audible thwoop!
“It was just one of the fat folds,” Simon observed. He didn’t want to be the one but he had to ask, “are you even wearing anything under that tent?”
“Why don’t you lift it up and see for yourself ya peacocking prick.”
Simon and Reggie shared a look. Then they committed to a game of stone, scissors, paper. Simon chose paper to cover Reggie’s rock. He gave a fist bump of relief so genuine you could have sworn Coldford City had won a penalty shootout. Reggie raised the floral tent Kayleigh was covered in releasing a stench of urine and more body odour.
“It’s hard to tell,” he said. “If there was anything in here it’s been sucked up.”
Marcus was starting to lose his patience. Hair was straying from the neat ponytail he wore.
“Can we please, for the love of all that is righteous, just get this disgusting behemoth out of the God damned window!”
Having rolled her to the second stairwell, Reggie and Simon lifted a leg each and Marcus clasped it from the top. A revolting cloud of flatulence engulfed them.
“Please tell me that was you, Reggie,” Simon said, hopefully.
Reggie’s nose wrinkled. He was trying not to vomit. Tabitha had started gagging quite dramatically too.
“Aye, ye’s are so scary I shit maself,” Kayleigh cried, defiantly.
Simon started to heave too.
“Will you hold it together,” Marcus ordered.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Simon.
“Vomit in your own time. We still have these stairs to get up.”
“I’m disabled,” Kayleigh cried.
“I’m going to be disabled by the time we get you to that fucking window,” Simon yelled. He had to stop himself as his stomach lurched again.
“I was just thinking,” said Reggie, resting a leg on his shoulder. “Do you think those kids that went missing are in there? Maybe it ate them?” He lifted the tent dress again. “Marley? Are you in there little man?”
“Those kids didn’t go missing,” said Tabitha. “Your blob there left them with no choice but go to the docks.”
The greed that Kayleigh Clifton personified was not to be underestimated. Tabitha would slice off the face of anyone without too much thought. However, as far as her triplet Penn family were concerned, valid reason had to be given for such drastic action. Kayleigh’s unapologetic theft and selfish discord through the Shanties and beyond left many desperate. The young people, lost to the docks, most likely faced a fate worse than death.
“You disgust me” Marcus had told Kayleigh and he meant it.
So they kept pushing and heaving up the second set of steps. Simon became conscious of being so close to the asshole end. Knowing shit had to come dripping from somewhere he raised his shoulder a bit so the chances were it would drip towards Reggie.
“Let’s switch places,” he eventually suggested to Marcus.
Marcus popped up from the other side of the heap.
“You really think it’s much easier up here?” asked the crown prince. “Madame, if you don’t stop trying to bite me I will extract your teeth!”
“Fucking try it, specky.”
Marcus disappeared behind the heap again. When he reappeared he was laughing a little hysterically, clasping a set of old filthy dentures. He snapped them at his brother. “Still want to take my place?”
“Nah, you’re alright,” Simon decided.
“Then keep pushing. We’re almost there.”
“You’re for it now, cunt.”
“Yes, thank you Tabitha.”
***
It had been a warm afternoon when Rita Penn had been making her way to the headquarters of the City Youth Fund. She was flanked on either side by sons, Marcus and Simon. She had a phone clasped to her ear, held in conversation with Tawny.
“The food drive up here was such a success,” the queen was explaining. “We’ve got some packages to send down your way.”
“Yer a star, honey!” Tawny cheered. “We’re going to get as many to Knock Knock as we can and whip up some hot meals.
Simon skipped forward and opened the door.
“I’m just on my way now,” said Rita, “I’ll give you a call back.”
Rita stepped into the hall, giving her son an affectionate pat on the face. “Thank you, baby.”
The hall was filled with volunteers and people still bringing in canned goods. Molly Walden was the one to greet them upon arrival.
“We’ve done well, ma’am,” said the wine merchant with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of cans. Some of the volunteers sorted some baby items and made up some gift packs for expecting mas.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Rita sincerely. “It’s really a job well done. I’ve let the Headliners know we’ll be sending some down their way. The Jolly Shopper said they’ll bring in some bread too.”
Molly placed her hands on her hips and took in the princes.
“And how are my boys?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you, Mrs Walden,” Marcus answered for them.
Molly chuckled.
“I’ve got a fight coming up, Mrs Walden,” Simon told her excitedly. “If you’re free this weekend are you able to come along and see?”
“I’ll be there,” Molly confirmed. “If you get into trouble I’ll jump in,” she jested jabbing the air. To Rita she said, “Mr Rugato is here, ma’am.”
Marcus and Simon followed their mother to a table where Mr Rugato, a potential patron of the CYF, was seated with his two daughters.
Mr Rugato of Tokashima had recently set up an electronics store in Main. he was also a professor of robotics at Cardyne college. When he heard of the Youth Fund he expressed an interest in making a sizeable donation. Molly had invited him along to the annual drive to see what progress was being made, accompanied by his two lovely daughters Amane and Izen. He was a round faced, cheerful sort of fellow dressed in a fine suit. He gave a courteous nod to the Queen of Main after which introductions were made.
“These are my sons, Marcus and Simon.”
Mr Rugato gave a bow to them. The daughters followed the behaviour of their father.
“You will have to meet some of our volunteers,” said Rita to the would be patron. “My boys would be happy to keep the young ladies company.”
“Of course, mother,” Marcus agreed. “Mrs Walden has been kind enough to provide some coffee and pastries if you would like to join us.”
The young ladies were quite thrilled at that idea. Amane clasped Simon’s arm firmly.
Pleasantries were exchanged, coffee and pastries were provided. The daughters regaled the triplets with tales from their homeland. Marcus and Simon offered some anecdotes about life in Coldford.
“So you’re twins then?” Amane asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
“We’re triplets, actually,” Simon explained.
“We’re missing the complete set today,” Marcus added causing Izen to giggle coquettishly.
Meanwhile, Mr Rogatu was speaking to one of the volunteers whilst Rita and Molly tended to the workers from Williams Distribution who would be packaging the food parcels and distributing them to where they were needed most.
“I fell pregnant. I was still really young,” the volunteer was explaining. “My parents didn’t want to know. They kicked me out. Luckily I had the CYF to turn to. Her Majesty – eh Mrs Penn – she set me up with help. Mrs Walden and others helped take care of me too. They made sure I got the medical care I needed and we all share babysitting duties so we can work or go to school. I just finished taking a night class in accountancy and Mrs Penn arranged a flat share for me. My baby and I have a nice little home now.”
Mr Rugato was impressed. “And you volunteer?”
