Inkerman riters - Jenny Teale

Blood Ties

The phone was ringing. It was 2:30 in the morning and the phone was ringing. I lurched out of bed and made a grab for it. I felt hollow. What the hell was it. Phone calls at this time were never good news. No one ever rings this early just for a chat. I knew it would be bad. It had to be bad. The only question was how bad.

I dropped the phone in my haste and then scrabbled for it. I didn’t have my glasses on and everything was a blur. I didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to know, didn’t want the bad news. But I took a deep breath and pressed the phone to my ear, hand shaking slightly. I could hear crying. Low sobbing, with hitching breaths and wordless gasps. I said “Hello, who is it, what’s wrong”. Of course I knew who it was and had a good idea of what was wrong but hoped it wasn ’t so.

The crying continued and I tried again “Come on. Answer me. Susie ! Susie, answer me. How badly hurt are you. What’s he done now ? Suze !” I could hear her sniffing, the sobs slowing. “Diane, come get me. Diane, be quick. Its bad.” I could hear the desperation in her voice, the way the words were mangled and my stomach spasmed, it had happened again. I knew it would. It always did. It didn’t matter what he promised. How often he said never again. I always knew it would happen again, sooner or later. It always did.

My knuckles were white as I clenched the phone. “Where are you ? Have you called the police ? Where’s he ? “ my questions tumbled over each other in my haste. I needed to know. Needed to know where to find her. Needed to know where he was. Needed to know how bad it was, this time. The crying increased again, the sobs getting louder, the words more incoherent. I tried to calm her down as I struggled to dress without letting go of the phone. She was hiding at the bus stop. In her nightie, at half past bloody two in the morning. I couldn’t get more sense than that out of her.

I told her I was coming. Told her I would save her. Told her I would make everything better. All she had to do was wait for me, hold on. I’d be there as soon as I could. Everything would be alright. I was coming. Then I hung up on her.

I speed dialled her mobile from mine, but the line was engaged. She was too far gone to close the previous call to me. The car was covered in spiders’ webs of frost and I roughly scraped the windscreen, impatient to be away. My hands were shaking and I felt that fine trembling that you get when things go bad. I had to get there. Had to save her. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to scream and shout at the unfairness of it all. But I didn’t. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, pushed the tears and the rage back and went to the rescue.

The roads were empty. No one in sight. No cars, no people, nothing moving except me. I drove fast. I needed to get there as soon as possible. Everywhere was coated in the white tracery of snow and frost. It was below zero. She wouldn’t last long. Maybe I should have got the police. Called them on that bastard. But I’d promised. Promised I would never do that, unless she agreed. In return she’d promised to always call me when she needed help.

I hated and despised him. Wished he would just disappear for ever. But she said she loved him. She said he loved her. I said it wasn’t love, it was possession, it was ownership, it was control. It was never love. But she wouldn’t let go of the hope. She wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe him. Believe the lies. Believe he loved her. Otherwise her past was a waste and she was a fool. I knew that sooner or later she would have to face reality. Accept that he was her keeper not her lover. Accept he would never change, however much she tried. He would never be the happy, caring lover she wanted him to be.

It would have been easier if he was always a bastard. But he wasn’t. Sometimes he was the most affectionate, caring person that you would ever hope to meet. Then, suddenly he would change. Like a switch had been flipped. Like someone else had taken over. Someone who liked to hit and humiliate. She would end up in tears, or battered and bleeding. Then he would flip back, be so sorry. So very, very sorry. It would never happen again. It was the last time, the very last time. He promised and he meant it, until the next time.

I was nearly there when I hit the patch of black ice. The car span. I pumped the brake, tried to steer into the skid. Tried to get some control. But nothing worked and I just slid sideways towards a high brick wall at speed. I was going to hit. I knew I was. I couldn’t stop it. I closed my eyes tight and hoped. The car shuddered to a halt, inches from the wall. My hands were shaking, my whole body was shaking. I shuddered and gasped. It had been so close. So very close. The car had stalled. I took the time to take a few deep breaths and then started it up again and gingerly drove off. I would have to be more careful.

I could see the bus shelter . It looked empty and for a moment I thought I’d misunderstood but then I saw a bare foot. I left the door open as I lunged towards it. I could see her huddled in the corner. Blood and snot making a mask of her face. At first I thought she was dead, but then a little wisp of breath steamed in the frigid air. He’d broken her nose again. The blood was starting to congeal on the front of her lacy nightie. It was her best nightie. She’d dressed up for him. Made an effort for their anniversary and this was what she got. I took hold of her shoulder gently and called her name. She shifted and I saw glimpses of bruised flesh. I had to get her out of there. I half carried her to the car, wrapped the rug around her and put the heater on high. She was too far gone to tell me what had happened. Her breath was bubbling through the ruin of her nose.

I checked her over in the dim light inside the car. I’d done this too often. I recognised the signs. Broken ribs at least. A couple of fingers, maybe her arm. I wasn’t sure. Her eyes were swollen shut, lips split, teeth missing and her nose was burst like a ripe tomato, smeared across her face. She looked grotesque. She didn’t look anything like my beautiful sister. He’d deliberately destroyed her face. Made her as ugly on the outside as he was inside.

