War & Ukraine by Chris Lloyd

War

A skein of geese flies silently, majestically

in the red glow of evening, their v shape

in unison, like a squadron of war planes

performing at an air show …

Below, the smouldering of jagged buildings

fills the air with acrid smells of twisted

metal, burning people, long dead,

 gaping mouths, sightless eyes.

Dogs hungrily investigate, choose from a menu.

Harsh wind skitters newspapers across the square,

give some semblance of privacy

to bodies as they are unknowingly covered.

A defeated, bedraggled soldier walks past unseeing

lost in his own thoughts, gripping a photograph,

town raped, razed to the ground

plundered, murdered left to rot.

The red sky in this particular frame is not made by

mother nature for it will still be there for days

as the ceaseless roar continues

to wreak its havoc, death and destruction.

Horrific scenes of war play out daily, globally

ghastly, unthinkable to any right-minded human.

The rest of us should remember how lucky we are.

Give thanks in your own way.

Ukraine

Sun rises, seeps light slowly,
undisturbed as she lights ruined
towns and villages of Ukraine
reminding us what life is now;
fragile, dangerous; more than ever.

That one man can make life so.
That one man can cause such hurt
is preposterous beyond thought
in the 21^st century.
But this war? It was planned.
The west knew it would happen
but decades of complacency
left allies with no defence.

Imagine hiding underground
for thirty days in the same clothes,
little food and sanitation.
Coming up and seeing the chaos;
bits of your house scattered
in every direction,
bodies in bomb craters in pieces,
knowing that you will never go back.

Now compare with life in England;
party-gate, porn watchers, Rwanda,
visas, farting cows, by elections
people gluing themselves to roads
company directors never richer
celeb’s celeb’ celeb’s
footballer’s wives
social media “influencers”
seventy thousand pound watches
genitalia paraded on TV.
What the hell have we become?
A sitting duck, that’s what.
We could never raise an army.
Think of Ukraine this festive time and if you pray, pray.

©Christopher Lloyd

Lion Tamer and Other Interesting Jobs by Dave Rigby

 

Jen is a lion tamer,

Or to be more accurate, she used to be.

Or to be even more accurate she was a lion whisperer.

No need for compulsion with Jen.

She’d talk them into doing the necessary,

Like roar, or jump onto a lion-stand (or whatever they’re called).

The circusgoers loved it and called out for more.

Jen did it for years, until one of the lions whispered back

And told her they weren’t right keen on this performing lark and how about getting back to their homeland?

She packed it all in the next day and went on safari with the lions,

Back to their homeland.

 

Reg is a scrap merchant,

Or to be more accurate, he’s now a materials recycler.

No greenwashing for him,

He does it all by the green book.

His yard is too big to be called a yard.

He calls it his operational zone.

Likes his words, does Reg.

Big heaps of ferrous metal

And one of them magnet things,

To attract the genuine article.

Lots of non-ferrous as well,

An equal opportunities recycler.

Mountains of tyres, radial and crossply.

He imagines himself back as a ten year old

With his mates,

Tyre-rolling races all day.

And, of course, there’s a fire.

There has to be a fire,

Not a big one, just enough of a blaze

For permitted items only,

To assist with the tidying up.

And round his neck on a gold chain

He wears his Recycler of the Year gold medal,

 

Pete is a DJ,

Or to be more accurate, he’s a turntable operator.

Over the years, he’s moved from vinyl, to CDs, to downloads …

And back to vinyl.

To create his personally-curated playlists (not that he’d ever use such a phrase)

He flicks through boxes of albums

And boxes of singles

To find exactly the right track

To maintain the flow

Or build to a peak.

Or up the BPM

Just to showcase the wildest floor moves.

If punters ask him when he’s going to retire,

He looks at them and says loudly,

Why would I want to do anything other than this?

 

Debs runs a bookshop,

There are shelves everywhere,

And each time you visit, you find a new one.

