All stories

The diner was nearly empty when the bell above the door sprang into life for only the seventh time that night. It has been a long, hot shift and closing time was only ten minutes away. The usual faces had long since downed roots beers and burgers and were no doubt at home falling asleep in front of some late night repeat on the T.V. Only the town weirdo remained – an owlish man who had nothing else to do with his life than to play the out of tune piano left over from the days when the diner was the town’s only night spot.

The weight of the quiet evening stopped the waitress from moving with any degree of interest or urgency towards the couple who had just entered. They had taken their seats in a booth under a tired looking paper lantern at the far end of the room. Rummaging in her worn apron, she wearily pulled out an order pad and pencil and took up her normal stance in front of the new arrivals.

“A bit late for dinner aren’t y’all?” She said, not looking up as she turned over a fresh sheet of paper and manoeuvred the carbon paper into place underneath.

“Oh no no, it’s just desserts for us honey!” came the reply from the overly made up blonde sitting opposite her equally made up beau.

The waitress’s eyes darted up from her pad to check the face from which the voice came. Despite twenty years passing, she knew that voice anywhere. It still rang in her ears when she thought about where exactly her life had gone wrong – why she was still stuck in this small town with no way out.

“It’s Katie isn’t it? Don’t you remember me? Kelsey. Kelsey-May Fitzpatrick… née Moore of course” Her words drawled long and light across the table. Sitting back she gave a girly giggle and a one shoulder shrug to suggest a coy nature.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I …” The waitress shot a closer look at the man sitting on the other side of the table and blushed.

“Yes you do, we were besties in high school. How could you forget? Seventh grade.”

“Well it was a long time ago… and I see a lot of faces around here, you know.”

“Ah come on, we had such fun together. Remember how you used to tell me how much you fancied old Hank here?” She cupped a hand across her partners face. “HA! What a hoot! Well guess who ended up at the same college together? SCREAM!” Holding up her left hand, she wiggled an overly adorned ring finger under the waitress’s nose.

The waitress recoiled, darting towards the safety of the dessert cabinet. She pulled out a huge piece of pie and without even thinking about what she was doing, calmly released the ball of hatred burning in her stomach onto the cream frosting, picked up two forks and made her way back to the table.

Ted Barnet watched, his head cocked to one side, wide eyed, staring in disbelief. His hooked nose stared with him and twitched his dismay. ‘The Clematis’ he hooted in alarm. But it was too late they were burning along with everything else. The roses were roasting. The carnations crisped. The lawn he had tended, trimmed and talked into all it’s precise beauty was becoming a blackened bed of ash. It didn’t take long to douse the flames with the hose, but as he stood in the smoking ruins of his perfectly formed garden he noticed the bench he had carved. Blackened, cracking and sizzling, the intricate etchings he had once inscribed with such delicate and permanent love, were gone. Mrs Barnet would have had something philosophical to say about that. How nothing is permanent, we come from nothing, we go back to nothing. She would have smiled at Ted and in that moment everything would have been ok again.

Ted remembered watching the lantern land from the top floor. The attic room allowed him to watch the town from all four sides, and vigilantly he did. Since the accident, roaming youths, stray dogs and especially any speeding vehicle was tagged and sent straight to the police. So it was no surprise he had seen the lanterns being released. He had watched their beautiful ascent from the north window, tutting to turn as just one danced its deathly decent onto his tiny but prize-winning garden; Shropshire Community Pride and Bloom - Gold award 2016 and 2017.

Up town The Church Stretton annual Golf Gala - the Big Swing was in full steam following their spectacular announcement of the Firefly Inc sponsorship deal. Ian, Head of Corporate Branding and Compatibility, made a note to point out the success of the launch and his sky lantern idea to the over indulging CEO, who promptly ignored him until he turned his attention to Jodie from HR. Jodie sighing and claiming the need for a toilet break wandered outside for a smoke. She noticed a thin old man with wide eyes wandering through reception and on request politely pointed him towards the piano in the main hall. Of course it had to be in perfect tune, she thought, rolling her eyes. Bastards dragging that poor man out at this time of night. Ian checked his Twitter; #FireDrive2018 was trending. He barely had time to shoo an ancient piano tuner out of sight before the performance from Frankly Sinatra. The room was crammed now. He could practically smell the money coming in from this deal. He smiled good riddance as he watched the old man wander out of the hall, not even a flicker of recognition of the man whose life he had now twice shattered, before briefly thinking ‘I’m sure Frankly uses a backing track.’

Ted was turning the corner to his street when he heard the first siren. He rushed upstairs and watched the dancing glow across town. He smiled, thinking Mrs Barnet would definitely have had something philosophical to say about this.

It’s starting to get to me, lying on the bed in the room next to the one in which another man is shagging my wife. Each shriek and each moan makes me tingle, but it’s not what you might be thinking.

At the beginning I guess it’s best to start, at that Uni politics dinner when Amanda launched a Yorkshire pudding wrapped around a pepper pot at the fat Tory MP when he was knocking out Rule Britannia on the out of tune piano. There was this blaze to her eyes as they marched her out of there, this blaze of spunk that made me chase on after. Together ever since, from the tail of Brown’s sorry premiership and all the leaders since, both of us true red Labour, but I guess if you’re a couple known as Peter and Mandy you’ve kind of got to be. At our wedding we launched paper lanterns inscribed with quotes from the party manifesto.