I patted her shoulder and said she was safe, said I would take her to hospital, said it would alright soon. It wouldn’t. It would never be alright. He’d gone too far. It was the worst I’d ever seen and I’d seen a lot over the years. Split lips, black eyes, broken bones. Never as much as this, never as bad.

I threw the car into gear and made for the nearest hospital. This time she would have to see sense. She had to. She couldn’t survive this again. It had to stop. I clenched my hands around the wheel and tried to concentrate on my driving, tried to think of what I was doing instead of her face, tried to get her help as fast as possible. It wasn’t far, only a few minutes passed before I drew up outside casualty and screamed for help. No one came. Not fast enough. I pushed through the doors and yelled again. My sister’s blood was smeared across my skin. Face and hands covered in streaks of red. That got their attention, stopped them propping up the counter gossiping. The sight of blood got them moving.

Minutes later she was laid on a trolley, her nightie cut away, showing the black and red skin to the world. It had been from Victoria’s Secrets. Her favourite. A present to say sorry for another beating. They dragged me away, asked me questions whilst the others worked on her. I glimpsed the perfect shadow of a boot mark on her bare back before they closed the curtain. This was going to be bad, so bad, this time. I could hear snatches of urgent conversation behind the screen. Talk of internal bleeding, broken bones, concussion. It was time to break my promise, it was time to tell. No more letting her cover it up, no more letting her hope for better, not with him anyway. I wanted to kill him. Wait in the dark and run him down. I wanted to see him bleeding like her. I wanted him never to be able to hurt her again.

I answered all their questions mechanically. Told them about the phone call and finding her bleeding in the cold. Told them her husband had done it. Told them he had done it before. They knew already. She’d been there often enough. Laughing off her clumsiness. Lying about catching her fingers in the car door or falling down stairs or walking into a door. They knew. They’d always known. Her stories had never fooled them. They were sympathetic, offered me tea, made soothing noises. All I wanted was her safe and well and him dead and gone.

The police took all the details and said they would be arresting him. The doctors said she was bleeding internally, it was touch and go. It might be a murder charge instead of assault. It wouldn’t be her choice, he’d gone too far this time.

I waited at the hospital, drinking tepid tea and waiting for news until it was light. The bleeding wouldn ’t stop and they had to operate. They removed her spleen, patched up the damage, stitched up her lip and then let me back in. I waited for her to wake up for hours, holding her hand and thinking dark thoughts. She was unrecognisable. Face swollen, skin stretched and split and covered in darkening bruises. It was hard to look at her without thinking what if. What if I’d tried harder to get her to leave him. What if I’d told the police earlier. What if I’d got some of the bikers from my local to give him some of his own medicine. What if I’d never broken up with him. What if they’d never met. What if ….

It was early evening before she moved. I was dozing, holding her hand lightly when she squeezed my fingers, just a bit. I babbled all the usual questions and she smiled at me, actually smiled. One corner of her face lifting slightly in a parody of her normal grin. “’I knew you’d come. You always do” she whispered, and I cried and she cried and I tried to hug her without making her scream. “You’re right. Its time to get rid of him. He doesn’t love me, he never loved me. I can’t hide from it any more. I’ll tell the police. “ I was so relieved. It wasn’t over yet but it was the beginning of the end and he would finally get what he deserved. She would finally be free.

The Red Ghost

I don’t look much like an international criminal. That’s kind of the point. I’ve worked hard at looking harmless, someone you wouldn’t give a second glance to. The greatest safety is in never being noticed, blending in with the crowd. Until now it had worked, but today they had got too close. I’d managed to change my identity before they caught me but I hadn’t managed to get away. They had surrounded the market square when they spotted my signal but lost me in the crowd. Now the crowd was here, being detained. They had picked up nearly 60 people, all ages, men, women. It was comforting that they still didn’t know even that much. It at least doubled my chances of escape that they didn’t know I was a woman.

Crime was a thing of the past. The basic hit you over the head, grab your wallet and run away sort of crime anyway. The SecuriChip had seen to that. The government had said it was an unforeseen side effect, it had never been intended for those sorts of purposes. But then they would say that wouldn’t they.

The SecuriChip had started small. It was marketed as the latest thing in child security – get your little one Chipped and you’ll never lose them. After a couple of high profile child snatchings and a vigorous advertising campaign it soon caught on. Any caring parent would want to keep their child safe, wouldn’t they ? Once the first parents caved in, the others quickly followed

Then social services joined in – it was the answer to a prayer. A way to deal with the lack of resources and the rising numbers of elderly. Oldies’ with Alzheimer’s could be Chipped and then if they left their designated area, they could be quickly found. No more wandering off and getting lost. The frail elderly could be monitored in their own homes. The SecuriChip could show if they didn’t get out of bed or spent the day on the floor. The HomeSafety software got quite sophisticated, monitoring bathroom and kitchen visits and only calling for help if they didn ’t follow the normal pattern. It was a great success and few people would argue with the safety features. Civil liberties weren’t an issue when the alternative was to go into one of the pits of despair that were state run nursing homes.

Then it got a bit darker. Someone in charge of jails said you could reduce overcrowding by releasing Chipped prisoners. They could be monitored 24 hours a day. The spy satellites passed information back every 30 seconds, you could track them to 1 metre in less than a minute. There were protests of course but a few high profile cases got the ball rolling. Sentences started being set at so many years inside and then so many Chipped. They could be removed of course or deactivated (theoretically at least) and for the first few years that ’s what happened. Then someone thought up the 3 strikes rule. I suppose its kinder than in the States where its 3 strikes and you get life imprisonment, at least here its only permanent Chipping. Once you’re Chipped your movements are monitored for life. It’s all there in the tracking computer, backed up onto servers around the country. Every step, every day, for the rest of your life. Recidivism plummeted.

