Category: short story

100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups # 40

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This is my post for Julia’s 100 word challenge, with the prompt of ruby to mark the 40th week. Take a look over here http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-40/ and maybe join in.

Pearl of Ruby?

I stretched myself awake and saw a carved ivory box on my pillow.

‘Oh no,’ said Leila, ‘They will come tonight then, but you are so young.’ I opened the box and my heart stopped.

‘A ruby.’ As big as an eye.

‘You must be valued highly; the old fool usually sends a pearl, as if that makes up for his stench.’

I was shaking as Leila opened the note.

‘But no . . . Prince Mustafa awaits you . . . the young handsome one is yours, a ruby your price’ she said running her pearls between her fingers.

Shortlisted, me?

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short storyTagged , , , , 45 Comments

Yes me! I submitted to South West Flash Fiction just for fun really and never dreamt that I would be short listed. National Flash Fiction day is on May 16th and Rachel http://rachelcarter.me an inspiring writer herself thought it would be a good idea to have a page to showcase the work of Westcountry writers.

So there I am and on the front page as well.

http://flashfictionsw.co.uk/ Do have a read, my story is Mystery Lady on The Train, written after I spotted an ad in the local newspaper.

How it should be

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 16 Comments

He just wished that one day he would come home from work to find her normal. Not perfect, he didn’t expect an immaculate house, squeaky clean kids and for her to be glamorous. No, if nothing else he was realistic. He’d seen his ideal when he’d followed Geoff home to fix his computer. Alice tried to persuade him to stay and eat with them, an aromatic curry cooked from scratch. Geoff dipped his finger in to taste and pretended to groan in agony when she swiped him with the spoon. ‘Oh I’m sorry, let me kiss it better’ she reached for him and then thrashed and giggled as he tried to claim a full on snog with tongues.

‘Get him mum,’ the teenaged twins said in unison, accompanied by the manic yelps of their Labrador. Biting his lower lip, Paul leant against the table watching while a scene of mock smacks and tickles unfolded, yes this is how it should be.

That night was one of the worst for ages, because he was late. He heard a smash of glass as he pulled into the drive and found her trying to mash shards down the sink with an empty wine bottle.

‘Come here’, he took her hand and wrapped a towel around it; her blood had mixed with the wine in the sink. She let him help for a minute then pushed him away and slumped on the sofa. He felt the familiar rocks in his belly as he climbed the stairs.

‘Hello dad, thank God you’re home, Dan’s really miserable’. Jessica was oldest by a year and Paul was ashamed at how much he relied on her.

‘Come on, let’s talk, did you and Dan eat? ‘ello mate, how you doin?’ the boy maintained his stare at the screen where fantasy fighters destroyed each other and the planet. ‘Dan, can you leave that a minute I’ve got something to say.’ Paul hit the power on the speaker and swivelled his son around to face him.

‘We’re going at the weekend; I’ve got the keys today. There won’t be a garden but it’s a huge flat, really funky and you’ll love it. What d’you think?’ the boy’s eyes welled up, a small chink in his mask and Jess held on to both of them.

‘But mum . . . what will happen to her?’

‘There’s help if she will take it and we’ll see, but this can’t carry on. I’m going to look after you now, we’re going to be normal.’

A Post for International Women’s Day

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 26 Comments

This is a story I wrote a while back and I’ve chose to post it today because things aren’t always what they seem. Myfanwy at http://chittlechattle.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/international-womens-day-part-2/ will be hosting for International Women’s Day.

Rashini’s Girl Child

The woman, Rashini, plied her goods on the Niger from Mopti, Kassoum and north to Timbuktu taking her daughter Aliyah along. Malaria had taken the child’s father when she was small and Rashini had defiantly refused to re-marry, upsetting her family who had found her a husband wanting a second wife. Rashini had seen how her mother had suffered as a junior wife and knew that she and Aliyah would become slaves. As Aliyah grew near the age of the ritual they rarely stayed in the village for long, she was fearful for her daughter. Not for her the thorns and cutting of the vile village witch, her mother was saving to have a doctor perform it cleanly.

The ferry pulled up to the river bank and the throngs of people gathered their baggage. Some had been sitting squashed in the same spot for days and their movements released aromas of unwashed body mixed with spices, saltfish and ripening fruit from their packages. They tightened their scarves around nose and mouth until they were able to breathe cleaner air on land. She thanked Allah for their safe arrival and for her daughter’s health and strength. Opening an indigo dyed bag, she found small sticks, and passed one to her daughter

‘Your teeth Aliyah, and soon we will find some breakfast’.

