All stories

Twenty eight days in.

Andrew sat at the back of the tour bus. Alicia had done her best to get him to sit with the rest of them, but he was here to work, not arse about with three kids fresh from college.

“Come on Andrew,” called Miller. “What animal would you be, if you could choose?”

Fucking Miller. Prick of an understudy. Anytime Andrew so much as coughed, Miller was there, the picture of solicitude, all the while desperate to jump into dead man’s boots. As if he had the skill to do what Andrew did night after night.

“Your time would be better spent learning your lines, Miller,” he sneered. “Oh, that’s right - you haven’t got any.”

Miller flushed.

“He’s just trying to be friendly, Andrew. No need to be a prick.”

“I’ve got better things to do than play games, Leo.”

Leo shrugged. “Suit yourself. Ok let’s play I spy. I’ll start…”

---

The next venue was in some dreary nameless town the same as the fifteen other nameless towns they’d played that month. Andrew had insisted on his own dressing room and no one had argued.

His was undoubtedly the most challenging role in the production. He needed to inhabit the personality of Isaac, the condemned man, drench himself in the fear the man would have felt as he approached his bloody end.

A tap at the door. Sodding Alicia.

“What?”

“We’re having beers in Leo’s room if you want to come?”

“Unlike you, I take my work seriously. I need this time to prepare. So please can you fuck off?”

Alicia hurried away as if he’d struck her.

Then a voice from the doorway made Andrew start.

“No wonder you’re still doing shitty tours with graduates like us when you’re pushing what? Fifty? I can see why no-one else wants to work with you.”

“Go and drink your beer Leo. Nothing is likely to improve your performance tonight anyway.”

---

As the show reached that night’s climax, Andrew prepared to relive Isaac’s final moments for the sixteenth time.

This was his moment.

Even his two fellow actors seemed to be taking their own parts more seriously tonight. The stage seemed to crackle with tension. The scene finally felt alive.

The last thing Andrew saw was Leo’s dark eyes staring at him with intent as he hefted the rubber blade and walked towards him. Strange, how, tonight, the rubber seemed almost to glint in the stage lights…

Andrew felt a sudden, cold sting against his neck, caught the trace of a bloody rope arcing through the air.

The lights cut.

End scene.

---

“We were blown away by the show tonight,” called the journalist. “Isaac’s death was so very real - we’ve not had word of that from any other venues on the tour. Can you give us a hint of how you managed it? We were almost relieved when all three of you appeared for the curtain call!”

Miller stepped forwards, reaching to his knees to wipe his red-stained hands on the trousers of Isaac’s costume. It was just a little too big for him, but nobody seemed to notice.

He smiled winningly for the camer.

“Ahh you know that if we told you how we did that, we’d have to kill you!”

The knife sliced cleanly through the juicy steak. He wanted to just pick it up and bite into it, who cared how bloody his hands got. But that wouldn’t have looked good.The chef of a 5 start hotel didn’t use his hands. And now everyone looked in while he cooked. No it wouldn’t be good. But damn it was tasty. Cooked it was a bit paler than normal beef. But he’d seasoned it too perfection. It had been a long time waiting. 28 days in fact and the anticipation had been killing him.

He glanced up at the faces watching. The pale and blotchy skin of the rich bankers, the dull eyes of the bored mistress, the excitement of the young couple out to celebrate. A birthday. No an engagement. A night to remember.

This would be a night to remember, with his cooking it would be unforgettable.

“Jack.”

She smiled at him, turning to him as she sat in their kitchen. “This is incredible, oh my god. I thought you were all hype, but ugh it’s amazing.” She laughed and turned back to her plate. He smiled to himself.

“Jack”. He started as Maddox shouted to him, the restaurant burring back into life as the memory faded. “3 more table 16. 2 Medium, 1 rare.” Maddox continued as he prepped the sides. “Going to be busy tonight”.

Jack turned back to the grill. His head slightly

Beaded in sweat from the heat. His eyes were set intently on the steaks. Seasoned, rested and ready to cook. He reached a hand out gently feeling the press of thumb and forefinger on the tender meat. He felt the weight in his hand and smiling placed it on to the hot grill. The hiss of the meat filled his ears.

The sound merged with sound of the hiss of a helium tank as he filled a balloon.

“Just a few more, we’ve got loads already alright.” She said looking flustered.