The rest of it crept in by dribs and drabs. It started as an exclusive, cutting edge technology system. Get Chipped and take control of your life. HomeChip allowed you to access any technology remotely, identified you, gave you access to your home, your car, your bank. The ultimate in personal identification. Then the bosses joined in – who needed time and motions studies when your workforce could be tracked minute by minute.

It wasn’t that easy of course. People protested, but not anyone who mattered. Then with the rise in terrorism it became a Homelands Security matter. The argument was twisted from why to why not. Why not be Chipped, what are you trying to hide. The struggle went on for a while. But now, 30 years after the first SecuriChip was implanted, they are given to babies at birth. After all, why not. Now the Chips are linked to everything, identify everyone. Cash is rare, except on the black market, your Chip identifies everything about you.

Except for people like me. I’m a ghost, hiding in the system, in plain sight if anyone knew how to look. I work the system. I’m good at it. My dad taught me how. He hated the Chip, said it was evil, that it made us all prisoners, watched by the electronic eyes in the sky. He was right, of course, everyone’s movements are monitored, there can be no false alibis now, no lies about where you were or when, unless you find someone like me that is.

I manufacture and sell ghosts, doppelgangers and zombies . Ghosts are the hardest (and the most expensive), complete identities backed up by years of records. Doppelgangers are easier, just hitch your tag to someone else and mimic their records for as long as you need. Zombies are the crudest and the easiest to catch out. I freeze your records in time, make you a living dead man, stuck wherever the music stopped. No one can track you, not by Chip anyway, but if they look they can see the gaps, see something ’s missing.

It’s a good living, so long as you don’t get caught. My dad helped me set up some of my ghosts, the best ones go back to my childhood. Unbroken records which give me false personas. Backup lives I can hide in if things get too dangerous. In an instant I can stop being Jane Smith and be Mariah Jones or anyone of a hundred different people. That’s what I did to escape. When they got too close I moved into a crowd and switched to a new person with years of background. Now I’m Pam Stevens a mousy little clerk. All I’ve got to do is keep my nerve.

I’ve been here for nearly 2 hours now. They keep coming in and taking people away to be interviewed. They all rely on the Chip for ID, switch that and they have no idea who the real person is, how old, anything. The Red Ghost could be an eighty year old Japanese woman or a 20 year old white man, they ’ve nothing to go on. I need to pee and get up in search of a Ladies. The policeman is brusque but points me in the right direction. I only get to go with an escort, just in case I try to get rid of any evidence. Pam Stevens doesn’t like this but only makes a feeble protest. She’s a little mouse of a woman, not the sort to make a fuss.

When I try to go back to my seat they usher me into the interrogation room instead. I’ve made myself conspicuous. Maybe that was a bad idea, but I want to get out of here. Now is the best time, when they are starting to feel tired but before they get down to the last dozen. The interrogation doesn’t take long. I know Pam’s back story and answer almost mechanically. I don’t have to fake being nervous, I am nervous. This is the closest they have ever got to me. I’ll have to lie low for a while, once I get out of here. My old identity is dead and gone, too unsafe to ever use again, except maybe as a decoy.

They scan my Chip, checking it carefully. It looks like any other SecuriChip, nothing special. The special aspects were disabled when my new persona kicked in. No point in having a new identity if my special Chip gives me away. It’ll be a pain resetting everything when I get home, but so much better than getting caught. Criminals like me, who mess with the system don’t have a happy time. There would be no Chip and release scheme for me. I would do my sentence the hard way, in prison. If I was lucky. There’s always the chance Homeland Security would get involved. Then I could end up any where.

I have to smother a smile when they let me go. They’ve hardly looked at me. The Red Ghost has been around for over 20 years. It used to be my dad before he died, now its me. Maybe they have taken that into account, they seem to be looking harder and longer at older people. I’m still in my 20’s, not a good candidate.

I move slowly down the street, trying to look inconspicuous. I need to get a new ghost as soon as I’m sure its safe. Pam will live on in the system for a few years at least. I’ll set her updates to automatic so there are no suspicious gaps. Sooner or later they will have to start using the old fashioned methods of recognition. I don’t want to give them any reason to feel suspicious of my ghosts.

As I move into the underground I am surrounded by hundreds of people. There’s safety in numbers. It doesn’t take me long to get the new clothes and wig from my emergency locker and slip into toilets to change. A few more checks to make sure that I’m not being followed and then Pam Stevens becomes Lucy Bryant. I drift down the street towards home. Every step is followed by the eye in the sky, as long as I allow it anyway. Then I’ll just disappear back into the machine, a ghost they will never find.

The Cleaner

Mandy Jones was a cleaner. She had never meant to be a cleaner but she didn’t have that many choices when Andy left her for a younger, prettier model. She had five kids, between 5 and 15, plenty of debts and no money coming in. So when uncle Rory offered her a job in his cleaning company she couldn’t afford to be too picky. He said the pay was good and she could work around the school holidays. He said she had potential, he’d been keeping an eye on her. He said he would see to her training personally, make sure she had everything she needed to do the job, special equipment, protective clothing, everything. He said she could be the best cleaner he’d ever employed. Mandy was flattered, just a little bit. It was nice when someone thought you were special, had potential, even when it was just as a cleaner. She hadn’t felt special for a long time.