They had bought some flat bread made on the boat, but then disgusted threw it overboard as it was infested with worm. Arriving at Timbuktu was always joyful; there they could choose from many foods that could not be found anywhere else. Water carriers strutted around with their goatskins on their heads, containing pure, sweet water from mountain springs.

‘Ma can we have millet patties please?’

‘We have to sell the cotton first’. . .

‘And some egg?’

Rashini smiled at her child’s dancing eyes; she could deny her nothing and would protect her from all. The air in Timbuktu was hazy and relentlessly hot, harmattan had left a sandy veneer over the city. Mother and daughter carefully stepped over bits of unidentifiable animal carcass, clattering metal pans and calabashes in the river side market.

‘Timbuktu is kind to us Ali, but I never want to live in this noisy chaos, with many people whose words I can’t understand’

‘Can we go and stay in the village forever one day ma?’

Afraid to commit herself Rashini smiled but turned towards the weaver’s lanes,

‘Hurry child we need to sell before the boat comes in with big sacks of cotton’. If only we could go home and settle in peace, I’m so afraid for you.

There was a clackety clack crescendo of noise as they got closer to the Weaving Men. Here they were able to sell their best quality raw cotton, grown near their village. They lingered over tempting cotton and fine wool wrappers fresh from the looms, but hunger ruled and they headed back to the street with a full purse.

Heading towards the Tuareg women when a call through the crowd reached them,

‘Rashi hello, let’s have tea’

They exchanged greetings with Fauziya from home and headed to a shady tea stall to share news.

‘There is circumcision of six girls next month and your mother has asked for reports of you because it is Ali’s time, you must come home she says’

‘Oh you must not say you have seen us please, we will go to the hospital soon’

‘Uh . . . okay but she will be angry when she finds out’

‘No, she can say nothing, if it is done it is done, I will not allow it her way for my daughter’

They spoke of trade before parting and well breakfasted returned to the business of selling. The Tuareg women were always hungry for the thick nourishing Shea butter to protect their skin from the dryness of the Sahel which left their faces like paper so they paid well for Rashini’s supply from the far east of the Niger.

That was a lucky meeting, I was heading home for a few days rest once we had sold our stock and refilled with things to sell there. Not now though, we must go to the women’s hospital in Koutiala instead. I will never forget my marriage night. My husband broke my body. I was cut and sewn up at Ali’s age and there was no way in for him. He pushed and pushed until his penis was soft and painful then he tried for hours with his hand and a wooden tool. He couldn’t get up in the morning and face the other men without evidence of my virginity and so he found a way . . . exhausted and already in pain I must have lost consciousness when he cut . . . I woke many hours later.  Aliyah was made that night.

There was a call to prayer from the minaret nearby and Rashini thought God is great, where was he then?  She counted her savings and decided there was enough and some spare for emergencies, it was time.

‘Aliyah, we have to travel a long way now, we go to Koutiala to take care of you and it will take many days. First we must buy food for the journey’.

‘A big journey on a bus is exciting and I will be brave when we arrive ma, you will be proud of me’, she smiled but there she had a look of fear that only her mother would notice.

Mammy wagons and trotro’s were parked nose to nose in the central bus area. All were treacherously overloaded with crates and livestock headed all ways out of Timbuktu. Rashini and Aliyah wandered in search of a south bound one that looked likely to reach the destination without overturning on the sharp bends. It looked as if there wasn‘t space for a mouse on the wagons but always more squeezed on so they were as high as they were long,  travelling villages where anything could be bought at a price. Eventually they chose one that had been freshly painted, bright mottos of ‘Allah u’Akbar’ alongside ‘Jesus Saves’ and a picture of Haile Selasie suggested both a well maintained truck and a broad minded driver. It would take them to Bounadougou and then they would get a tro-tro the rest of the way.

The journey was mercifully uneventful, they passed several wagons not so blessed and were able to help themselves to produce abandoned by the roadside. Lilting music accompanied them on the journey. The trancelike rhythm of Toumani Diabate’s kora, occasionally a haunting flute quelled arguments and the engine purred like a choir of cats. The tro-tro was quick and dropped them near to the hospital. Rashini gave her daughter to the care of the doctor and waited.

She watched her while she slept on a pallet in a bare but clean room and held her in her arms as she regained consciousness. She shed no tears from her antelope eyes but allowed herself to be comforted in her pain. Later they took refuge in a cousin’s home for a few days and then began the slow journey home to the village. Rejoicing in the triumphant act, Rashini took her daughter to the enclosure and greeted her family.