It’s warm, you can sit down and even have a drink,

Whilst you browse and make a decision about

Exactly which of the many books on your list

You’re actually going to buy.

And at five, on the first Tuesday of each month

The poetry group sits round the table.

Debs, Pete, Reg and Jen (back from lionland)

Take it in turns to read their latest verses.

Then it’s discussion time where they hum and haw

Over the exact meaning of certain words,

Occasionally coming out with poetry-type phrases, such as metrical feet

(Which must be difficult to walk on)

And stressed syllables,

(Which must find it hard to relax.)

But mainly, the four people with interesting jobs

Are just happy to be spending time

Playing with words.

A Journey Through the Seasons by Susie Field

My beautiful beech tree, above us it towers,

A constant shelter from those April showers.

Tall, majestic, standing proud,

A leafy protection beneath its shroud.

Offering shade on a hot summer day,

For family picnics and children at play.

Warm sunny evenings drift into night,

Calm and still beneath the moonlight.

 

Memories of Autumn I no longer treasure,

Gathering leaves is a toil of a pleasure.

Fluttering and falling without a sound,

A vibrant carpet soon covers the ground.

Crisp and crackling beneath our tree,

Its branches stripped bare for all to see.

Gnarled and twisted – reaching high,

Towards a bleak and wintry sky.

 

A robin hops by, alone and bold,

A solitary snowman stands frozen and cold.

Fingers of frost stretch and crawl,

Dancing snowflakes, how quickly they fall,

Covering the earth now virgin white,

Storm clouds gather as day turns to night.

There’s no shelter now from the wind and rain,

As the journey begins all over again.

A Single Sparkler & A Late Bonfire by Owen Townend

A Single Sparkler

Expecting fireworks?

They're stuck in a bucket.

 

Awaiting sunshine?

There's drizzle expected.

 

Hoping for magic?

Then don't look too closely.

 

The light show of my love

is a single sparkler

but watch it's trails

as it's getting darker.

It's worth the wait.

A Late Bonfire

He starts his bonfire after the night

in the confines of his empty drive.

He lays out logs and sets them alight

and dark smoke climbs well before five.

 

He throws broken bricks onto this pyre,

then twisted scrap metal and acrid acrylic.

Old building material burns in his fire

and chokes out the neighbours soon after six.

 

The last thing he chucks onto this blaze

is a letter marked ‘official – cease and desist’.

It flickers and blackens in illicit malaise

but soon becomes ash and easily dismissed.

Heep by Judy Mitchell

 

It was many years since I had visited the ancient Pilgrim City. I was in the shadows of the great Cathedral where merchants and street vendors competed for attention with their cacophony of ringing voices and shrill cries.

Shoppers nudged together to reach for vegetables and fruit set out on hawkers’ barrows.  Further on, under the painted sign of a black cow, a butcher stood with his cleaver aloft, a blood-spattered apron tied around his large belly. Next door, a sign above the fishmonger’s, showed a vivid, aquamarine sea and its harvest of orange crabs, silver-scaled fish and oysters: a picture far removed from my memories of the drab, grey, shifting sands and sea of the Kent coastline.

My eyes fell from the sign to the queue at the fish counter and that was when I saw him. A long, thin man, his knees slightly bent as if in the act of supplication. As I stared at him, I saw him stretch out a lank hand with thin, pale fingers that closed around the parcel of wet fish he had purchased. A movement of slow, sinewy, writhing propelled him out of the shop towards where I stood. I could not help but stare at him, for the moment transfixed, not believing my own eyes.

The shape, the undulating movements, they were the same. He drew nearer and I saw the red-tinged, sharp features and eyes devoid of lashes and brows, hooded by heavy lids. Time was out of kilter but this was surely him? I paused and then advanced to confront the man who had been the sexton all those years ago.

‘Is it Mr Heep?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ was the reply, accompanied by a wringing, serpentine motion and a stare from those cold, wicked eyes.

‘You were at St Barnabas, I believe?’

‘You mistake me, sir. It was my father who was at St Barnabas for many years.’