When she was 17 she felt special. Andy made her feel special. Whispering sweet nothings in her ear, touching her, kissing her, promising everything. She felt special then. Special that the best looking boy in the school had noticed her. Special that they loved each other. Special in so many ways. Until she found out just how not special she was. Until she found out little Andy was on the way and she had to tell her Mam. Until her dad was so disappointed. She wasn’t his spoilt princess any more, she was just spoilt. She would be pushing a pram not going to university. Washing nappies and clearing up sick instead of taking her A levels. There was nothing special about her after that. They got married 2 months before little Andy was born. All the wedding photos showed her from the waist up, trying to hide the

truth. But everyone knew and she wasn’t special anymore, at least not in a good way.

Andy blamed her of course. He didn’t get to go to university either. Her dad set him up with a good job. For a while they were almost happy. Plenty of money, foreign holidays, a nice house. But then Julie came along, then Ian and finally the twins. She was catholic so the babies just kept coming and Andy started spending more time at the office. Coming home late, going away to conferences. The last year she hardly saw him. In a way it was a relief when he finally left her to go live with his 23 year old secretary. She didn’t find out about the new job until much later. When she tried to get him to pay maintenance. He just disappeared. Working for a new company, in a new country with a new wife. She was left behind, nothing special.

Uncle Rory was special. He’d always been her favourite uncle and she was his favourite niece. His business was at the high end of the cleaning market, in specialised cleaning. He was on retainer to some organisations and then got special contracts for more difficult jobs. He taught Mandy everything he knew, took her on a few jobs until he said she was ready to work alone. Now, after 5 years, she was his top cleaner and got most of his difficult jobs. Not that Mandy minded, it meant she got a bit of variety. It wasn’t all the same endless routine, everyday the same.

She wasn’t squeamish, didn’t mind the mess that was left behind, didn’t turn a hair at the various bodily fluids. Well they didn’t make much of an impression after raising 5 kids. The amount of pee, puke and poo that she must have cleaned up over time at home didn ’t even bear thinking about. The mess at work didn’t bother her, she had a strong stomach. She was a strong woman but didn’t look like anything special. She was middle aged now. Average height, average weight, brown eyes and hair. She wore average, middle of the road clothes, sensible, comfortable shoes and just a smidge of makeup. There was nothing special about her, she just merged into the crowd. One of those nice, middle aged, working class women that are just there, in the background, getting on with it. She often felt invisible. On the bus. In the street. At work. As if she was slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. That’s what being a cleaner did to you.

Today she had a special contract. A rush job that had come up at the last minute. Something that needed sorting out before the big meeting. Uncle Rory had done her proud, making sure she had proper directions and all the equipment she would need. He’d sorted out a security pass for her and given her the key codes to the offices. He paid attention to the details. He said that’s what made a difference in how well you did the job. Attention to detail. It made his company the one everyone wanted. It meant he could pick and choose the jobs. He always had more work than they could handle. He had a reputation to maintain. He looked after his employees, made sure they knew the job, what they had to do, when and where. He gave them a proper briefing and decent backup. He didn’t skimp on the equipment either and made sure they had the proper training. He even gave them holidays and a Christmas bonus. He said a happy workforce was a productive workforce. So he kept them happy.

The new job was at one of those shiny glass offices in the city. She had got the tube so far and then walked for the last 20 minutes. She liked to keep fit. She drooped a little as she walked, staring at the pavement. Julie’s A level results were due any day and she needed all A* to get the place at medical school. She smiled a little to think of her girl being a doctor. It’s what she would have liked to do if she hadn’t fallen pregnant. It was too late now but her kids were going to get a good education, good jobs, be happy. She’d asked Uncle Rory to get her extra work, so she would have enough money for Julie. Her kids would have all the chances she missed.

She’d reached her target almost without noticing. It was getting on to dusk and most people were streaming out of the offices, making their way home. She went down the side of the building to the service entrance, opened her coat to show the standard issue tabard and used her swipe card at the electronic door. The equipment was where Uncle Rory said it would be, in the cupboard, by the stairs. The cleaning cart was heavy, with a bin bag hanging off one end for the rubbish, dusters and gloves, cleaning sprays and polishes. Anything you might need. She pulled on the gloves with a snap and checked the special equipment carefully tucked away in the bottom of the cart before getting to work.

The building was almost empty now. There were a few people wandering around on her floor but most were gone. She moved methodically from office to office. Emptying the bins, picking up the litter and wiping the desks. It wasn’t too bad, most of it was clean mess, nothing too nasty. She passed a cluster of people as she went into the loos. They didn’t notice her, just walked past as if she didn’t exist. She kept her head down, cleaned the toilet bowls and hand basins and gave them a professional spray of deodoriser. She didn’t mind being ignored. It was part of the job. The buildings got magically cleaned and no one noticed who did it.