‘Rashini, you have brought the girl for her circumcision at last, we have been . . .’

‘No auntie it is done, it is done in the hospital’ she said with pride.

A couple more takes on IWD

http://aipetcher.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day/

http://roughseasinthemed.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day-and-my-gibraltar-angle/

Flight to Krakow (part one)

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 23 Comments

A lofty bay with a shaft of sunlight peeping through the leaded windows but outside the garden had rampaged to obscure the view. The chairs in the bay were rigid and upright, but she chose to sit where she could see more than just decay. Eight years. That’s how long it had taken to keep the promise she made as her grandmother lay dying.

‘Go to Krasne, take my diaries . . . in the bureau, and all of the photos’

‘Where is Cratchnuh Gran? I’ve never heard of it’

‘In Podkar, find your aunties and uncles, you have seven.’

‘What?’

‘I am Polish Anna and you must go, there is a home for you there.’

She turned away and closed her eyes.

Anna married, and lived her life in a small Devon town but she often wondered who might be out there and why her grandmother had left them behind. She found herself alone after an amicable divorce and decided now was the time. Researching on the internet she tried every possible spelling of the place names and got nowhere. The language was difficult with its alien sounds but she tried to learn a few words and when a Polish grocery shop opened, she became a regular customer, just so that she could listen. Of course the people there were bemused by this local woman, picking up tins to read the labels, but they would smile benignly and practise their English on her. Anna told them that her grandmother had been Polish and from Cratchnuh or Podca ‘Have you ever heard of it?’ They were delighted but frowned and shook their heads. ‘Podcarpahtzee’, another shopper said smiling, I have heard of this place’, it is spelt like this, and wrote it down for Anna, Podkarpackie. Anna booked a flight to Krakow that evening.

Travelling alone held no fear for her. Her grandmother had brought her up after her parents died and money had never been a problem, she had used part of her inheritance to backpack around Australia. Arriving at Krakow her first thought was to get to Krasne as quickly as she could, but negotiating the language was a lot harder than trying to buy bread in the Polish shop at home. She would see what she thought must be a post office, and it would turn out to be a Vets surgery instead. She decided to settle in for a couple of weeks and enjoy Krakow, getting on and off of bus’s, finding out how they worked and each day going a little further. In her hotel, her patience paid off when she became a familiar face and people began to talk to her.

Of course they would help her get to Krasne, ‘Why hadn’t she said before?’ The manager helped her find the bus, buy tickets and wrote detailed instructions for her journey. The hundred miles of countryside were stunning but her nervousness spoilt her ride. She had no idea what she would find at her destination, a small town with barely any internet information where no-one knew her. Would they remember her grandmother? By all accounts she had left there at least fifty years ago and never returned. Her hotel there was not the cosmopolitan experience she’s had in Krakow and she thanked Bazyli silently for his notes in Polish.

The taxi driver waited until the studded wooden door opened to her and then gestured that he would return in two hours. She smiled down at the woman who looked puzzled at first, but then spoke, ‘Bo . . . Bozena?’

Inspired by this photo by Barbara Fritze (Beelitz Heilstaetten), courtesy of Frizz text http://flickrcomments.wordpress.com/2012/02/04/looking-back-christopher-hall/
more of Barbara Fritze’s work can be seen here

http://flickrcomments.wordpress.com/2011/04/08/barbara-fritze/#comment-12369

 

100 Word Challenge : Week # 29

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , 32 Comments

Wednesday, Best Knee Forward

She stared at the entrance from the bottom of the steps, thinking about her knees. Every Wednesday for three years she had knelt at his grave, weeding, clipping, polishing the granite stone and now her knees were done for. She carried her guilt in her knees and they wouldn’t let her move on.

One Wednesday, just one, she left him to join the Bridge Club and that was the day his heart gave out. If she had been there . . .

She sat on the bottom step massaging her joints, ‘Hello, Sandra isn’t it?’, he offered his arm. She let go, of a sigh. Onwards.

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/01/30/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-29/

Half An Inch Lower

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, short story, WritingTagged , , , 10 Comments

I have a scar on my left eyebrow. I don’t think many people know it’s there, because it’s overshadowed by a mole. Even I forget, until it’s time to pluck my eyebrows and then unlike the right one, which hurts like eyebrows do when you pull them, it has this strange tingling thing going down. Every time I remember its existence I’m catapulted back to the day I acquired it when I was a young girl living in a very different society. I lived on the edge of a rough neighbourhood that grew up when the local council built hundreds of homes in the 1930’s. They cleared the slums in the wet quarter of the city and dumped 2500 people in a soulless area that became infamous for vandalism.