“Ok, last one.” Jack said tying it off and handing it to her. She grabbed it and stalked off to tie it up in the corner. They had all the classic birthday tat that went with a 30th birthday.

“Go get changed” she said, “they’ll be here soon and you look…” her voice trailed off. Jacks face darkened but he walked off to the room as she touched up her make-up in the mirror. She was very concerned with how they looked tonight he thought, but it was a special occasion after all. The doorbell buzzed.

The service buzzer seemed to go on forever. Until at last he looked up and one of the waiters carried the plates off. He stared after them watching them float through the crowds on their stainless steel shield. He watched the faces light up in anticipation. The gentle swallow of the throats. The twitch of the nostrils in anticipation as the smell wafted up. He was so focused it almost felt like he could zoom in. Hear the clink of the cutlery. The sound of laughter.

She laughed again. The sound floating down the stairs. Magical and yet deep and guttural. Not a pretty laugh, but something real and edged with genuine happiness. He smiled to himself as he took his coat off and tossed it on the sofa. Wondering what rubbish she was watching to make her laugh so truly. And then he heard another laugh. Deeper. He glanced at the old rope they used for walking Charlie hung by the door. He picked the rope up and stepped onto the straits. Above he heard footsteps and a giggle followed by a door slamming.

The door slammed open as Maddox came back into the kitchen.

“Jack” Maddox looked at him. “Sorry, we’ve had a complaint. I know it’s just dick heads trying to impress their partners.”

Jack stared blankly at him. An almost animal grin appearing on his face.

“Don’t worry I told them these are premium cuts, aged for 28 days.”

“28 days. They have no idea what that wait has been like.” Jack said and started to laugh.

28 days later I stood under the chestnut tree looking up at the frayed ends of an old rope. My boots crunched on the bones and detritus at the foot of the tree. 28 days earlier I had looked up at the same rope, hands covered in blood and turned to see the intent shadow of a hungry animal in the bushes, waiting for a much needed feast.

On the morning of that day, I had spent some time preparing myself for the dreaded visit. Hair washed and dried, make up applied, clothing carefully chosen so as to draw as little attention, negative or positive, as possible. As usual I was full of good intent, determined to be lovely and calm. We would chat and take a short walk, idly observing the neighbours’ houses. I would not rise to any ignorant statements, thoughtless questions or relentless inanity. I would not be irked by the repeated nostalgic anecdotes that I had heard a million times before, or the brainless humming that filled any dead air.

And so it was…to begin with. I got her coat, loaded her too big mobility aid into the too small boot, wrangled her arthritic legs into the front seat and we set off on our jolly. By the time we got to the end of the road, having endured 3 interstitial tuneless humming sessions, a comment on my weight and 2 completely uninformed pronouncements on the state of young people today, I felt something inside me fray, there was a loosening in my very being, a fracture in the carapace of my psyche.

By the time we got to the parking spot near the small woodland, my spirit was crushed. I think it was hearing about the time she wore a trouser suit to the pub for the first time in 1974 that broke me. I became at that point an automaton, going through the motions to an inevitable conclusion. I got her out of the car and we set off down a different path than usual, “ just for a change”. It was a quiet day, there were no other people around, all I could hear were the birds and the distant hum of the motorway. I saw her lips moving but she had ceased to exist to all intents and purposes.

After walking for 20 minutes we came to the big chestnut tree. As she started to tell me yet again about the time that her and her husband had carved their initials in the tree when they were teenagers, back in the good old days, before all the immigrants and the yobs , I lifted the monkey wrench I had taken from the boot of my car and hefted it across the back of her head. As she lay on the mossy path, blood oozing from the wound, I tied the old rope around her neck and with the help of her walker as a platform, pulled her wizened old body up, so that she hung like a ragdoll from the lowest branch, her swollen feet brushing against the leaf mould.

28 days later I remembered.

Things hadn’t been right for longer than he would admit. Several days running he had arrived at work and found it difficult to get out of his car. For some reason he kept playing Regina Spektor’s Fidelity over and over.

He had been lucky up to now, he knew that. A good job straight out of Uni. Some pressure but nothing that he couldn’t handle.

Then he discovered the realities of corporate life. At first small things, just irritants really. Contractual negotiations, petty office politics that could revolve around anything from the loss of a favorite mug to reserved car parking spaces.

