Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Another one is calling you, calling upon you. You describe it as an urge. It creeps underneath your skin. It gestates there. You can see it in your mind’s eye. You imagine holding it, placing it in your room, at the end of your bed, on a shelf. You think about the right way to make it real, what size it is, what colours to use. You can hardly wait to meet it.    Then one day, you find the right stuff; vintage burlap with a fine weave, a fat quarter of ivory wedding dress silk or a square of peach coloured velvet. Sometimes they demand a deviant touch. Thighs or biceps in Victorian flowered cotton or striped mattress ticking, a secret feature for you to enjoy. You collect the ingredients, scour shops and tins for the buttons, a crocheted doily, a strip of ribbon.    You draw the features in lightly, choosing the best angle for the eyes, the tilt of a brow and a rosebud mouth. But none of your cutesey faces. This is a proper character who fills your head. You catch an expression in

Thousands of miles above, the satellite registered a smooth stretch of land, like a scar. The previous day’s image showed a close tapestry of streets and buildings, each tiny square representing a building, a home. Now, through the dust, it was flat and featureless as a desert.   Hundreds of miles away, seismic monitors recorded a huge spike, followed by a series of peaks like a mountain range.   Computers processed data on the tectonic shifts which had caused this once-in-a-generation geological event. In distant towns, pictures fell off walls. Cups rattled in cupboards. Car alarms burst into a pointless, tuneless dawn chorus and sleepy people stumbled out of bed to find their keys. On the morning news, over coffee and cornflakes, we watched grey figures poke amongst the flattened remains of their homes. Women with silent toddlers on their hips dragged out anything which might be useable – a dented pan, a grimy blanket, a single shoe.   In the televisi

More crashing sounds from upstairs.     “Quick, let me undo that rope.”     Despite his head wound, KT worked as quickly as he could to free Jack’s hands.     “Now, can you use a gun?”     “I’ve never handled any kind of firearm.”     “Then take the knife. We’ll have more of a chance if we’re both armed.” Jack didn’t like to say that she’d never used a knife outside of a kitchen. It felt weird holding it. She returned to her sitting position in the corner, put her hands behind her back and clutched the weapon.     Sudden silence upstairs. She feared for the fate of the woman.     A light flashed on in the cellar. Out-of-control footsteps hammered down stone steps. Rikard fell through the doorway onto the flagged floor , a wild scream of pain as his shoulder took the brunt of the fall and he crashed against a box of beer glasses. But he was up in a flash, pulling a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket.     “You’ll sign this page,” he growled, thrusting a pen towards

Rikard's hands were trembling and a bead of sweat fell on her face as he tried to tie Jack’s hands. He really was hopeless. As a Ranger Guide, she could tie better knots than this. The voice coming from upstairs was raspy and whiney, and the footsteps accompanying the voice were now at the top of the stairs, and the door handle shook. It was, after all, Saturday night and it seemed that the entrance door wasn't secured or someone with a key had let themselves in. Jack started to feel hopeful that this ordeal might soon be over.    “Rikard! Rikard! I have been waiting for ages, I am so tired of your shit,” she whined.    Rikard’s eyes widened, and he pushed Jack over as he fumbled towards the stairs. He used his index finger on his lips as a warning to be quiet, followed by using same finger to draw a swift line across his neck. She gulped.      “I am not coming into that dungeon for your kinky games tonight either, so just come on up. Now!” She tried to sound assertive.

“A twin brother?!” Jack said, in shock.     “Yes. He’s quite different to you, I’m afraid,” Martuska said. “KT was keen on us becoming a family at first, but he was such a difficult child and I was still working as an agent. We were both so busy working long hours that we didn’t give him much of a life at all. He grew up on the streets, more or less, and became completely uncontrollable. He still sees me occasionally. After all he is my son and your brother.” Martuska handed Jack a note.    ‘Meet me at Café Noir in Lukas Street at 6pm tonight. Come alone – Rikard.’    “Is that all?” Jack asked, disappointed at this short missive.    “Yes. After all, you are a stranger to him, I suppose.”    Darkness had fallen and the streets of Budapest looked pretty, all lit up at night. There was a slight chill and Jack   drew her coat around her. She walked past the safe tourist area till she came to Lukas Street which was decidedly more down at heel. Rubbish littered the small street and