“Most of us end up doing that. It’s nice to give a little back. There’s lots of help for troubled kids here too. We’ve set up sports teams, activities and a buddy system for some of the younger ones. Most recently we did the food drive you can see here. The Coldford City team got in on it. They did huge collections at the stadium of tins, baby items, hygiene products, whatever they could get. It went so well we’re gathering it all up and sharing some with other vulnerable parts of the city.”
Mr Rugato was confident in his decision to support the City Youth Fund. The chat with the young volunteer, seeing Rita’s personal dedication he couldn’t ask for more. Then trouble arrived as Kayleigh Clifton came crashing into the hall on her scooter, struggling to carry her weight. Her smell flowed over her immense body and beads of sweat were running down her wide back. Naturally she made a charge towards the pastries, barging owner of the tram system, Rufus Clarke and his son Ralph, out of the way who had been told by Molly to grab some refreshments after they had handed in more boxes of donated goods. When they saw Kayleigh reach out her great trunk of an arm and scoop up the last of the tarts, pressing her dirty thumbs into the icing with her eagerness, they decided it wouldn’t be much use. Nothing was going to be left anyway!
“I’m disabled!” Simon heard her yelling at someone who was objecting to her greed. She was already trying to stuff a tart into the gaping hole in her face. Marcus was consciously trying to keep his nose from wrinkling as Izen was telling him a delightful story of how she had written a book of Haikus and a waft of putrid flatulence came over them.
Having collected pastries, Kayleigh zipped across to the food parcels. On the way she bumped into Amane, sending the poor girl scoffing forward. Simon stood.
“You want to watch where you’re going?” he balled at her.
Kayleigh pulled the scooter around. She glared back at Simon. At least he assumed there was a glare under there.
She made her war cry. “I’m disabled!”
“Unless shameless rudeness is a symptom of your disability ma’am, you owe an apology,” Simon returned.
“Fuck you,” Kayleigh spat, sending crumbs from the most recent tart she devoured flying the young boxer’s way. Marcus stood too. Kayleigh saw this as a challenge.
Marcus knew Simon would already be seething enough to do something stupid so he maintained his own calm.
“Madame, you are an ill mannered, selfish glutton. What’s more you are choking this entire hall with your stench. Offer an apology that is richly deserved and move along.”
“Aye, sorry, whatever.”
Kayleigh then zipped off.
“Sorry about that, ladies,” said Simon to their company. “Unfortunately, good charity brings out some chancers.”
The middle triplet was indeed correct in that. Said chancer found her way to the table where Mr Rugato was being shown the food parcels. Kayleigh had moved the meat where her belly and breasts seemed to merge and was filling the basket in the front of her scooter with some of the donated goods.
“Are you a member of the fund?” the would be patron had been curious to know.
“Am fae the Shanties,” she declared.
“Is that a yes?”
“I own the Shanties,” she stated again.
Clifton Alley, Cliton Lane, most of Forresterhill as well as the Kirkton flats certainly were in the name of Clifton. Kayleigh’s claim to her brother’s estate was tentative at best. She did fancy herself head of the Shanties whilst Clifton Hall reigned in Hollyburn thanks to her brother and his wife, Valerie Flynn.
“Aw fuck. Fat arse is here,” Molly groaned. “Excuse the French ma’am. Molly was forgiven the language. Rita completely understood the sentiment. When she saw Kayleigh Clifton fill her basket with donated goods she approached to diffuse the situation.
“Those are donated goods, madame,” Rita confronted.
“Charity begins at home,” Kayleigh sneered. “I’m head of the Shanties.”
“Ha ha,” Rita chuckled. Then her expression fell serious. “No you’re not. The Chief speaks for the people of the Shanties and they decided their home is the Knock Knock Club. Good friends of mine run the place.”
“And who the fuck are you?” Kayleigh dared to ask.
Rita’s eyebrows raised with the sheer shock.
“Who am I!?”
Molly intervened. “Get on your way, ya fat cow. We all know you’re either going to eat it all yourself or sell it on for a profit. People need these parcels.”
“Walden?” Kayleigh turned her focus on Molly. The fucking turncoat. You a Mainer now. You forget where you come fae.”
Some people forget where they come from. Others can’t see where there going for that fat laying over the buckling scooter.
***
As she was rolled up to the window, Kayleigh could see twenty or so more bodies scattered around. There was some groaning among them. They were all heavily inebriated. Most of them had been three sheets to the wind by the time she got there.
As she was propped against the ledge one of the triplets gave a gasp, most likely Reginald Junior. She didn’t make it easy for them. She was a tough one to move. If they really wanted her to fall from Beckingridge Tower they would get her piss and shit all over them. The little bitch – Tabitha – opened the window as Reginald Penn’s triplets continued pushing her towards the ledge. Number twenty five – Derek Williams – glanced up at her. He knew he’d soon follow. The sight of Simon really putting his shoulder into it sobered him up.
“What if the fall doesn’t kill it?” Reggie wondered.
“It’s a 200ft high tower.”
“Yeah, but what if it bounces?”
Reggie took a look out of the window. “Do you think we could hit the Jeff Beckingridge statue from here?”
Tabitha waited by the window with her hands on her hips.
“Out you go, cunt,” she said.
Kayleigh should have known. She had been warned.
“Some little witch in a red dress,” Valerie had informed her. She has the Chief backing her. The Penns of Main have practically adopted her as one of their own. She’s pissed at the way the Shanties are run and she won’t stop.”
Laziness, greed, selfishness – all of those things made Kayleigh what she was.
She literally took from starving children. She held vital medicines to ransom. She exploited desperate families, forcing them to pay for their dignity all so she could feed an insatiable hunger. I can’t and won’t condone what happened at Beck Tower that night. However, what I can agree with Tabitha and the triplets on was something had to be done.
“You think you know the Shanties? You’re a little Filton tart,” Kayleigh had said to Tabitha.
“Hey!” Simon barked. “Don’t talk to her like that.” His frustration caused him to bump against her body. The bump caused a ripple effect, flicking Reggie at his end with some sweat.
“Ewwww! You just flicked fat juice in my face,” the youngest complained.
Simon laughed. This didn’t appease his brother. Reggie pursed his lips and pushed the belly sending the ripple back towards the middle one. A sprinkle of putrid moisture caught the boxer.
“Uggggh. I didn’t get you anywhere near as much as that,” Simon moaned. Before he could push the belly back again Marcus halted them.
“When you two are quite finished.” Asking the Boss Lady, Marcus continued, “You wished to say something, Tabitha?”
“You’ll be pleased to know what you leave behind will pay back the ones you stole from, at least the ones that survived the starvation and exposure on the streets.” She took a moment to take Kayleigh Clifton in again. There was a lot to observe.