Sorry. Digression. Why is it that the painting shivering on the wall because of head board thumping gives me such joy?

Of course, you’ll have done the post coital deepest fantasy pillow talk. I’ll be clear, when I raised the subject there was this tiny part of me that somehow hoped that Mandy’s deepest was for Sandy, from my office, to join us for an athletic threesome.

But what Mandy actually said.

My God.

The depravity.

The shame of it, just to think of all those times I did try – I really did – those times when I stripped naked, did my face up as she wanted and then marched on into the bedroom only to find that Mr Happy was sulking.

It sure drives a wedge, when you cannot bring yourself to bed your own wife.

It was attempt number four that brought me to this bedroom next to where someone else’s Mr Happy was being Mr Busy. It was this year’s Labour conference, and Mandy was there by herself, because obviously I couldn’t be in love with her any more if I couldn’t bring myself to do that for her. It was spur of the moment that I took the room next to her. The staff there knew us both – hadn’t missed a conference in ten years. I explained I was there to surprise her, and they happily gave me a key for the connecting door. Then it was strip down, face on, Viagra inserted. Three seconds of Maggie’s coffin on its way into the church was enough for Mr Happy to wake and then I was through that door.

I went into a room of horror. A room in which my naked wife rode a naked man. This woman with her back to me but with my wife’s hair and with my wife’s rose tattoo on her right shoulder. She had my wife’s nearly come face too, hazy eyes that opened wide in sheer horror as she looked through my grey face whiskers to the man dying beneath. She screamed and entered the en-suite without touching the floor.

Her lover shot from the bed and we faced each other, both of us naked, both of us bearded. Together our eyes flicked down and then as one we tore the Jeremy Corbyn beards from our faces and clasped them to our nethers. Without his beard he had an owlish look to him, this weed of a man who’d been doing my wife.

I went for his beard, my intention to strip him of this shred of dignity and then leave him and his shame in the corridor. Rather more moist flesh than I intended, but it did serve as a convenient handle with which to lead him yelping from the bedroom.

That’s it, you’re caught up. That’s how we got to now, my wife in the bed next door screaming to Jeremy that she’s coming again. Silence now, the deed is done. And I cannot wait for my wife’s next scream, when I go in there and tell her the man done up as the Labour leader is really a Tory party activist.

Hector P Bagshaw

The source of our problems, we agreed, was Hector P Bagshaw.

If not for him, our little community would have been perfect. We liked each other; took turns tending the communal garden, collected each others mail, shared meals in one anothers’ kitchens, looked after baby Daisy when Alison worked shifts...

But not Hector. He lived on the top floor, my floor, and never joined in or did his share. He played his loud, out-of-tune piano when everyone was asleep on a Saturday morning. He smoked in his flat and pretended he didn’t. He even fell asleep running his bath, flooding poor Derek’s living room, ruining his collection of paper lanterns.

In short, none of us liked sharing the building with Hector.

It didn’t surprise us when an oddly shaped box appeared outside his flat, blocking the corridor, his name printed clearly on the top. I had to lift up my bike to pass it.

It was still there when I got home, so I decided that something must be done. I rapped smartly on his door and arranged my features to convey polite firmness. He peered through his horn-rimmed spectacles, brushing matter from his brown, threadbare dressing gown. His hair tufted in white clumps at the sides of his head.

“Hector?” I began.

“Who?” he asked.

“Mr Bagshaw?” I corrected.

“Who’re you looking for, missy?”

“Hector I’m looking for you - there’s a parcel…”

“Sorry, wrong flat. No Hector here.” The door slammed shut.

The next morning the parcel was gone. I was confused, but let it pass.

Until it happened again; Alison fell over it and he’d said the same to her. So we convened in my kitchen - Alison and Daisy, Derek and Mr Thatcher from the ground floor.

“Maybe he’s forgotten who he is - he’s getting on a bit…” posed Derek

“He knows what he’s doing.” Mr Thatcher said. “I’ll wager whatever’s in that box he’s too embarrassed to say is his.”

We peered out. It was certainly an unusual shape and alarmingly large.

By morning, it had vanished. As I wheeled my bike out Mr Thatcher gave me a knowing look. We knew what had to be done.

When another package appeared in the hall, no-one wasted time asking Hector. Together we dragged it into my kitchen and opened it.

“Well” said Derek “I never expected that.”

Mr Thatcher whistled. “Who’d have thought - at his age too!”

I reached down and lifted it out. Suddenly there was a loud banging on my door!

They scattered. Alison grabbed Daisy and hid in the bathroom. I brushed my hair back and calmly opened the door.

It was Hector, veins popping.

“Miss Jones - have you seen…” he peered past me to where his box disgorged its contents over my floor. I had to think fast.

“Who?” I said.

“MISS Jones…”

“Who?” I asked innocently “Who are you looking for, sir?”

“Now look here, that box is mine - you’ve no right…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you mean. There’s no Jones here and that box is addressed to Hector P Bagshaw, who I’m told doesn’t live here.”

I slammed the door in his purpling face.