It was quieter now, only the big office at the end was left and everyone else had gone home. Mandy checked everything was ready and then dragged the cart behind her as she bumped the door open with her bottom. The man at the desk ignored her as she quietly cleared the debris from the conference table and worked her way around the room to his bin. He didn’t look up as she got closer, just kept working. As she put the bin back, she gave a quick glance to check she had the right man and then pushed the gun against his right temple and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp crack and a splat as his blood and brains hit the wall and slithered to the floor. She took the spray out of her pocket and carefully squirted it on his right hand. That should do nicely for the expected gunshot residue. She closed his fingers around the gun, making sure the trigger was covered and then let the arm fall and the gun slip onto the carpet. She finished straightening up the room and worked her way back to the lift

She left the cleaning cart where she had found it and took the bag of rubbish down to the basement. The spare clothes were there as arranged and she quickly changed, pushing the contaminated clothes, gloves and spray through the bars into the incinerator. A few wet wipes and a quick make-up job made sure she looked presentable. Uncle Rory had taught her to pay attention to detail, make sure that she didn ’t leave any evidence behind. She tugged on the warm woolly gloves and pulled her hat down over her ears as she moved towards the door. No one noticed her leaving, she was invisible, just part of the background.

She slipped into the outside world and took a deep breath. That was another job well done, Uncle Rory would be pleased and the money would come in handy for the college fees. She had been clean and quick and it looked as if she would home in time to kiss the twins goodnight. Maybe she was special after all, at least in some way.

Midnight Gardening

I never claimed to be ordinary. To be fair, I must admit to getting myself into the odd difficult situation or three. But even for me this had to take the biscuit. It had seemed such a reasonable thing to do at the time. A normal thing. Something that couldn ’t possibly get me into trouble. But here I was, lying face down with a large policeman kneeling on my back. Of course, there was a reasonable explanation. Of course there was, and I was quite willing to give it. Just as soon as I could breathe again.

It had started out like any normal night. I’d done my normal routine. Got home from work, walked the dogs, fed the cat, watered the garden, made some tea, tidied up and worked my way through an enormous pile of ironing before a nice relaxing bath. It was only when I actually got into bed I remembered what I ’d forgotten.

You know how sometimes you have that little nagging voice that chunters away in the back of your head saying “You must …” or “Don’t forget to …”? Well, it had been whinging away to me since before my bath and I’d been trying to persuade it to actually tell me what I had forgotten instead of just reminding me that there was definitely something. But it hadn ’t worked.

I had remembered to put the bottles in the recycling bin. I had remembered to close the greenhouse. I had remembered to put my library books ready for tomorrow. I had even remembered to do the card for my sister ’s birthday. But that little voice kept nagging, sure there was something else I kept forgetting.

Until, that was, I got nice and warm and comfortable in bed. That’s when I remembered and sat up and said “Drat” so loudly I frightened the cat. Who streaked across the bedroom and onto the precariously balanced pile of books, which she scattered on the floor before skidding around the corner, out of the room and rushing out the catflap.

What I had forgotten was my nightly search and destroy mission. Except it’s not exactly search and destroy, its more search and pick up very gently and store in a nice safe place. Also, what I ’m searching for isn’t exactly glamorous or exciting either. It’s snails. Little ones, big ones, I don’t care. I want them all.

Now you might be wondering what I want them for. Whether I sauté them in garlic butter or perhaps make snail porridge. Well, it’s not so much me wanting to do anything with them it’s more to stop them eating my seedlings.

I have an allotment at the bottom of my garden. It’s where I spend a lot of my time. I got it when I bought the house. It’s been a lot of hard work. It was overgrown but I’ve cleared a lot of it, planted fruit bushes and put in raised beds. Last year I grew seedlings for the first time. Bright green sprigs of corn, darker green bean and pea sprouts. Nothing too ambitious. But I was so proud of them. I got the new beds ready, dug them over, mulched with compost and waited for the time to plant them out. They were lovely, big, healthy seedlings when I went away for the weekend.

I’d carefully set up capillary matting, got the water ready, put in the automatic window openers. Everything was set up to keep them nice and warm and wet until I got back. I found the watering worked well. The compost was nice and damp. The only thing was - it didn ’t matter. There were no more seedlings. Just silvery trails everywhere and stumps. The snails had snuck in through the gaps in the green house and ate the lot.

I was so disappointed. I couldn’t even buy replacement plants because it was too late in the season. It was the first year since I got the allotment that I didn ’t grow my own corn. I missed that. Sweetcorn straight from the garden, into the pan and then served with butter and salt. It ’s nothing like the sweetcorn you get in the shops. So sweet and crisp and the flavour - hmm. That ’s what I missed out on. This year I was determined it would be different.

Which explains what I was doing in my pyjamas in my garden with a torch after midnight. Except they weren ’t exactly pyjamas, they were a nice matching set of old black t-shirt and leggings. I hadn ’t bothered to put my socks and shoes back on, so I was wearing a pair of thick, black wellies. There are spiders in the greenhouse and since the last incident where a very large, very hairy black spider decided to nest in my hair I always wear a hat. Because at least then if I am suddenly jumped on I can whip the hat off my head, throw it as far away as I can and scream like a little girl. That ’s the theory anyway. All of this explains why I was wearing a baseball cap, all black clothing and carrying a torch to search around the patio and greenhouse.

I suppose to the uninitiated I might have looked a little, tiny bit like a burglar. But I had never really thought of myself like that. I ’m over forty and just over five foot and don’t think of myself as particularly menacing.

