Secrets of the Emerald Circle by Anna Kingston

 

Behind the fans, the makeup and the courteous demeanour, envious sisters plot eternal revenge.

The stage that gives the Emerald Circle Theatre its name reverberates with the sounds of actors taking their spots behind the curtain.  Musicians shuffle and cough in the orchestra pit, chocolate wrappers rustles audible only to keen ears. Theirs are shadowy figures for now, their moment in the spotlight yet to be revealed.

The Misses Forrest-Manne, poured into blood-red silk dresses slashed from calf to thigh, stride through the aisles towards their seats. Front row seats to catch every second of the performance. As great-granddaughters of the first theatre owner they occupy a special place in the theatre’s history as writers of the new play, but owners of the theatre no longer.

The sisters’ entrance raises eyebrows: they are never seen in colours other than the trademark emerald green of the theatre.  Each woman wears identical ruby earrings, blood-red stones dripping down their necks. As required by contract, they openly display the impeccably designed chocolate as they take their seats, fixed smiles hiding the hatred and poison within. They slowly peel their chocolate open, snapping off a creamy square to reveal the green innards, softened by the heat of the theatre; it resembles nothing so much as mould found in a lab petri dish.

Total contrast with the women: beautiful, impeccably dressed, a visual and sensual delight for the senses, yet hidden behind their emerald eyes is a fury unparalleled, a cold green rage waiting for a perfect moment of revenge, a poison borne of betrayal.  As they share a glance, the audience quietens at the sudden appearance of the figure in front of the closed curtain.

He speaks of ‘collaboration between the finest theatre and the finest shop in the city’, a ‘new era in the arts’, and jokes that F&M no longer refers only to the founding family of the theatre, but also to the indulgent chocolate now selling in the foyer. He hopes the audience enjoys their complementary bar, free for tonight only as his special gift.  The audience loves him, but the sisters’ teeth grind behind their fixed smiles.

He believes himself innocent of crime - he is a great business man, a consummate deal-broker - but his delusions mask his cruelty.  The lies and blackmail, his theatrical temper tantrums (oh, the irony of it now he’s on a stage!), poison poured into the ears of the banks, all legitimate weapons in the modern businessman’s arsenal.

He encourages the audience to join him in tasting the new chocolate.  The theatre’s shareholders are amongst the first eager poison-tasters up in their boxes, the man on the stage leading by example, and the rest of the audience right up to the gods follows in their gluttony.

It only takes seven minutes, as per careful calculation; the first deaths occur precisely as the curtain opens. The Misses Forest-Manne drink their champagne, using it as a chaser for the antidote swallowed with their chocolate, and observe the play with critical eyes.

Puzzles the Will by Owen Townend

I adored Chrissy Banks but not as much as pattern-forming puzzles. Many an evening during my first year at uni, I kept my mind active with a cheeky game of Glow Down. It was essentially a social media clone of Bejeweled or Candy Crush, but I was addicted.

            In fact the only thing that drew me out of my tiny blue room was the breathy laughter of Chrissy who lived across the hall. When I opened the door, she was always playing with her peacock feather earrings or tucking her skinny jeans into thigh-length boots.

            She would smile and say, “Hiya, Will. Heading out?”

            “Not tonight,” I replied most nights.

            And yet she never looked disappointed to hear this like the others. She merely winked at me and headed out herself.

            Of course, Chrissy had nights in too, and could often be found in the common room amid the usual moaning about overdrafts and the lack of booze. I showed my face if I was heading to the kitchen, mostly to check that Chrissy was among them.

            Otherwise I’d stick to my room, going over lecture notes till one in the morning. If I wasn’t too tired after that, I could just play another round or two of Glow Down.

            One night in November I did just that but it stopped me from sleeping altogether. Normally I was at the top of the local scoreboard, a few other housemates dabbling in Glow Down every now and then. Stu was a regular who never scored more than two hundred points per week. That day he was up to one thousand.

            I set about my game, making sure I got one thousand and five hundred points at least. Out came the cartoon sun with both flaming thumbs up, confirming my high score. I put my phone down and breathed a sigh of relief. All was right with the world.

            Except how did Stu manage to achieve such a high score? He was drunk most of the time. Of course, there were flukes in pattern-forming puzzles but rarely miracles.