Marcus took over.
“Madame, your gluttonous appetite left innocent others in need. That cannot be allowed. A recession is causing a city wide suffering and that is because of people like you. As you fall …”
Marcus stopped and took a deep breath.
“I don’t even have the energy to finish what I had to say. Let’s just get it out of here it’s stinking up the place.”
HEAVE! HEAVE! HEAVE!
“Should have said thank you, cunt,” Tabitha reminded her.
At that Kayleigh Clifton plummeted from Beckingridge Tower, number nineteen in the Freefall Massacre. The sheer weight of her greed pulled her down.
SPLAT!
“Missed the statue,” said Reggie.
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Simon. “She’s meant to be disabled so she’s never took her fat arse off that scooter. Don’t you think the authorities are going to find it a bit of a stretch when they’re told she walked up those stairs, to the window and threw herself out?”
“How much do you think that scooter weighs?
“God fucking damnit.”
Chaos is unfolding in Coldford City as an event that would become known as the Freefall massacre sees fifty nine bank executives fall to their deaths.
Read Issue 17 of the Knock Knock series free online HERE
A small restaurant in the Hotel de Vice is where the scene I now describe takes place. It was past midnight and the restaurant had long closed for dinner. The lights had been lowered. The waiting staff had all gone home. Only the Maitre’d remained behind. Three men were still seated at a table, laughing boorishly. Empty glasses and bottles filled the area and the one in the middle was opening another bottle of the Walden’s Eighty Five. He was a dark-haired fellow with an angular face. He laughed and smiled with his companions without any real joviality about him. He was a cold soul, marked by the way he gritted his teeth as he pulled the cork from the bottle.
“She left in shame,” he was guffawing with his companions. “A tired old maid like that ought to think herself lucky. She wouldn’t have feigned shame so much if she hadn’t enjoyed herself.”
This caused the boorish laughter to erupt again.
“You’re awful, Nolan,” said one – Albert Chamberlain – who was greying before his time.
“Awful? Don’t talk to me about awful. When we broke in there, she practically threw herself at me.”
“She wanted to save her charges,” said the other. He was sounding sluggish, leaning forward, barely able to keep his eyes open. The Maitre’d hoped they would pass out or the story would urge the group to move on.
Nolan slapped the drunkard on the back. He looked like he was going to vomit. Nolan passed him another drink.
Looking across the hall he called, “you there! Any chance of supper up here, old boy? My companions and I worked up quite an appetite.”
“The kitchen is closed, milord,” the Maitre’d replied. “It has been for some time.”
Nolan slammed the bottle down on the table. “What kind of place is this?” he groaned. He knocked some of the glasses over. “Clear some of these, will you?” he snapped. He managed to find his humour again when he returned to his companions. “She didn’t want to protect her charges. She just wanted all the fun for herself.”
Earlier that evening, Nolan and his company had broken into a hostel nearby. It was home to the devoted sisters of the Albans Order. Nolan had gotten it into his head that he really wanted to fuck a nun. The Mother had tried to fend them off on behalf of the novices. She gave herself to Nolan so the others may remain unharmed.
“She was a feisty one too,” Nolan commented. “She spread her legs and she prayed.”
“They’ll banish her from the order,” said Chamberlain.
This amused Nolan all over again. “I hope they do. What use is an old slut like that to them now anyway?”
The Maitre’d was struggling, listening to their nonsense. Luckily it was all interrupted by the ring of the telephone.
“A call for you Lord Cibe,” he beckoned Nolan. “It’s your brother.”
Nolan rolled his eyes. “Trust him to track me down.”
He stumbled across the hall, took the receiver and clasped it to his ear.
“Yes, Malcolm?” he asked. “I’m in the middle of something of a celebration. I won a bet this evening. What can I do you for?”
The brother’s voice on the other end sounded far and hoarse.
“Get out of there right now. I heard what you did. The whole God damn town is talking about it.”
Nolan tried to play innocent. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“They’re going to hang that nun for breaking her oaths,” said the brother. Nolan couldn’t care less about that revelation. “You’re on Penn land. Get out of there now!” he was warned.
Nolan knew full well he was on Penn land. The alcohol had dulled his consideration of the consequences. His brother’s reminder sobered him. Malcolm didn’t say much more. He rang off leaving his brother to make a departure from the hotel.
Before they could make their leave, another group entered the restaurant. Chamberlain recognised one of them as Claude Emmerson, the grandson of the Comte du Maurier and the son of Renaud Penn, Reginald. Reginald stopped to shake the hand of the Maitre’d. They shared some words; all the while Emmerson kept his focus on Nolan Cibe. The three remained seated as Reginald crossed the hall to them with his Loyal close. Chamberlain attempted to leave his seat. Emmerson gripped his shoulder and sat him back down. Reginald snatched Nolan by the hair and slammed his face onto the table. Albert Chamberlain tried to stand. Emmerson kept him seated. With his free hand Reginald picked up a bottle, smashed it on the table, holding it towards the others with a snarl.
“Reginald. Leave him be,” he was instructed by his father who had just arrived on scene with Eric du Maurier by his side.
Nolan spat a breath across the table, scattering some of the shards of broken glass. Reginald loosened his grip. He stepped into the shadow his father had cast. Renaud raised his right hand, which was wrapped in a great thick chain. He reached over and clasped Nolan’s chin with the left, looking into his eyes. He shook his head and released his grip again.
WHACK! WHACK!
Renaud brought the chain down on Nolan’s skull twice, causing his body to fall forward.
WHACK! WHACK!
Twice more and Nolan gave an audible sob, choked by the blood that ran down his face.
WHACK!
The strongest hit yet caused the sphenoid bone to crack. A final whack smashed the eye socket.
Renaud took a breath and stepped back. Eric passed a napkin to him to wipe some of the blood and skull matter from the chains. Renaud dropped the sodden handkerchief in front of Albert Chamberlain. The drunkard, although quickly sobering, had fallen into a daze, swaying in his chair with tears in his eyes.
“He didn’t have to die,” he whimpered.
“No,” said Renaud. “He did not. A perfectly innocent woman didn’t need to be violated either. It means death for her so it’s only right it meant death for him too.”
Chamberlain tried to stop himself looking at Nolan. He wasn’t quite dead yet. His lips were parting slowly as he continued to gasp his last.
“You are going to take your friend’s body from here. You will clean any mess or damage you have caused. You’ll pay the Maitre’d Hotel handsomely for having to put up with your coarse behaviour as long as he did. More importantly you will never show your face around here again. If you do you will not find me as courteous as I am now.”