His expression changed to one of fawning pity at my mistake and he began to lift his hat to signal our encounter was at an end. But I was determined to find out about the father. I had done nothing at the time to pursue what I thought I had seen and was not going to fail again.

‘So, you are Uriah Heep’s son? I am Reverend Smythson and was Curate at St Barnabas some years ago.’

‘Oh sir, forgive me. I would not have known you. Yes, my father was at St Barnabas but he died more than fifteen years ago. I am Uriah, his son.’

He held out a pale, white wrist and I felt his cold fingers touch mine like the brush of a slimy sea creature. I felt the need to wipe my fingers to rub off the feeling left by his clammy touch.

‘Do you live hereabouts?’ I asked.

‘Mother and I have been here some years now. We live very ‘umbly. I am now a partner in a legal firm here. You may know it. Wickstead and Heep. Mother and I have moved into the house with the founder and his daughter. There has been a change in my fortunes of which my father would have been so proud, I’m sure.’

There was something about the man that was distasteful. An evil, lying tone in the way he spoke and grovelled in front of me. I wondered if he had been aware of his father’s sideline.

‘I am sorry to hear of your father,’ I lied. ‘Did he finish his days at St Barnabas?’

‘No, sir, we moved nearer to London and he found a job in the same line of work but nearer to the capital. And you sir, if I may ask, are you in these parts?’

I thought he had conveniently changed the subject to move me away from questions about his father. He inclined his head to the side as part of a sliding movement of his shoulders and his upper body. I tried to think how I might seek out information on what the father had been involved in during his final years.

‘Did he carry on the same profession?’

‘Yes, to the end, sir. True to his calling as ever.’

The young Uriah added the comment with a smug look on his cadaverous face. I guessed he knew of his father’s despicable trade but would not add to what he had already said beyond remarking that he and his mother knew their station and were thankful in it. I wondered how he had managed to progress in the field of law from such an upbringing and that thought made me shudder involuntarily.

‘I take the coach at noon. I must take my leave. Goodbye.’

I lifted my hat quickly and moved away as he was saying that he would tell his mother he had renewed my acquaintance and that I had asked after her.

I hadn’t asked after her at all but it served him to remind me of my omission and thereby imply my manners were lacking. I hurried away hoping that our paths would not cross again before the departure of the stage in two hours.

With each step I took to distance myself from that man’s son, I became angry and ashamed at failing to pursue my suspicions. I was tormented by the vivid image that still crept into my thoughts despite the passage of time. A man with hunched shoulders standing by the lychgate on that moonless, dark night. I had been certain it was Heep and I had seen him point two dark figures in the direction of a recently dug grave. Two strangers carrying shovels and a mattock, slipped silently into the graveyard, and then were lost in the dark, cold earth. I felt the shame of not going to challenge the three men and of not telling anyone what I had seen and my suspicions about the sexton. I had been young, at the start of my work. The Cathedral offered me sanctuary and I turned and slipped through its mighty doors to pray for forgiveness.

The Brits & Silence by Chris Lloyd

 

The Brits..

…. are coming, and they’ll talk a lot of tosh
they’ll talk of visions and plans but they ain’t got any dosh

the only way that they could think to help us
is by sending a worn-out double decker bus

they can’t afford to send smart bombs or many fancy tanks
so for those particular items you need to ask the Yanks

plus you’ll need to call ‘em between eleven and noon
as they’ll be in “meetings” every afternoon

they’ll try to cosy up with real world leaders
but they’re seen as a country of pleaders

and they firmly believe in getting paid lots of cash
by talking very posh and selling oil and gas

and as any struggling person knows
they seem to enjoy cutting energy, especially when it snows

we are all members of that former exalted clan
but we are tired, pissed off and in need of a viable plan

no more corrupt cops or MP’s abusing rules and watching porn
they should fully expect to be jailed and made to face our scorn

but no, they smile smugly in their high-rise ivory towers
waiting for Government to grant them ever more powers

So, as always… IT’S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY
(but not for the many)
now ain’t that effin’ funny

©Christopher Lloyd

Silence

The Smell of Silence

creeps over re-written history,
its invisible, sour aroma
catching breaths, cloying unbidden
to desperate, worn-out survivors who search
because….
they have to know.

it colludes, clings to hair, clothes, skin.
no matter how they try to
rid themselves of it,
they will remember
until each of them
ceases to exist.