But someone obviously had a different idea about what criminals look like and what they do. I was minding my own business, moving the light on the glass, pausing only to pick up yet another snail and drop it into the snail pot with a little click of hitting shells or a squelch if it was a particularly big one. I ’d cleaned the inside of the greenhouse and checked most of the outside and had about 20 snails of different sizes huddling together when I thought I heard something.

Have you ever been in the dark, on your own in the early hours of the morning when you heard someone nearby cough? The hairs at the back of my neck stood up and I felt cold. I couldn ’t see anyone. But I was sure they were there. I clicked the light off and stood perfectly still - listening. Suddenly realising that I was outside in my jammies, in the middle of the night with just snails and a torch for protection. I started to ease back towards the house, when the gate suddenly swung open and a tall, dark shape lunged at me shouting something I couldn ’t understand.

Of course, I did the only thing possible. I screamed and threw the snails. They arced out of the pot and hit him with little squelches. Then he screamed and starting brushing frantically at his chest. That only made it worse of course as he squished them down his front. I turned to run and he flattened me. Thinking back to it, I ’m not sure he meant to. I think he tripped over the hose and sort of landed on me rather than trying to take me down deliberately. Either way it didn ’t really matter, he got a nice soft landing and I got the wind knocked out of me.

Which is where we came in. With me winded on the ground with a big policeman on top of me. We got it sorted out eventually. Once I could breathe again, I explained that I lived there and had just been doing a little late night gardening. I apologised about the snails and he apologised about flattening me. We both agreed it was an unfortunate incident best forgotten. He didn ’t want to go down as the policeman that had been assaulted by a pack of flying snails and I didn ’t want everyone to know I had been wrestling a man half my age in the back garden in my pyjamas. We had a nice cup of tea and he managed to scrape most of the snail juice of his body armour before going back to the station. I never told anyone and I don ’t expect he will either.

It was his first night on patrol on his own and I don’t think he would ever have lived it down if the rest of the police knew. The teasing would have lasted years. I saw him the other day in the street. He looked even younger in daylight and blushed a bright pink when he recognised me.

It hasn’t stopped me hunting snails. After all we have to keep these sort of things in proportion and snails are sneaky little beggars that will wait until they have lulled you into a false sense of security before pouncing. But, at least I make sure I ’m properly dressed and that the gate is locked in case there are any other late night visitors.

So what do you think about when about to plunge do your death…?

Cliff

It’s funny the thoughts that go through your head when you’re hanging by your fingertips over a 30 metre drop. Your life is supposed to flash before you one last time before you die, or is that just for drowning. But anyway, all I could think about was at least I wouldn ’t have to do the maths test on Monday. Not that I hated maths ‘cos I didn’t but I didn’t like the maths teacher.

He had greasy hair that flopped over his forehead and bad breath that should have been registered as a chemical weapon. He smoked, his teeth and fingers were yellow and he didn ’t look as if he washed enough. He would make nasty little comments and sly digs then bray with laughter, looking around to see who joined in. If he was twelve like us, we could tell on him for bullying but he must have been at least 40 and a teacher.

I’m rambling now. Moving away from the point, going round the houses and generally messing about a bit. But that ’s what I do. My dad says I’ve got a mind like a butterfly but I like to think that I’m just interested in everything. Trouble is sometimes I’m so interested in something that I don’t think things through. I just go off and do something on impulse and then have to clear up the mess later. Although I suppose this time someone else would get to clear up the mess. The mess being me of course, doing a strawberry jam impression.

It’s funny how sometimes you have a really good idea and then halfway through, you think maybe this isn ’t such a good idea. Then, just at the point of no return you think, nope this is definitely a bad, bad, bad, bad idea. But then it ’s too late. There’s no turning back and you just have to make the best of it. So that’s what I’m doing, my best Spiderman impression with my nose squashed against the stones and my fingers clinging desperately, scrabbling for a foothold, any foothold before I slithered further down the castle wall.

The day had started so well. It was one of those sunny crisp days that make you glad it ’s the weekend. I was supposed to be going to the castle with Doug, my big brother. Mum was working and Doug was supposed to keep an eye on me. He ’d promised to take me. I love the castle. Especially the tower with its winding staircase, narrow passages and arrow slits. When I was little my dad used to take us and tell us stories about battles and sieges, knights and thieves. It was my best place.

But when we got to town, Doug said he was meeting up with his mates and I would have to go alone. He would meet me at the arcade before we went home. Of course, mum wasn ’t supposed to find out. He gave me £5 and told me to get lost. I didn’t care. He would only have moaned. I would have more fun without him. That’s what I thought anyway. Until I got to the ticket booth and they said no one under 14 on their own. I said I was 15 but then got the year wrong when they asked my date of birth. So that was that. At least until I had my brilliant idea.

The castle is nearly a thousand years old and set on a cliff above the river. There ’s a tiny rabbit path around the bottom of the wall on top of the cliff. Doug and me used to go up there sometimes, daring each other to go further. Some bits were quite wide, others you had to stand facing the rock and shuffle sideways. One bit you had to jump a little gap of about half a metre. That sounds easy but there was a 6 metre drop if you missed. Isn ’t it funny how height makes such a difference. It’s easy to walk on the curb edge, I can do it for ages without slipping off. But walking along the top of a narrow two metre high wall seems so much harder, even when it ’s twice as wide. That’s how I broke my arm the second time. Falling off a wall.