Renaud and most of the Loyal departed. Reginald, Emmerson and some of the others remained behind to see that the task was carried out.
Reginald indicated the tablecloth.
“You’ll replace that too. It’s a fine cloth and those stains don’t come out.”
Chamberlain and the drunkard were both shaken.
“Cunts,” muttered Reginald under his breath.
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Halle couldn’t think much about her friends’ reaction. She was so nervous to meet Simon.
It had been a few weeks since he had sent the first messages. Since then there were a stream of them, asking about her day, reminding her of how beautiful she was and how glad he was to be speaking to her. He even told her he would like to meet her friends and have a proper relationship with her – kids, marriage; the whole works. When she expressed concern that it all seemed too good to be true he had sent back some pictures.
In the image he was stood on a sun kissed balcony. It didn’t look like Coldford City. There were lots of plants in the background. Wherever it had Helen taken it looked beautiful. What she found the most eye catching about the image was the piece of paper he was holding up. On that piece of paper was written I LOVE YOU, HALLE.
Halle had never been so excited. She felt like she could cry.
WHERE ARE YOU? She asked.
WITH THE FAMILY AT OUR HOME ABROAD. I’LL BE BACK IN THE CITY AGAIN SOON, BEAUTIFUL.
That was when the made the date and how Halle found herself in a small dockside restaurant. She was dressed in her best black dress. Janice had even done her makeup for her. She had never felt so nervous.
They were supposed to meet at six. The time went on half past the hour. There was still no time. She didn’t want to seem impatient, but she was concerned.
WHERE ARE YOU? She asked.
At 6:45 she finally received a response. It wasn’t from Simon. It was from another profile calling themselves RooneyMain.
HI, I’M SIMON’S MANAGER. HE HAS GOTTEN SOME TROUBLE GETTING BACK INTO THE CITY. HE WAS BRINGING SOME PACKAGES FOR YOU AND THEY HAVE BEEN CONFISCATED. THEY WERE GIFTS FOR YOU. HE NEEDS A GRAND TO GET THEM OUT OF CUSTOMS. ARE YOU ABLE TO HELP? HE WILL PAY YOU BACK.
She must have been contemplating her phone with a frown for too long. A woman at the table next to her with what Halle assumed was her partner asked if she was okay.
She shook it off with a polite, ‘I’m fine.’
She was dressed in her best black dress. She spent more time on her makeup than usual. She had even waxed and plucked, just in case things went that well. A girl dressed up, left sat alone, glaring at her phone. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to ascertain what happened.
Before she could respond to the manager, she received a message from Simon.
I’M SO SORRY, BEAUTIFUL. I REALLY WANT TO BE THERE FOR YOU. I’VE BEEN HELD UP SINCE THIS MORNING. I NEED TO PAY THE CUSTOMS FEE AND MY ACCOUNTS HAVE BEEN FROZEN.
THAT’S TERRIBLE she replied. ARE YOU OKAY?
I’LL BE FINE. I’LL SORT IT. I’M JUST SAD I CAN’T SEE YOU.
Halle gave it some thought.
I HAVE SOME SAVINGS. I CAN GIVE YOU THE 1000 IF IT WOULD HELP.
There was some back and forth on whether he could accept that or not. Eventually, it was decided he could. He sent her a digi wallet ID. It was under the name Harriet Malroney. She asked him about this. He told her it was one of the admins for his team.
He told her what an amazing person she was. He said he would pay her back as soon as he gained access to his accounts again.
Halle took a selfie from where she was. He responded with a stream of love eyed emojis.
MY BEAUTIFUL GIRL he wrote, expressing his regret they weren’t sharing their first meal together.
Then the strangest thing happened. He tried to initiate a video call. He must have wanted to apologise face to face. When she answered the call the screen was blank. The noise around her from the restaurant made it difficult to hear anything. The call cut.
TRIED TO CALL. SORRY I COULDN’T SEE YOU.
Halle left the restaurant, dreading explaining to her friends that she never met Simon and she had sent him money.
The full story will be available soon. In the meantime, an internet troll has taken over the city. The race is on to uncover their true identity before more reputations are ruined.
It didn’t matter how much he scrubbed, his hands just wouldn’t feel clean. The sink was filling with filthy water and blood which made him feel even worse. The skin of his palms looked irritated. He had heard it though. He knew he had heard it. The sound of the infant crying had been ringing in his ears all night. Daniel heard nothing. Daniel was a calming presence. He always quietened things. When Daniel was around the noise was softer and less intrusive. Vincent heard a child crying. It was the stifled calls of a small infant buried beneath the dirt. Daniel didn’t seem to hear it. He could tell something was bothering Vincent though.
“You’re just nervous about your first rehearsals.”
He couldn’t hear the infant in the garden crying to be dug up.
To keep his mind occupied Vincent drank a glass of whiskey. He sat in the sofa and imagined Daniel’s taxicab journey in his head. He would be crossing the Fullerton bridge from Filton towards Cardyne by then. He tried to imagine what small talk he would make with the taxi driver. Daniel was good at that. He would manage to fill the time with pleasantries. The soothing taxi ride became interrupted by the sound of the screaming again. He had to set them free. He had dropped the whiskey glass. He must have tried to pick up the shattered pieces without realising it. There was a great cut across his palm. Without cleaning it and applying a bandage he went to the gardens. The screaming was just too loud now. It didn’t sound like an infant anymore. It sounded like a whole choir of children, older, maybe the age of the Peterson twins. He hadn’t brought a shovel. The noise was just to great. He dug his hands into the dirt and started pulling it aside. The cries harmonised into one voice again. It crescendo and then came to a halt. There was nothing there. Now there was no noise. He was too late.
He despaired as he washed the dirt and blood from his hand. The tormenting noise had gone but the silence it had left behind was much worse.
SHORT STORY COMING SOON
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Reginald Penn, dedicated king, disreputable hooligan and loving husband had certainly lived a full life. From the royal courts of Luen to the filthy streets of Coldford City he thought he had seen it all. Nothing offered him the challenge that being the father of identical triplets did.
When one woke through the night, as infants tended to do, the sound of their cry would always stir the others. Reginald’s wife, Rita, didn’t like them to be in separate rooms when they were so young, despite the penthouse suite of the Faulds building, in which they lived, having ample space.
“When one gets up they look for the others and they get upset when they can’t find them,” was Rita’s reasoning.
“Of course, my love,” Reginald agreed.
It was easier to keep them together when they were infants anyway. They were content that way and stayed settled. They were easy enough to handle until middle boy, Simon, found the ability to pull himself out of his cot.