            I picked up my phone again and checked Glow Down. My high score had been beaten. In the last minute, Stu had managed to gain two thousand and five hundred points. Not only this, he wasn’t at the top of the scoreboard.

            Rachel the physical therapy student had four thousand points. Steve the seldom-seen student union rep had four thousand, eight hundred and fifty points. However, above them all with nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine points was Chrissy.

            I leapt out of bed. If they were all playing Glow Down, it seemed highly unlikely they were out. I marched out to the common room.

            There they all were, crammed together on the taped-up brown sofa with their phones on the table. The screens flickered familiar colours in speedy sequences. No-one had their fingers anywhere near and yet they all seemed to be playing, according to my phone.

            All eyes turned towards me, including the eyes of an unshaven stranger who was snuggled up to Chrissy. She waved.

            “Hiya, Will,” she said. “Heading out?”

            I just held up my phone, showing that I had been playing Glow Down just like them.

            “Yeah,” the stranger said. “I’m just showing the guys how easy it is to break this pointless game.”

            Chrissy leant forward. “Will, this is my boyfriend Mark. He’s doing computer science.”

            Mark waved at me half-heartedly. I had even less energy to return the favour. Once again I just left them to it, and lay down in the dark.

            I haven’t seen Chrissy Banks in years. These days I only solve puzzles in newspapers.

My Contented Cat - A Haiku by Susie Field

 

My bundle of fur

Relaxed and softly purring

Warm and so content.

 

Logs burn and crackle

She savours every moment

Basking in the warmth.

 

Stretching lazily

Without a care in the world

A life to envy.

Come on Mother’s Washing Day by Vivien Teasdale

 

The past couple of years have changed so much in our world: the way we readily don masks in crowded places, keep our distance or use hand wipes and gel. Many work from home and families are often doing more activities together than before. People moan about not being able to do this or that, about price rises that mean no more Netflix or days out in the car. It made me think of how life used to be, particularly for women.

    Back in the days when marriage meant the immediate loss of a job and the expectation that a wife would stay at home to became the ‘homemaker’ or simply a housewife, they always had a plan. Not a plan to escape or paint the town red some day (though I expect many did just that) but a practical, no-nonsense Yorkshire woman’s plan for the week.

    Come rain or shine, Monday was washing day. Shine was no problem. Just get it done, outside and blowing in the wind; in the yard if possible, but often across the street, just as all the neighbours did. But rain meant every room, every potential hanging surface was called into play for all those little, unimportant things like the husband’s shirts.

    Everything else went on the creel, hoisted like Nelson’s colours above the fire to dry. What didn’t fit there had to be displayed on chair backs, turned to face the fire so visitors sat watching themselves in the mirror or staring at the three ducks flying forever across the wall. Kitchens and living rooms were damp and smelt of soap, washing blue and starch.

    Tuesday meant ironing. The well-brought-up ladies sprinkled water on the iron to check the temperature; lesser folk simply spat at the plate and watched the bubbles sizzle. Once electricity came along, irons could be plugged, very dangerously, into the light socket, the lead hanging down above the ironing board. Everything came off the creel to be tortured with the instrument and everything went back up to air until it was folded into the relevant drawers.

    Wednesday was cleaning, scattering water over the carpets to keep the dust down before sweeping up. Anything small enough had the dirt loosened by being shaken vigorously, larger items such as rugs would be hung over a rope outside and beaten with a wicker bat.

    Thursday meant baking, stretching whatever food was left in the house into meat and vegetable puddings or hedgerow pies (which got their name from the collection of herbs and vegetation out of the hedgerow to provide extra taste) for tea. For many, it was case of bread and jam or the delights of bread and dripping. Tripe or blocks of cold, cooked rice dipped in batter and fried might be their only sustenance on this dreadful day of the week.

    Friday was pay day! Sitting in the counting house to decide whether Peter or Paul should be paid this week and dividing up the coins into labelled tins, ready for the rentman to arrive or perhaps the man from the Pru to collect the meagre premiums that might produce a small bonus one day.