Anyway, back to the brainwave. Halfway around the bottom of the castle wall is a little archway, just a bit taller than me with iron bars across it. I ’d squeezed through it before, years ago, going from the bottom of the grassy moat to the top of the rocks. Dad had caught me and I ’d been grounded for a week but no one would know this time. I could just slip into the castle and then walk out the door when I ’d had enough. That was the plan anyway.

It didn’t work out like that. It had been fairly easy to get to the arch. I’d held onto the wall at the narrow bits and not looked down. My legs were longer now so the jump across the gap was even easier. I must have grown a head taller since I came this way last. That was the problem of course. I ’d grown. I’m still quite skinny and not that tall but I wasn’t skinny enough to slip between the bars, even when I took my sweatshirt off.

I got mad then and maybe a little stupid. Okay, a lot stupid. But it did seem like a good idea at the time. The castle wall goes up from the top of the arch about 10 metres and then there ’s a gap in the wall which widens to the top. There’s a wooden bridge that goes across the moat, roughly level with the hole in the wall. All I had to do was climb up the castle wall and onto the bridge. Simple, right. Simple minded more like.

I like climbing and I’m good at it. I climb trees and walls and got on the garage roof once before my dad caught me. But climbing a tree is nothing like climbing a thousand year old wall. It looked easy enough to start with. The stone was rough, with uneven joints and a bumpy finish. It wasn ’t smooth like brick and I thought that’d make it easier. I’d just have to jam my toes in the cracks, hold on tight and remember to always have three good holds before you try and move. That ’s what our next door neighbour says. He goes mountaineering. He’s been to Everest. He said don’t overreach, don’t move an arm or leg unless the other 3 holds are good and make sure you take oxygen if you ’re going too high.

Standing at the bottom, it looked a reasonable thing to do. Easy even. The first two metres went better than I thought. It was almost like climbing a ladder. It got a bit harder after that and then when I was about halfway up my fingers started to cramp a bit and I thought maybe this wasn ’t such a good idea. Then I had an even worse idea. I looked down to see how far I ’d come. I hadn’t climbed that far but what I hadn’t thought of was the extra height the cliff added and how tiny the space was at the bottom of the wall. If I fell now I wouldn ’t just land at the base of the wall, I would bounce off and then down the cliff to land splat on the tarmac path below. Unless I was even less lucky and continued down the bank into the river. Both drowning and crash landing sounded like a bad idea. Not something I wanted to try.

So, I gritted my teeth and kept going. Moving slowly, holding tight and hoping for the best. For a while it worked. I got within two metres of the top and thought, this is it, nearly there. Next thing, a bit of the thousand year old wall decided it was going to crumble at the exact moment I stepped on it. I slithered down, trying to grab hold as I slipped. I was saved by my belt. It had a big buckle, with an Indian ’s head on it. The buckle caught in a crack, I jammed my fingers in the gaps between the rocks and dangled. Which is where I started, 30 metres up thinking about the maths test.

It was a long two or three seconds until I managed to push my toes into a tiny gap, lift up a bit and take the weight off my arms. They burned and my hands stung, but at least I was still there. Clinging on. I was tired now and wished I ’d never started. My arms and legs were shaky and I felt sick. I thought about shouting for help, hoping there was some early bird tourist who ’d come to my rescue. But then my mum would find out. That would be a bad idea. I’d spend the rest of my life grounded. Hemmed in by 4 walls, bored out of my skull.

Anyway, I don’t think I could hold on that long, a few minutes more at most. I looked up. I hadn ’t fallen as far as I’d thought. Only a metre or so. The top was so close. I closed my eyes and thought of the drop below, took a deep breath and started up. I tested each hold before going on. If I slipped again, I was sure I ’d fall. I concentrated on the wall in front of me as I inched up. The sweat was stinging my eyes and I wanted to rub them but I didn ’t dare let go. I reached up and found space. The top of the wall. I pulled myself up and sat astride it, sweating. My throat and chest were raw and my hands and arms were covered in scrapes. But I ’d made it. I was safe. I looked down the wall and across to the river, squinting to try and guess where I would have landed. Then I turned to get on the bridge and out of sight before someone spotted me. That ’s when I saw it. The gap. The bridge wasn’t where I remembered. It was 2m away, too far to reach. I was stuck. On top of a wall, on top of a cliff, just waiting to be caught.

That wasn’t going to happen. I’d gone through too much to get caught now. I would be in so much trouble. I looked down the inside of the wall, it looked the same as outside, rough stone. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Going down was nearly as bad as going up. I had managed a little rest on top of the wall but didn ’t dare stay too long. I was tired and stiff and my hands were bleeding but I kept moving. Almost mechanically now. Inching down the wall. Holding tight, wishing I ’d never started. My hands were starting to swell and my legs were shaking. I couldn ’t last much longer. I didn’t dare look down, in case I fell. I just kept moving, slower and slower. My body kept saying stop but I kept pushing. It was unthinkable that I should get caught now. Not after all this. It felt like I ’d been climbing for days. As if it was all I was ever going to do. When it happened again. The rock split under my foot and I slipped. I tried to grab hold but my hands couldn ’t grip anymore. I fell. Backwards. Arms outstretched. A little scream strangling in my throat. Sure I was dead. To land, thump, flat on my back less than a metre below. I learned to breathe again. Sucking in the air greedily. Staring up at the beautiful sky. Feeling like I ’d been saved and thinking next time I have a brainwave I would remember this and think again.