Marcus, the eldest, was the most patient of the three. He would watch quietly as fuss was made by the youngest, Reginald Junior. Reggie didn’t cry. He just tended to make a lot of noise trying to follow Simon. With some frustration on his little face it would appear Marcus was chastising his brothers for not staying put.
Taking care of babies is a chore for anyone. Then they reach that terrible toddling stage and all Hell breaks loose.
Rita was hesitant to be apart from the triplets. In the few years since giving birth to them she had barely left their side. A trip abroad without them had rendered her nervous.
“Just enjoy the trip,” Reginald told her over the phone.
“I will,” she replied. “The weather has gotten terrible so we are delayed. How are the boys?”
“They’re fine,” Reginald confirmed. “They’re no match for their old man.”
Rita chuckled.
“Don’t let them gang up on you.”
“Don’t worry,” Reginald insisted. “The boys and I will keep ourselves occupied until you get back. Just enjoy yourself. Call me when you land.”
He could hear the warm smile radiate through her voice.
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he responded. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
When he closed the call, he looked over to his sons, seated in the lounge. Marcus was busying himself sorting blocks by colour. Simon was building them up as high as he could reach and knocking them back down again. Reginald couldn’t be prouder. He really was blessed with wonderful sons. Then he took a closer look.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he muttered.
Simon chortled. “Shit,” he called back.
Reginald frowned. “Don’t repeat me,” he warned.
He rushed back to the phone and called downstairs.
“Uncle Mand? I’m going to need you to come up for a few minutes. I need your help.” Reginald listened to the booming voice of his uncle return to him.
“Could you just come up, please. Bring Jeen, I could use his help too.”
Uncle Armand and his son Jean Luc arrived at the penthouse suite shortly after.
“What’s the problem? he asked.
Marcus and Simon were still playing blocks in the lounge. Reginald looked a little stressed.
“Take a look,” the nephew beckoned.
Armand glanced at the boys.
“Precious little lads. What more do you want?”
Reginald frowned. “You don’t see it?”
Armand took another look. They appeared to be in good health.
Reginald groaned. “There should be fucking three of them Uncle Mand.”
Simon chortled again. “Fuckin’,” he declared.
“Don’t repeat me,” Reginald warned his son once more.
“Which one is missing?” asked the uncle.
“Junior,” answered Jean Luc. “Always Junior.”
“He’s around here somewhere,” Reginald told him. “I can’t leave the other two to search for him or they’ll be off too. He’ll have fallen asleep in the linen basket again or he’ll be looking for his mother.”
Jean Luc pursed his lips.
“How can you be so careless?” he asked.
“Careless?” Reginald responded. “The minute Marcus learned to walk he taught the other two. Before I know It I’m having to herd them in. Whenever Rita’s here they won’t leave her side. As soon as she steps out they scatter and I’m outnumbered. I’m evening up those numbers. I don’t need your griping Jeen. I just need you to help me round them up.”
Jean Luc glared at his cousin. “Do I look like a fucking collie dog?”
“Fuckin’”
“Stop repeating, Simon!” Reginald warned the middle boy again. Turning back to his cousin he chided, “don’t use that kind of language in front of the boys. Uncle Mand? Could you sit here with Marcus and Simon? Jeen? Just help me find Junior.”
As his son and nephew wandered off in search of the missing triplet, Armand took a seat on the sofa. Enamoured by his great uncle, Simon came wandering over to him. Marcus inspected his brother’s movements from afar. Simon passed Armand a piece of paper he had scribbled on.
“Is that for me?” asked the uncle affectionately, looking at the markings the child had made in blue crayon. “You are a sweet lad,” he chuckled. He lifted Simon onto his knee. “Let’s see what we have here, shall we?”
Meanwhile, Reginald and Jean Luc began to search the linen baskets – Reggie’s favourite hiding place.
Jean Luc voiced objection again when his cousin checked under the hood of a false chimney.
“Can you squeeze in there?” Reginald requested of his cousin.
“I most certainly can not,” was Jean Luc’s reply.
“There’s a ledge in there, Junior climbed up on it before. Squeeze in and coax him down.”
“Fine,” Jean Luc agreed, taking his jacket off.
Being shorter in stature and of slimmer build, Jean Luc was able to squeeze in and look towards the ledge.
“Junior? If you’re up there come down at once.”
On the outside, Reginald was distracted from Jean Luc’s muffled voice by the patter of small feet, dashing past him to the master suite.
“Junior!?” called the father. “Why did you take off your clothes?”
Not realising he had been left behind, Jean Luc called, “I hope you’re paying for the dry cleaning, Reg. It will take nothing short of a miracle to get this filth out.”
Meanwhile, downstairs, Armand held Simon to his chest. Looking over to where he had been playing he could see the blocks Marcus had been sorting by colour, but no Marcus. Armand looked to Simon.
“Where did your brother go?”
“Shit! Shit!” Simon declared.
“I quite agree, lad,” said Armand. Simon laughed as Armand tucked him under his arm and went in search of the other triplet.
As the hunt commenced for Marcus, Jean Luc had climbed back out of the false chimney, wiping dust and dirt from his clothing.
“The filth up there,” he was groaning, only to find Reginald was gone. Standing in his place was Marcus.
“Slipped the old man, did you?” he jested to the boy. He reached his hand out. “C’mon. We best go help your father.”
“Why?” Marcus asked.
“Because he’s looking for your brother. He’s gone wandering again.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? I swear you got all the brains.”
Reginald had chased his namesake to the master suite where the troublesome tot dashed onto the balcony.
Reginald the senior stopped in his tracks as Reggie pulled himself to the ledge.
“Junior! Do not move.”
Marcus must have learned to open the damn locks. What fresh Hell was this?
Reginald managed a smile.
“Don’t you want to come in, my boy? It’s freezing out there. Don’t you want to put some clothes on?”
Reggie looked back at him. The stream of city lights down below was just too enticing. The father was going to have to do much better than that.
“If you come in you can have some ice cream … for breakfast.”
Reggie offered a look that suggested, ‘you’d never let me eat ice cream for breakfast, old man.’
Reggie heaved his bare little backside up onto the ledge. Before he could get a good look at the city lights his father snatched him up into his arms.
“Do not go out there,” was the father’s stern warning. “I swear, boy. You are going to be my life’s work.”
When he got back to the lounge, Jean Luc had returned, leading Marcus by the hand. Armand was carrying Simon, who had rested his head against his uncle’s chest with heavy eyes.
“Ah, you found him,” said the uncle, taking in Junior in Reginald’s arms. “That lad is naked.”
“Why?” asked Marcus.
“Get used to it, my boy,” said Jean Luc. “I have a feeling you’re going to be asking that of your brother for a long time.”