There was no-one to play with in my road but one girl in my class at school lived inside this troubled circle, we were friends and as soon as I was allowed to spread my wings it was to her I flew. I never ventured to the park – that was far too dangerous; we’d hang around on street corners instead. In time the next phase of building began, this time private homes were built on the broad fields where I’d been taken for Sunday afternoon walks as a very little girl. A building site was very tempting to Linda and I – don’t ask why, I haven’t a clue what made a couple of eleven year old girls want to snoop around there. Maybe the risk of getting caught scrambling through breeze blocks and unframed doorways imagining the room they would become. It was always sunny back then, we all say that don’t we? When I was a kid summers were long, hot and dry. Well on that day it was and in the early evening we were looking for some trouble to raze when it came to us with a bang.

First came the shouts, ‘Oi blackie,’ ‘nigger,’ ‘gollywog,’ ‘we’re going to get you.’ Worst of all a ‘joke’ from some disgusting TV comedian of the day, ‘What’s black and lives in a hedge?’ I’ll leave the answer to your imagination or memory. Jokes like that were commonplace back then before the Race Relations Act was introduced and Alf Garnett argued that Jesus was English rather than acknowledging that he may have had some interesting skin tone.

I was a feisty little thing; I’d had to defend myself a few times so that night I turned to look at my tormentors, hands on hips. I even watched one of them pick up a stone a hundred yards away and take aim. I watched its arc through the air towards me, closer and closer, one of those moments when that air was pre storm silent. Ten feet, five, one, bang. Into my head, I spun with disbelief and shock.

‘Run’ Linda said and pulled me along. I tried to shake her off and somehow lost several minutes. I was vaguely aware of her returning with adult voices. I was taken, bleeding and dazed to hospital, an echoing, high ceilinged place with slamming doors where they shone bright lights to check my eyes and I could hear them say ‘Half an inch lower and she would have lost her eye.’

I enjoyed the attention at school the next day, showing off my stitches, but I didn’t play on building sites again.

Verbal racist abuse continued through my early and mid teens. I was never physically attacked again, but those years when skin heads ruled the town at night coincided with my night club age. I could never just relax and I still hate being around town after dark, I look out under my scarred eyebrow, over my shoulder.

 

 

Friday Flash Fiction: Mystery Lady on the Train

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Mystery Lady on the Train.

Are you the lady who was

Travelling from Exeter

To Torquay on Friday

28th October? We met

At Newton Abbot and

Travelled on the 11.30am

Train to Paignton. You

Left the train at Torre to

Visit a friend in Torbay

Hospital. Would be so

Good to hear from you.

Yes actually that is me. And I could hardly forget you, ever. I have never had an encounter where my heart felt so touched. No that doesn’t do it justice, because you touched my soul, and for a week this soul has drifted between heaven and hell. Heaven because I was privileged to spent those hours with you; I’ve never been so happily delayed. Hell because I’d lost you so quickly. I thought I would never again see the way you wrapped your hand around a cup or smiled a thank you. By now you should be at home in Cincinnati getting ready to spend Thanksgiving with your daughters. I’ve read about the extreme weather out there and tried to imagine you shovelling snow from your front porch. But you’re still here in Devon? And you’re hoping to hear from me? Badly enough to put that ad in the newspaper. I left you my paper that morning; you said you would try to finish my crossword. I’d laughed and said we spell things differently here; you’ll need to use a pencil.

Why aren’t you in Cincinnati? Were you searching for me? Strangers on a train. No it’s just too clichéd, impossible, why would you, no why ARE you searching for me. No-one else left the train at Torre, no-one but you leant out of the window until it disappeared.

I’ll call now.

But where will it lead? Surely there’s no point, no future. I can’t leave here and you can’t leave your girls and the US. No, that was it, a brief moment. I could have bedded you in an instant, but have only the sense like a sigh where your hand hovered over my shoulder. I wonder how long I can keep that moment in my mind. For now I feel I will never forget, but we all say that don’t we? Until life gets in the way. I’ll still remember at Christmas when I imagine choosing your gift. You told me you’re an Aries so I’ll check your horoscope along with mine. By summer I’ll think of you less often, and accept that you probably just wanted the name of the book I told you about, a quick lunch before you flew home and that I fooled myself into thinking that you reciprocated.