Memories of a much-loved place…

Coming Home

Coming back is so familiar. Driving down the narrow country lanes, past the old school and into the town proper. The place where I was born. It ’s like being transported back to my childhood. Days of playing in the woods, plodging in the streams or visiting the castle.

It’s the castle that gives the town its name, Barnard Castle. A little northern English market town that looks pretty much the same now as it did when I was a child 30 years ago. I always loved the castle. I would spend hours chasing cousins around the battlements, fighting imaginary wars. Sometimes I would be the princess waiting to be rescued but mostly I was the prince, fighting off attacks by rebels.

The castle is nearly a thousand years old, built by the bastard son of a king and now a playground for children. Most of its fallen down. The stone has been plundered for other buildings, but there is still the big tower on the cliff above the river. You can see for miles from there. I used to imagine standing guard, watching through the narrow arrow slits for any sign of the enemy.

It’s an old town with a rich history and lots of little traditions. I thought everywhere was like that. That every town had a carnival on Whit Monday and crowned a May queen. That everywhere had men dressed in white with bells on their knees and elbows lumbering around in squares, solemnly clashing sticks and occasionally shouting. I never understood those dances. They all seemed to involve a lot of waving of sticks and stomping in perfect time in clogs that made the cobbles spark.

I loved Barnard Castle. It was a cosy little town. A safe place. I didn’t know how special it was until I left. Went out into the big wide world, where people didn ’t know I was my father’s daughter, didn’t know my name. Most young people leave, they have to if they want a good education or well paid job. It ’s a small town with no ambition. A quiet place.

I’d meant to come back sooner. I hadn’t meant to leave it so long. But one month passed into another then slipped into a year, then two, then three. There always seemed another time when I would visit, see my family, say hello to those I grew up with. But time passed unnoticed.

For years I made the twice yearly pilgrimage for Whit weekend and New Year. I would watch the carnival and go first footing to let the New Year in. After I started working my way up it became harder to find the time. The gaps between visits got longer and the stays shorter, as my interests grew and my workload got heavier.

But now I was back again. Sorry I hadn’t come sooner. Sorry I wasn’t in time. I’d missed the 80th birthday party, I’d sent a card and a nice present but I’d been in Germany and missed it. Now I was back for the final farewell. Back to my home town. Back to familiar faces grown old. Back to family.

I made my way to the church where I was christened and had sung in the choir. The familiar smells of polish and candles were comforting. All the expected faces were there except one, but I ’d known that before I came. We talked quietly together, family and friends and then followed the coffin in. The organ music swelled to her favourite hymn and despite my sadness I knew I was home.

Memories of a fondly remembered mother…

Precious Things

When I was five my granddad gave me an old cigar box. Mum helped me cover it in pictures of butterflies and for years it was where I kept my precious things. Things that no one else would care about. Things that meant something only to me.

There was a little harmonica on a key ring, only about an inch long which my godmother gave me, it only played four notes. A tiny green elephant the size of my thumb nail that I dug up in the garden. A stone with a hole in it that I found down by the river. Shells from the seaside and green glass worn smooth at the edges by the sand and tide. An acorn from my favourite tree and my best conker. A big marble with a twist of colour that made a rainbow if you looked through it just right.

Nothing that would mean anything to anyone else, but that meant the world to me. I could pick any of the treasures out and remember exactly when and where I found it. The trip to London, days out at the seaside, playing in the garden or woods or with friends. All markers of my life and the people and places I loved. As I got older the things I cared about changed but I still kept my treasure box.

I found mum’s precious things after she died, in the handbag she kept by her. A picture of the five of us when the twins were babies. A small clay heart I made in infants school, with I love you cut into it and most of the paint rubbed off. The shell my brother posted from abroad when he was in the army. The prayer book she got when she was confirmed. A curl of hair from the one she lost. A hankie my sister embroidered when she was small. The plastic bangle the twins brought back from their first school trip. The worry stone from her sister. All the precious things that reminded her of us and happier times.

I’ve never cared that much about material things. Growing up we had very little but mum always made the best of it and it didn ’t seem to matter. We would come home from school to an impromptu picnic in the garden or trip to the local woods. She would play hide and seek with us or we would run ahead and duck under the footbridges and pretend to be trolls. We made tiny log houses with moss roofs for the fairies she said lived at the bottom of the garden. We danced in the rain and sang as we walked. She told us stories and turned everything into a game.

I never realised at the time how much these things meant to me. But looking back I can see the precious times strung together like beads on a string. All the things we did together, the places we went. Talking, playing, laughing and even sometimes crying. The memories of time past and prospect of times to come. These are my precious things. I ’ve never had diamonds, never wanted pearls or gold. I don’t care about fast cars, designer clothes or penthouse suites. Things decay, break or are lost. We are the sum of our memories and experiences. They are what precious and what my mother gave me.

I’ve had my butterfly box nearly 40 years, it looks very shabby now but it still contains my childhood treasures and a little clay heart. I ’ll probably keep it forever. The most precious things are kept in your heart and soul, where you never truly lose them. That ’s what my mother taught me and what I truly believe..