Reginald breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s all three accounted for. I’m going to have to bolt the damn balconies.”
“Why?”
“Because you figured the locks, Marcus.”
“Keep your voice down,” said Armand. “Little Simon is falling asleep.”
Before Reginald could fetch clothing for the youngest of the triplets there was a call from reception.
“Sorry to disturb you sir,” said the receptionist, politely. “I was asked by Madame Penn to let you know her flight was cancelled and she’s returning home.”
“Thank you. I have to go. I’m just dressing the boys.”
“Of course, sir.”
Reginald returned to his uncle and cousin. “Rita’s on her way back. I better get the boys to bed.”
“It is getting late,” said Jean Luc to Marcus. “Past your bedtime, ah?”
“Why?”
“I don’t make the rules. That’s just how it is.”
Marcus yawned. He supposed it was time for bed after all.
After dressing Junior in pyjamas again the three placed their respective triplet in a cot. The lights were lowered. Simon clutched Armand’s arm until the very last minute. Then he gave himself to sleep.
“Papa?”
Reginald turned back to find it was Marcus who had called on him.
“Just go to sleep, my boy,” said the father tenderly. “Your mother will be …”
“Mother!”
Like the word was some ancient incantation, Reggie sprang to life again and started to cry.
“Mother! Mama? Mother!”
This calling stirred Simon.
“Mother?” he asked.
Marcus sat in his cot, already succumbed to the fact he was not to have an easy night’s rest. Reginald was trying to urge them to hush.
“Mama!!!” the three were now crying.
Reginald gulped down his impatience.
“If you don’t go to sleep right now, mother isn’t coming back!”
“Reginald!” Jean Luc scolded. “Don’t be so cruel.”
“Good night, boys,” said Reginald with a more pleasant tone. “The sooner you go to sleep the sooner … for fuck sake, Junior! Keep your pyjamas on!”
“Fuck sake,” Simon raised his head to say.
By the time Rita returned from the airport Reginald was seated in the lounge. He had composed himself as though it had all been a breeze. He greeted his wife with a warm kiss.
“I’m sorry about your trip,” he said. “Maybe another time.”
“Did the boys give you any fuss?”
“They’re good boys. They were looking for you but they settled down.”
Rita smiled sweetly. “I’ll just go look in on them.”
“You go ahead,” said Reginald in a nonchalant manner. As soon as Rita started to make her way to the nursery, Reginald dropped the book he had been pretending to read and followed after her to make sure Junior had remained clothed, Simon remained in his cot and Marcus had kept his hands off any locks.
Thankfully, they were all sleeping soundly.
Hearing his mother’s voice, Simon stirred again.
“Hello, baby,” said the mother softly.
He sat up, wiped the sleepiness from his eyes and reached his arms out to her. She lifted him up and rocked him.
“Did you have a nice time with your dad?” she asked.
Simon yawned. He rested against her and said, “fuckin’ shit mama.”
The Penn family of Main are notorious throughout Coldford City. The triplet princes are all grown up now and find themselves the target of a troll with deadly intentions.
Cousins Reginald and Jacque Penn were stood close. Reginald, the elder, scowled most severely. Jacque returned the sentiment. They squared their shoulders against each other. Middle cousin, Jean Luc, stepped between them.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s keep this civilised.”
The tension on Reginald’s brow smoothed as he started to laugh.
“You talk a good game. Let’s see how good you really are.”
On the lawns of Penn Estate in Luen there was always a game of rugby when the family got together. As head of the family, Reginald, reigned from Coldford City. Visiting home meant he had to show who was still in charge.
Jean Luc took a coin from the pocket of the shorts he wore
“Jacque? Call it,” he requested before flipping the coin and covering it on the back of his hand.
“Heads,” Jacque declared. “No … tales,” he decided. “No wait, heads,” was his final call.
Jean Luc uncovered the coin. It was in fact heads. Jacque cheered. It gave him first pick of his team.
“Simon?” he called to the middle born of Reginald’s triplet sons, teenagers at this time. “You’re with me. Let’s show the old man what us young bucks can do, ah?” he declared confidently.
Pleased to be picked first Simon joined his cousin. Jacque clasped his head and planted a kiss on his brow.
“Marcus?” Reginald called upon the eldest of his triplets. “You’re up, my boy.”
Turning to Emmerson, Jacque beckoned.
“You join us. I want your strength in the second row.”
Reginald craned his neck.
“Junior? Where’s Junior?”
“He was over with his mother, sir,” Emmerson explained.
Reggie, or Reginald Junior, had just dropped from a tree close to the main patio where Rita Penn and some of the other women were enjoying the afternoon sun. He had dropped from quite a height so he had startled his mother.
“Are you alright, baby?” she asked.
“I’m fine mother,” Reggie beamed. He held up a neon green frisbee he had retrieved. He passed it to his little cousin Nicholas, Jean Luc’s nephew. Nicholas hugged him.
“Thank you, Reggie. I thought it was lost for good.”
As the youngest of the triplets Reggie was used to being treated like a baby. When their little cousin, Nicky, was around he enjoyed the opportunity to be the one looked up to.
“I think your father wants you for the game,” Rita told him.
“Junior!?” Reginald was calling across the lawns.
“I should play too,” Nicholas decided.
Mrs Ramier, Nicholas’ most affectionate and dedicated nanny, objected.
“Oh no, not at all my little duckling. You could get hurt. You will get your clothes all filthy.”
Nicholas was determined.
“I’m getting older. I should take part in the game. It’s a tradition,” said he.
“Look after him,” Rita told her son.
Reggie rested an arm around Nicholas’ shoulder.
“C’mon, duckling,” he teased.
Nicholas was the youngest of the group and quite a delicate thing in comparison to the rest of his family. Still the boy was determined. He waited enthusiastically as the rest of the team was selected.
“Pick me! Pick me!” Nicholas kept insisting as the other players were selected. “I can play.”
Finally, at the last, when there were no other players left, it was up to Jacque.
“Fine Nicky. You’re with us.”
“Saving the best for last,” the boy assumed.
Jacque clapped his shoulder.
“Yes. That is exactly what I was doing,” he jested.
Pointing to a far section Simon instructed, “that’s your position. Don‘t move from it. You guard that spot.”
Nicholas agreed most enthusiastically.
“Yes, the spot. It is a precious and important spot. I shall guard it with my life.”
“Just stay there,” Simon warned.
The game commenced. Team Jacque charged forward with Simon throwing the ball to Emmerson. He managed to skip a tackle from Reggie to be met with Marcus. Before he stumbled he threw the ball back to Simon who dashed away from his brother.