    The weekend was marginally easier. Shopping on Saturday for a good Sunday lunch. A joint, bought as late in the day as possible, because then the price would be reduced to clear the butcher’s stock. Of course, few houses had refrigerators in those days so couldn’t keep meat for long anyway. There was just a cold slab of marble or stone in the pantry to help the meat remain edible until needed. Then there were the eggs and milk for the inevitable Yorkshire pudding, eaten before, with or after the main meal according to taste, and, if you were lucky, a fruit sponge and custard for tea on Sunday.

    Not one day of rest for the ‘angel in the house’. And then it all started again, like a fairground roundabout. We have such a lot to be thankful for, these days.

Canalside - Part 1 by Dave Rigby

A wisp of smoke from the barge chimney, soon lost in the mist above. Frost-scarred windows. The boat’s name partly obscured by the rime.

On the roof, a bike that’s seen better days, a stack of roughly-chopped logs, two solar panels, dead plants in red pots, coils of rope.

The young man’s fleece is far too thin for the cold early morning. He shivers. But if you’d asked him, he’d have told you it wasn’t the temperature that was giving him the shakes. The sight had affected him much more than he could have imagined. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be a hard nut? And with his record, going to the police wasn’t an option.

Hands deep in pockets, he crosses the old stone bridge and walks briskly away from the waterway.

Every winter Harrison wonders why he stays on the barge. Even with the blackened stove roaring, it’s difficult to keep warm. But he knows perfectly well there are no other options. And the life has two great advantages. It’s cheap and … as long as speed is not a requirement … he can move on at a moment’s notice.

Out with the dog, he tries running to generate some warmth, but the dodgy knee plays up again. Even brisk walking is difficult. The dog is pleased, hates moving at anything faster than a slow amble punctuated by frequent favourite-aroma stops.

But today, one of the dog’s calling points is covered… by a body.

Harrison almost decides to walk on. If he makes the phone call, he’ll be tied up for ages – might even be under suspicion! He hesitates and rubs his arms vigorously. Staring distractedly towards the opposite bank, his gaze is met by a heron, statuesque in the shallow water. With lazy movements the bird takes off and flies languorously towards the next lock.

Watching its flight, Harrison comes to a decision and searches for his very un-smart phone. Combat trousers and jacket present him with far too many choices of pocket. He’s almost disappointed when he finds it. Three digits. He tells the police about the body. They ask him to wait where he is. In the cold.

Two hours later, they finally leave him to thaw out in the Lock 7 café, hands clamped to a large Americano, the bacon roll a fleeting pleasure, the best bits of rasher snaffled by the dog.

Belligerent. That’s the word. A half-hearted attempt to cast him as a suspect. The DC worse than the DS. Trying to earn his spurs perhaps. Word in the café is that the dead man was in his fifties, had been lying there overnight, no obvious cause of death, no ID. Although the body has now been removed, Harrison knows he won’t be walking that way again for a while.

He'd told the coppers that, apart from the dead man, he’d seen nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? When he’d peered through the half-frosted barge window at first light – there’d been that lad. He’d forgotten all about him. Should he tell the police? No! They would think he’d been trying to hide something. Best keep it under his hat. It’s not as if he’d be able to give them much of a description. Late teens, medium height, medium build, dark clothing, a hoodie. Only a few hundred of them around locally.

A visit to May’s corner shop. Must be ninety if she’s a day, hairnet, housecoat, slippers, permanent cough. Stocks a bit of everything, over and under the counter. He puts the newspaper, the loaf and the soup tins into his rucksack and the medicinal-use-only substance into a zipped pocket.

It seems to have warmed up a bit and back on the barge the stove is coping well with the heat challenge. A bowl of tomato soup, two slices of toast and marg and a flick through the local rag. A pot of tea to follow. He can’t stand the teabag-in-the-mug routine.

Harrison looks up from the quick crossword, pen rattling against his teeth. A movement beyond the window catches his eye. That lad is back! How does he know it’s him out of a few hundred? Well, there’s something distinctive about the way he walks, a lope and a swinging of the arms.

Moving rapidly, Harrison puts on his own hoodie, the old biker jacket over the top, cap pulled firmly down and sets off in pursuit along the canalside, the dog on a tight lead.

Concentrating hard and struggling to keep up, he doesn’t notice the man in the grey overcoat following in his footsteps.