Besides what would people think? Silly woman you can’t get involved with strangers. There are some weirdoes about. You’re so naive. At least it’s not as bad as when you pick up hitch hikers. My friends would all have something to say. We have more to say don’t we? Where’s that number?

Zero . . . seven . . . nine . . . five . . . five . . .

Gonna Be a Big Man Some Day

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Ghana, short story, Three Word Challenge, WritingTagged , , , , , , , , 17 Comments

He climbed into the boat with eyes wide and fearful and then squinted towards where he knew his destination should be, far across the lake. Grateful to lower his pack from his head – it was so heavy that it felt as if it was pushing him into the earth – he tucked himself into the driest corner he could find and used it as a seat. A middle aged woman sized it up and silently daring him to complain she deposited her abundant bottom beside him. Once they both knew she had won, she took some bread from her bag and passed him some and even though he’d had some rice before he left the village, he would never say no to food.

The boat started filling but it was the first of the day and the ferrymen knew that once it was three quarters full, it was pointless waiting for more passengers. His mother had woken him early to have the best chance of getting to the other side ahead of the crowds. He had the garments she had made and was taking them to the market, on his own for the first time. The ‘All To Jesus’ engine fired up and they gently steered a path through a flotilla of similar boats, still moored, as they left Yeji. The ferryman looked skywards, said a prayer and sang along to the gospel music that was blaring from the beach. Others joined in, but the boy was too shy, so he pretended to check that his pack was secure. It was going to be a scorching day, and the boat boys raggy vests were stuck to their bodies already. They were bailing out the pool of water, which threatened to drown the crated chickens, with small metal pans. He was only a little older than them, but he thought himself too grown up to chat or play their childish games. He believed that he had an important job to do, the start of his new career as a market trader. They turned away, and made percussive sounds with their pans until the ferryman shouted they were out of tune.

The woman beside him delved into her bag again and brought out a stew pot wrapped in cloth. As she unwrapped it, a smell so pungent flew to his nostrils that he reached in to grab himself a Kenkey, she slapped him hard.

‘You have Cedi? Give me Cedi I give you Kenkey,’ she knew he had no money and planned to give him the leftovers, but first she sold nearly all to the other passengers who gathered round the pot and dipped into spicy pepper soup. The remainder she shared with him, ‘Because I know your mummy and your big mummy also.’ He thanked her and said he would help with her bags on the other side.

With everyone’s bellies sated the boat gradually fell quiet in the heat. He began to think of ways to shelter from the sun. He’d seen slit eyed tourists from across the world going around the big City with umbrellas over their heads. They didn’t want their skin to go dark, especially the women, who seemed frightened even to have the sun smile on them. Maybe mummy could stitch a cover for a boat like this he thought, and then the ferryman could charge more to keep his passengers cool. He decided he would price some white cloth and tell his mother his idea. He was so absorbed in how they would spend the riches his ferry umbrellas would bring, maybe he would go back to school, or just work hard to become a big man, that he didn’t notice the noise at first. And then everyone was shouting at once.

‘What is happening mummy?’ he asked the stew pot woman.

‘Shush boy, keep your head down and pray, they go rob us.’ He felt spice burn as his food rose in his throat, so it was true; pirates had left the ocean and were on the lake now.

Two men, heads wrapped like Bedouin, one wearing a traditional shirt, the other a T shirt emblazoned ‘Chelsea’, boarded the boat with machetes in their hands and ordered them to open their baggage.

‘You, give me your watch and get on your knees,’ the Chelsea pirate demanded of a westerner. The boy made himself as small as he could, watching and listening. He saw them drag a tiny child from its distraught mother. The one man, with scars on his arms and a bird skull strung around his neck, spoke tenderly to the baby, smiled as he pinched its cheeks, and then looked at everyone in turn, before throwing it towards his own boat. The mother screamed as if her heart had been torn from her body and it seemed like they all held breath until another man caught it in his arms. The boy looked for a way to help.

‘How much for the baby?’ ‘Who has money to keep it from drowning?’ Angry voices broke as people argued and pleaded with them to have pity on the mother. ‘This child may fall in the lake if no-one has money for me.’ Pockets were opened to find Cedi, goods were offered and all the time the pirate looked at the westerners.

‘Give me Cedi 500 and we will leave in peace,’ the voice coarse and demanding.

‘I don’t have that much, only . . .