The Song of Silence

rattles and screeches as I bang air drums,
torture air guitars, mash air saxophones  
to thunderous applause of thirty thousand
at the isle of wight.

it plays out every night,
every hour, every sleeping minute
and I never perform a bad set.

without warning
an angel appears sitting,
tapping her feet.
she signs me that it was my last gig.

The Silence of Silence

came plundering, wrecking
the last remnant of hearing,
my last journey in sound.

it swooped in, left in seconds,
locked its door.

The Realisation of Silence

“What did you say?”
“What……”
“Oh f***.”

©Christopher Lloyd

Operatic Antics by Vivien Teasdale

I had this girlfriend once, called Sally; she wanted to go to the theatre. It was to see a sort of Romeo and Juliette thing but with a happy ending, she said. La Nonnay Sanglantay, it was called. Translates apparently as Bloody Nun, and it was – bloody nunsense.

There’s these star crossed lovers, Rudolpho (not Romeo) and Agnes. The families are at loggerheads, so to keep the peace, she’s being forced to marry Rudolpho’s older brother. She runs away by disguising herself as the ghost of the nun that’s supposed to haunt the castle. Rudi trots along to the rendezvous they’d arranged earlier, sees the ghost, thinks it’s Agnes, and marries it, witnessed, as he would be, by all his ancestors - who are also ghosts.

Then he finds out it’s not Agnes. You’d have thought he’d have checked what was under the veil, wouldn’t you? Anyway, the ghost won’t let him go unless he kills the man who murdered her – I hope you’re following this, ‘cos I couldn’t until Sally explained it at the interval.

Rudi agrees to kill the bloke. It turns out, as you might expect, that the murderer is his own father. So it’s a choice between patricide or bigamy. Assuming, of course, you can actually be charged with bigamy for marrying a ghost?

Naturally, when dad hears the sad tale, he does the noble thing and runs away so he gets killed by the guards and dies in Rudi’s arms. Conveniently, the elder brother (remember him?) well, he’s now dead too, the ghost renounces Rudolpho, and it all ends happily, as long as Rudi doesn’t mind the fact that most of his family’s been murdered.

And talking of murder, she was – Sally, I mean. Dragged me off to see another opera. I only went because she said it had a football song in it. Apparently the prince was so in love with this princess called Turandot, that he wouldn’t tell her his name.

For all sorts of weird reasons that I’m not sure of, Turandot tortured his servant girl until the lass committed suicide, had his dad beaten up, threatened to cut off the prince’s head yet and the berk still wanted to marry her! It was all in some foreign language; I couldn’t understand a word of it.

Then I saw another one. That time I was conned into it because she said it was in English. It was in English, but I still had no idea what was going on.

The title said it was something to do with destiny. They just kept repeating the same thing, over and over. Five times they sang one line. They kept telling each other to jump out of the window. “They’re coming to get you,” they were singing and I thought, ‘Well get on with it. Jump out of the blessed window.’

I didn’t understand it at all and English is my first and only language. I’ve never been to the theatre since and have no intention of going. Ever. I’d rather take a load of kids to see Bambi. At least you know what’s going on.

Of course, I never saw anything of Sally after that. Last I heard, she’d run off with the second trombone.

La Nonne Sanglante – Gounod

Turandot – Puccini

La Forza del Destino - Verdi

Fragrant September by Anna Kingston

 

Cinnamon and ginger in your favourite coffee shop,

Crisply ironed shirts and the smell of polished shoes,

Fragrant fallen leaves upon the gently warming soil,

And frost assaults your nose in riotous shades of blue.