Meanwhile, watching them from a distance, Nicholas called, “well done. The spot is still safe you know.”
Simon yelled something back but the distance was so much he couldn’t really hear him. He would much rather have been among the game where he could see Reginald throw Jacque to the ground. Jacque was quickly back up on his feet and charged into Reginald. He slammed his shoulder into chest causing Reginald to gasp.
“You asshole, Jacque!” Reginald called.
“Don’t have a heart attack old man,” Jacque teased.
The game continued and Nicholas still watched from afar. He had started to edge towards the game but Emmerson warned him to stay put.
“Guard your spot,” he cried across the field.
“Oui, the spot. So important.”
Reginald managed to catch Jacque in a choke as they continued to fight over the ball. He kicked at his calf and threw him to the ground. He then proceeded to heave the ball down on Jacque’s gut.
Jean Luc blew a whistle in warning to which Reginald responded by laughing heartily.
Nicholas had grown so bored by this point he was fidgeting with the waistband of his shorts.
“The spot is still secure,” he called. “C’est securise!”
The game heated up. The players were tackled, thrown and beaten. The mud was churned up. Jean Luc found himself stepping in again when Reginald and Jacque started to throw fists. Jacque argued with Jean Luc so Jean Luc blew his whistle and asked him to leave the field. Jacque shoved him so Jean Luc gave him a stinging whack across his face, blew his whistle and pointed more determinedly to leave the field. Jacque laughed it off and departed, raising a finger to Jean Luc.
The game continued and the ball finally came soaring towards Nicholas. He caught it and called to his teammates in exuberance.
Simon said something in return as he and Emmerson tried to hold back Reggie and Marcus.
“Quoi? What did you say?”
Simon repeated what he had said but it was still a struggle to hear from such a distance.
“I can’t hear you Simon.”
“Run!”
Finally the cry was clear.
“Merde! Shit!” Nicholas exclaimed.
Marcus broke free. They were now charging towards him so he did as was instructed. He may not have had the same strength as his cousins but he was speedy for a young boy. He managed to dash to the opposing side. Help was provided by Emmerson heaving opposing Loyalists back. Nicholas dropped the ball and covered his ears as he felt the charge descend upon him. There was a cheer. Was he responsible for that cheer? He was tres magnifique. He was a sportsman!
Reginald was congratulating Emmerson on his determination when one of the staff from the estate interrupted the game.
“Phone call for you Emmerson.”
***
When he arrived in the main lounge the housekeeper, Analise, was already holding the receiver out to him.
“Merci,” he said as he took it from her.
Analise was a woman of mid fifties, filled with the essence of serious service. She often scolded the triplets when they were being overly rowdy, especially Reggie who could be particularly unruly. She was a kindly woman though. She always treated the lads from Coldford well. She departed the room respectfully as Emmerson took the call. It rendered him a little nervous. In his experience calls would only come directly to the Penn estate when there was something serious to discuss.
“Hello?”
There was a sigh on the other end. It was the voice of an older man. Life experience read in his tones.
“Claude? Is that you?” he asked. The Luen accent carried the words across the distance between them.
“It is. Oui. Who’s this?”
“It’s Laurent.”
Emmerson’s lips traced a smile. The rise of the emotion was involuntary. His heart beat a little faster as the recognition of the voice swept over him
“It’s been a long time,” was all Emmerson could think of to say.
It had been a long time. A few letters had been exchanged but communication had been limited.
“It has my dear boy,” Laurent agreed.
As Laurent continued to speak, Emmerson tried to shake himself from the daze the phone call had sent him into.
“I’ve missed you terribly,” Laurent said.
Emmerson sniffed. He held the phone receiver away from him. Giving a quick glance around the Penn lounge. The family were always surrounded by old fashioned things that reminded of an elegant, bygone era. The receiver he clasped was part of an old rotary telephone. It had a rattling ting whenever someone called. Emmerson was surprised it hadn’t left the housekeeper with tinnitus having to listen to it. It had been passed down from Olivier Penn who held the Auction House through the industrial age.
Emmerson drew himself from his retreat into the past which was difficult to do when it was a voice from his past that was calling to him.
“I tried to reach you in Coldford. They told me you were in Luen,” Laurent explained.
“Maybe you should just tell me what you want, eh?” Emmerson prompted.
He could hear Laurent sigh again. Emmerson was regretful his voice had sounded harsh.
“You’re a good boy, Claude,” Laurent assured. “You know I’ve always loved you.”
“It’s her isn’t it?” Emmerson interrupted.
“It is,” Laurent agreed. “I’m afraid it’s now quite urgent.”
“I’m grateful for the chance to speak to you although we don’t need her permission. The Madame Le Comtesse has held on to your collar long enough.”
“We’d like to see you,” Laurent put to him. “You’re in Luen now. Now is your chance. Please Claude, for my sake. I wouldn’t ask it of you if it weren’t important. She really doesn’t have long left. It would mean a lot to her.” He could hear Emmerson grumble so he continued. “It would mean a great deal to me.”
“Fine,” Emmerson agreed. “I’ll come and pay my respects.”
Laurent was relieved.
“I’ll send a car for you. I’ll ask the Penns permission for your leave.”
“It’s fine. I’ll arrange it myself. I still remember my way. I’ll be with you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Merci! Merci! I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll have lunch together. We have much to catch up on.”
“How long does she have?” Emmerson asked of the comtesse – a title here meaning countess, a lower ranking noble of the land.”
“They are arranging her execution now. I’ll know better today,” Laurent explained.
“Did she ask you to call me?”
“Not specifically.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Emmerson confirmed. “If anything it will give us time to talk.”
“I would love that,” Laurent said with some glee consuming the somber tones of uncertainty he had spoken with earlier.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Emmerson rang off, replacing the receiver, giving himself a moment to register the voices and names from his past. He jerked with fright when the telephone cried out its rattle again. He felt the housekeeper urge him aside.
“I’ll get that,” she ushered. “It will be the bakery with junior’s biscuits. That boy loves his sugar. It’s no wonder he’s bouncing around like he’s possessed all day,” she quipped. She lifted the phone. “Madame Rosley speaking. Oui, comment ca va?”
Emmerson stepped outside leaving the housekeeper giggling with the baker. He was met by two of the triplets, Simon and Reggie.
“Jacque is still arguing with Jean Luc,” Simon explained. “Nicky got a bloody nose so Mrs Ramier is taking to get cleaned up.”
“We weren’t even playing,” Reggie put in with a laugh. “He tried to throw the frisbee.”
“Are you coming back to the game?” Simon asked Emmerson.
Reggie had leapt onto his back. Simon responded by heaving him aside and the two fell into a tackle.