After a while the serious stuff began. His manager had been promoted way above his ability. His way of dealing with this had turned him into a sociopath. Subtle bullying, undermining people at every opportunity. He managed to create a truly poisonous atmosphere. Over a single year this had turned into something really dark. He tried to stick it out.

The first time that it crept up on him was terrifying. He had gone to the old shed at the bottom of the garden to find some paint and had cut his hand. The gash was deep and, in an effort to stop the bleeding, both his hands had ended up covered in blood. He was tired anyway, but somehow this simple accident triggered such a strong feeling of depression that he found himself staring at the coil of old rope on a hook in the ceiling.

No plan had been formed, but it was enough to frighten him in a way that was difficult to deal with. An old friend had been seeing a therapist, and he got the number that night.

At first nothing changed. The woman was kind, and the sessions were not too traumatic.

He decided that he would always walk to and from the place where he received the counselling. It helped him to prepare for, and then process, the experience.

His route took him along the river, and he noticed a heron perched at the same spot each time. Stunningly beautiful and still, intent on only one thing. Then one day a lightning fast dive, some splashing and then that wingspan far above him. Shocking efficiency but just so beautiful.

Something began to return to him that night. Very slowly at first. The image from the shed still disturbed his sleep, but it gradually faded.

The date that he saw the heron dive was easy to remember. His fourth session. By the time of his sixth, the creature had become an important part of his week.

It was late October, and the salmon were going upriver. A small miracle. Twenty years ago, the river was so filthy. Another dive, but this time much slower to emerge. A huge fish, barely contained in its beak.

Another month and his notice handed in. Savings blown on an old camper. No particular plans, except to head for Calais. Flat rented out. Just one last stop before the motorway. The rain was coming down heavily, but there the heron was, still as ever, not a twitch. He watched for a few moments, getting soaked, before trudging back up to the van.

John the Elder had reached a great age.

Now, as winter winds raged through his homeland, he could feel that their icy tips bought death and he, a scribe and teacher at the royal court was ready for his final fate.

Ready to meet a maker he had a low opinion of and to revisit the secrets of 60 years ago which would die with him.

John had been born in this very castle as Henry, second son of the Archduke Frederick.

When his brother, Edric was slain in the Victorious battle at Zetland, the rumour held that he had raised a bloody hand and gasped his last word “Henry!”. And so it was that a sheltered and physically frail 16 year old, was pronounced king of a land he’d never visited and taken to Obersdorf to be crowned.

His reign, a confusing mess of treacherous courtiers and paintings of potential brides, lasted only a few weeks before King Phillipe, back from Crusades, marched upon the castle at midnight, vowing to destroy Henry. Still reeling from the twenty years war, Henry’s armies were not about to die for causes they didn’t understand or a weakling prince and melted away quietly.

Henry watched Phillipe’s distant approach from his window, and too scared to even trust his manservant, attached a piece of rope to the castle walls and lowered himself into the thick woods behind the castle, on foot and alone, carrying only some cloth for a makeshift tent.

Half-starved and desperate he fought through sharp patches of briar and listened for the sound of the forest combing troops who often neared him. The berries made him ill and the cuts from thorns were hard to staunch. In the evenings, unable to make fire, he shivered beneath his tentcloth, warmed by pieces of bracken, crying from the cold and horror.

On the fifth night, he woke from fitful slumbers to see the two brown, staring eyes of a black bear in his tent, it stared at him greedily for a moment before being scared off by another noise, deep in the forest.

When on the eighth day he finally came to an area of fields, villages and rising smoke. He wanted to run and cry out, but realising he was still in foreign lands he walked at night and slept in barns for 12 more days, stealing chickens and apples, until he came to the port of Varcia on the shores of the lake across which his own lands lay.

In Varcia “John”, frequented common taverns lurking in backgrounds listening for news of boats across the lake.

He finally met his sister on the morning of the 28th day and there, together, they concocted plans for survival and agreed never to reveal his identity to his cousin Louis, who he had never met and had been installed as Regent.

John was a better scribe than he had been a prince, using his talents for listening and avoiding attention wisely.

Prince Henry’s fabled demise at the hands of a forest bear was now a wonderful tapestry at the cathedral in Fleghnt and God as he always had, sided with whoever had been the latest winner in the long game of thrones that now seemed so irrelevant.

John tottered to his window, his eyes could not see but the scent of the valley where he had lived his best life still reached his nostrils. He would die that night, satisfied that the story he’d taken to his grave would forever evade the hungry clutches of history.