 

Richly scented candles and firelighters in the stove,

Soups and stews and comfort foods simmering on the hob,

The smell of car exhausts that lingers in the air,

The odour of new notebooks you’ve bought for your new job.

 

The smell of the lawn’s last haircut before it goes to sleep,

The final hurrah of flowers, including the wild roses.

Polish on kitchen table, and oil on oak worktops

Filling the hungry wood and filling up our noses.

 

Fragrant cocoa replaces tea as my supper drink of choice,

Hot water bottle smells upstairs before we go to bed.

Smelly umbrellas and wellies herald wetter days this month,

And the spicy tang of Vapour Rub to clear my stuffy head.

 

Fragrant sun-warmed fruit brings thoughts of apples crumble,

Whilst fresh cut wood sparks early thoughts of warmth on Bonfire Night.

The perfumes of September are like no other month

Gently taking your senses through autumn’s hazy light.

 

Anna M. Kingston ©  September 2023

Missing by Judy Mitchell

 

(Memorial to Commonwealth servicemen killed during the Battles of the Aisne and Marne in 1918 who have no known grave. Soissons, France).

She would have known. She was his mother. She would have felt his pain. Her mind held on to an image she had conjured of him. Dazed, lost, left by someone in a cottage or a farmhouse away from the guns. Foreign voices whispering questions he didn’t understand, unable to remember his name or where he was.

Armed with the weapon of denial, she fought off despair and the lure of mourning. Weeks later, she saw him.

Standing at the sink, she looked towards the gently rising Pennine hills and fields crossed by snaking stonewalls. He was there, at the bottom of the garden by the wall, his back towards her. When the sunlight caught the tips of his ears, she cried out and lifted her hand to knock at the window but the sun faltered and his image dissolved, extinguished by the late summer light.

She turned to see if he had come into the kitchen. Wiping her hands, she moved to the cellar head and shouted his name into the musky darkness. Silence rose to taunt her. Then she heard him.

‘Ma, is the kettle on?’

There was that teasing love in his voice and she imagined the smile playing around his lips. Maybe he had gone upstairs.

For a moment she paused on the landing, listening for any movement. The door to his room opened slowly. The air was flushed with the smell of his soap and she watched as he bent his long, straight legs to look into the mirror to comb his hair. A low ray of light crept across the bedroom window but when it found no shadows to play with, it slipped past, out of the room, leaving her alone.

The stillness grew thin and cold as she opened the wardrobe door as if to give herself an excuse for being in his space. Two empty coat hangers rattled against the wood as she closed the doors on the neat shirts and trousers.

Later, she persuaded her husband to place an advert in the newspapers. Number, name, platoon, regiment.

…missing in France since 27 May last. He is known to have been wounded and taken prisoner. Any news concerning him would be gratefully received by his parents….      

There were no replies.

Not Such a Bargain by Susie Field

 

A cold east wind, whistles and blows.

It’s a wild and stormy night.

I’m just about to fall asleep,

when on comes the security light.

 

I’m not sure it was such a bargain -

even though it was less than half price.

It seems to shine at any old time,

not so good for a brand-new device.

 

I climb out of bed. It’s freezing cold,

and I peer through my windowpane.

My eyes adjust to the darkness outside,

‘cos the light’s gone off again.

 

A lonesome fox swaggers by,

eyes bright as it stares ahead.

The security light should be on –

but it isn’t, so I’ll go back to bed.

 

I twist and turn beneath the duvet,

trapped in an endless dream.

Then the light shines brightly yet again,

and I’m caught in its eerie beam.

 

I don’t look out, though I sense someone close,

voices are calling my name.

Shadows are spreading across my room.

Fingers scraping my windowpane.

 

I’m shocked and scared as I try to hide,

my bedroom’s in darkness once more,

Why doesn’t the light begin to shine?

‘Cos there’s knocking on my door.

 

I can hear heavy footsteps on the stairs.

It’s really too much to bear.