“Save it for the game,” Reginald interrupted. “Go on,” he told his sons. “Take it to the lawns.”
The two triplets darted off with Emmerson reaching his foot out with a playful kick towards Reggie’s backside. Although his energy was low he managed to pull himself together.
“Everything alright?” Reginald asked.
Emmerson managed a smile.
“Just some business to attend to. I’ll be fine, sir. I do have a favour to ask. I need to visit Le Grange before returning to Coldford. The Comtesse Du Maurier has asked for me.”
“When word broke of her arrest I thought she might want to see you,” Reginald surmised.
Emmerson explained, “word is she won’t see out the week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Reginald stated sincerely. “You do what you need to do. We’re here for you. Take all the time you need. We’ll send the comtesse our best wishes. In the meantime you look after yourself. There’s a car waiting if you want to leave now.”
“It‘s fine, sir, thank you. I said I’d travel up in the morning.”
Reginald nodded.
“Anything you need just ask.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emmerson returned. “I’d like to go finish the game if we can.”
“You’re on,” was Reginald’s reply. He squeezed his shoulder with the same affection he would his own sons and together they returned to the field.
***
The following morning Emmerson made the drive north from the Penn Estate to Le Grange, home of the Comtesse Du Maurier. He was greeted upon arrival by Laurent who came rushing from the main house. He embraced him warmly with a kiss on both cheeks.
“It’s so good to see you,” he assured.
“It’s good to see you too, uncle,” Emmerson returned with equal affection.
“A fine man you’ve become,” Laurent was commenting as they headed towards the house. “She’s in her study.”
“I had better not waste any time then.”
Laurent sensed some sarcasm. They shared a look and Emmerson laughed.
He was taken to the Madame le Comtesse’s private rooms. The lighting was low and somber as though a death had already occurred. Fresh flowers had been laid too. There was an arrangement of blue orchids that had been sent by Rita Penn. It was filled with the scent of vanilla bringing Emmerson back to the childhood days spent there. Resting in a wine coloured, wing back chair was a slender woman of elder age. She was wearing a harsh expression. Her features were much like Emmerson’s but without the personable charm. A chambermaid had just poured a glass of wine. The pretty young girl remained by her mistress’ side.
“Young Claude is here to see us mama,” Laurent announced excitedly.
“I can see that,” was the old woman’s reply. “I’m neither blind nor senile.”
“How are you feeling grandmama?” Emmerson asked with some caution in his step.
“I’ve had better days,” said she. “Come sit with me. The rest of you can leave.”
The others started to filter out. Madame le Comtesse seemed to give it some more thought and called the girl back. “Not you,” she ordered. “Fetch another glass for my grandson.”
“There’s no need,” Emmerson tried to object.
“Shoosh! You’ll have some wine with me and that’s the end of that. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So busy the years have passed? Bullshit.”
The chambermaid collected another glass from the cabinet, filled it and passed it to Emmerson, returning to her station without word. Emmerson accepted his glass with gratitude but held it in his hand without tasting any.
“You haven’t been back since your parents died. I have noticed that,” the grandmother commented.
Emmerson had no response so she went on. “I can’t blame you. It must be difficult coming here without your mama. She was always a buffer between us.”
“We rarely agree,” said Emmerson. “Mama stood as the devil’s advocate.”
“It’s because we’re so alike.”
“I would argue it’s because we’re nothing alike grandmama.”
The old lady chuckled at Emmerson’s challenging tone as though it confirmed her point.
“I’m glad you are here. I truly am,” said she with genuine affection that only someone as close as her grandson would recognise. “I’d hate to be here at the end of it all and for us not to have spoken. I would like you, above all, to know what happened. My marriage was one of convenience rather than affection. I had affections as a girl but I gave them all up at my father’s request. It was more important to marry wealth and status in this God forsaken place. Your grandfather had affections of his own. The difference was he didn’t give them up. He was discrete at first with respect to me. In return I lived a comfortable life. I played my part. I gave him a son, your Uncle Laurent and a beautiful daughter, your mama. I was glad Amelie managed to marry for affection. Maurice was a good man and a good father to you.”
Emmerson nodded in agreement.
“He was the best.”
“Our children grew up and had children of their own. I thought with my devotion to our union your grandfather would at least settle down as we aged. He did not. He got worse. He no longer cared to be discrete. I had served my purpose so he didn’t care for me either. It was disgusting. He was the talk of the whole court. It was an insult towards me too far. The biggest insult was him keeping my son from his rightful inheritance. Each breath he took was depriving Laurent from his birthright. He would do a much better job than a filthy old lecher.
One evening I fixed your grandfather a drink. I laced it with enough arsenic to kill a horse. I was surprised it all managed to dissolve the way it did. I suppose that’s what happens when you use cheap wine. Within minutes the blood began to pour from nose, his ears, his lips. I watched him writhe on the floor.
I didn’t deny it when his body was taken away. There wasn’t much point in that. I had reached the end of my temper as so many women before me have and there was no going back. The courts decided I will be beheaded tomorrow. Before that I wanted you to meet someone. Cora? Come forward and let my grandson get a look at you.”
The chambermaid took a hesitant step, her head bowed shyly. The old lady seemed pleased.
“Cora is the daughter of one of your grandfather’s whores which makes you relatives of sorts. I took pity on her. I’ve kept her in my service for some years. When I’m gone I’d like you to take her,” she said.
“Take her?”
“Put her to use. She can cook, clean, fetch, mend. It’s difficult to find a dutiful servant these days. I’m gifting her to you.”
Emmerson frowned. He leaned closer to his grandmother.
“I don’t need any kind of servant,” he stated. “Just let the girl go.”
“Cora,” Madame le Comtesse reminded him of her name.
“She’s not a pet, grandmama,” Emmerson groaned with frustration. “I’m not going to bond better by learning her name.”
“She’ll serve you well,” the grandmother maintained. “She’s not a whore like her mother. I was quite certain of that. You’re not a whore are you Cora?”
The girl stated quite clearly that she was not.
“I don’t need any help,” Emmerson told them, checking his temper. His own mother would have been able to insist better. She really did make a great buffer between them.
“Everyone needs help from time to time,” was the grandmother’s argument. “You’ve always been a terrible boy for accepting that. I’m trying to make peace with you. I’m trying to set my affairs in order. You could be more grateful of my gift.”
Emmerson grumbled.
“You can’t gift another person, grandmama.”
“You can if they are providing a service,” she returned.
“I will be dutiful,” Cora said.
The grandmother continued to speak as though Cora wasn’t even there.
“I like to make sure my things are taken care of,” she said.
By the same time tomorrow she would be gone so what did it really matter?
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