‘Your wife, get her wallet and give me all you have. Hurry the child is getting heavy and will fall soon.’ The mother threw herself on the westerner who got to his feet and handed over the cash. A jerk of the head signified that his shoes were wanted too; they were swapped for the child and the boat roared off into the heat haze. ‘Quick, quick, we must go fast now’ the boy found a voice, ‘Of course we go fast, far away now and we go Water Police’ the ferryman replied, cranking the engine up. The boy watched intently as the distance opened between the two boats, ‘Look now, they have stopped’ he said, they squinted at the pirate boat that had indeed stopped and seemed to have trouble starting again.

‘Is this important?’ he asked holding up a length of hose and a chunky bolt.

‘Boy, how you get that?’

‘I pulled it when everyone was shouting and screaming.’

‘They go nowhere now less they paddle, is a long way to land, you go grow up like big man, give him palm wine. Hallelujah, praise His name.’

And the boy was blessed.

Learning to Swim

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 7 Comments

Julie Abbott had fallen in. The pool was packed with wet, white bodies like a bucket of angler’s maggots and she’d fallen, slithered on the bottom and choked on the piss-polluted water. Hands soon found her tummy and took advantage of her vulnerability to let fingers rove into the elastic of her yellow shirred cotton costume, tweaking it, fumbling and pulling it aside to invade her in the chlorinated wet. She struggled but was grabbed by a constrictor arm so firmly that the other was free to carry out its rotten work. Her head was thrust clear of the surface but her body was ground hard onto a solid seat of muscled thigh, her first inhalation was of cider tinged breath through teeth that seemed wonky to her stinging eyes. In the midst of the raucous din she heard her friend’s worried voice,

‘Jules, Jules are you okay?’

Julie was released abruptly, her pseudo rescuer vanished into the throng leaving her snorting a mix of pool water and mucous back out of her nose and with a confused sense that something strange had happened.

‘I’m getting out Carol’, she coughed, ‘I feel a bit sick cos I’ve swallowed some water and grazed my knees on the bottom, I’ll see you in a bit’.

That was Julie’s first attempt at swimming in the City baths and several pubertal years passed before she returned. As a fourteen year old she was a pupil at a girl’s grammar school who ordained that everyone should achieve at least a grey swimming certificate. She had a vague unease that she couldn’t quite account for, but it was strong enough for her to plead menstruation for three weeks in a row and get away with it. For those three weeks she had sat on the balcony to watch, but that day for the first time she was alone. She heard the groan of the stair door closing, thought it was another girl skiving off and didn’t even raise her head from her comic when someone sat beside her. When a male voice said,

‘Fancy a kiss?’ her skin prickled like nettles and she turned and looked into the eyes that had appeared in her sleep many times. In a flash she understood, she knew at last what had happened all those years ago, there was no doubt.

He grinned, exposing a furred tongue that flicked downwards towards the folds of his chin, Julie’s belly churned and her vision distorted with images of nearly drowning mixed with a real fear of the man beside her.

‘Go away I’ll tell’, she tried to shout but it came out as a croak that ebbed away under his hog laugh,

‘Ha ha ha, what? I saved you, you would have drowned! Bet you’ve never been kissed, come on you’ll like it, have a try’. He was right, most of her friends had boyfriends, and Mandy Davey had gone all the way. Her memory had been of someone old . . . but . . . he wasn’t really was he . . .?

‘How old are you now then, sixteen? Sweet sixteen and never been kissed? I’m twenty four’, he must have read her mind. ‘I’ll buy you some chips and a cola float at Wimpy after or come back to mine for a gin, my flat mate’s away it’ll be just us’. She decided that maybe he wasn’t so bad. As he reached out to grab her she noticed ginger curls on the side of his hands, she thought it strange that he had soft hands and not the rough arms of her nightmares. And then his mouth was on her, he swallowed her with a gob so wet she felt she was dissolving in his spit. She wriggled but had no strength compared to his toned swimmer’s biceps, she couldn’t breathe and his tongue was deep in her throat. With his hands tugging her blouse, she remembered the same feeling of breathlessness in her nights of fantasy with a pillow, a Jackie mag and her David Essex posters.

Something happened down there inside her, she was aware that she was making a noise but it was muffled with the splashing of normality and the lifeguard’s whistle. He pushed her, fingers probed where they’d never been and weren’t meant to go, it hurt. Panting she pushed back harder.

‘Stop, stop, hold on a minute I’ve got to meet my friend or she’ll come looking, I’ll come back.’

‘What come to my place? Good girl I’ll look after you, you’ll see, be as quick as you can.’