My bedroom door swings open wide,

but there isn’t anyone there.

 

I’m now on the landing looking out.

I sense movement far below.

A shadow crosses my garden path –

and the light begins to glow.

 

 

It’s not as bright as it ought to be,

but at least it seems to be working.

Then all of a sudden, off it goes,

yet there’s definitely something lurking.

 

I creep downstairs and open the door,

shouting, “Is anyone there?”

As if they are going to answer me,

and now I no longer care.

 

I’m just about to go back inside,

when I hear a sudden sound.

Then I’m grabbed quite roughly from behind,

and fall on the hard cold ground.

 

I shout and scream. I must escape,

and I put up a desperate fight.

But this is no ordinary human form,

it’s a creature of the night.

 

I’m now flying high, there’s no escape,

as I’m held in his tight embrace.

Joining the other poor lost souls,

all dreading the danger we face.

 

Is this where it all comes to an end?

Trapped in the twilight zone.

I dread the future that lies ahead,

as I’m forced into the unknown.

 

I shouldn’t have bought the security light,

‘cos now I’m paying the price.

I’d have probably had an undisturbed sleep,

if I’d not bought that stupid device.

Bootees by Vivien Teasdale

 

“For Sale: baby bootees, never worn”

Attributed to Ernest Hemingway, this ‘short story’ in six words always brings a sigh of sadness as we think of the poor parents who have lost a baby.

But is this actually what it’s all about? Since the story is so vague, there are lots of other interpretations.

Imagine two sets of grandparents, each determined to outdo the other. Each buy baby bootees. One chooses blue, the other chooses pink. Baby finally arrives and is … well, you can see what might happen.

‘No, Douglas, we must be first with the bootees.’

‘But why pink ones, Mary? What if it’s –’

‘Our Sally is craving sweet things all the time and she’s carrying high. It will be a girl.’

‘Tom’s mother thinks –’

‘She has no idea what she’s talking about. She only has one child. I have had three! We will have a grandaughter, there’s no doubt about that.’

And so the bootees have to go, before Sally, Tom – and worst of all, his parents – find out the colour Mary has bought for little Ajax.

But what if both blue and pink bootees are presented, which will be useful since Sally is having twins, one boy, one girl?

‘I’m so glad we agreed, Mary, to buy different colours. So important to have that first set of bootees just right. Now they’ll be able to have them preserved forever.’

‘Oh, I quite agree, Denise. Traditions are essential in families, aren’t they?’

‘Well, it’s very nice of you, mums and dads.’ Tom stated firmly. ‘You’re very welcome to preserve them in aspic if you like.’

‘You might have noticed,’ Sally joined in, ‘that the nursery has been decorated in Jasmine White and Avocado Whip. We intend to bring up our children as gender neutral, so can only accept gifts in green, yellow, purple and so on. Not blue or pink.’

Of course, it’s a long time since grandparents had babies. They forget how quickly a tiny baby becomes a big baby and outgrows whatever was bought last week. Bootees bought to keep tiny tootsies warm in winter can easily be outgrown before the summer baby has reached September.

And there are other frictions:

‘Oh, mum, not those awful things. I thought I’d said –’

‘Sally, I’ve told you before, you must keep baby warm at all times. How is little Ajax to thrive if Mummy doesn’t wrap him up well?’

‘Nowadays—’

‘Oh, nowadays you young ones think you know it all. Just remember that I’ve brought up three babies! You were all healthy and –

‘Well, we all had measles, and Jack was forever getting colds and passing them on to the rest of us. And what about--’

‘That’s not the point. Those were just childish ailments. Everyone had them.’

‘Mum, the midwife and the doctor both said Ajax doesn’t need shoes of any sort until he starts walking. Socks will do just as well to keep him warm.’

‘Socks? They’ll get filthy.’

‘They are washable. And I can use whichever matches the colour of the babygrow I choose to put on him. And when he has to be changed. Much more practical, Mum. You can see for yourself. The babygrows are in that drawer, socks in the one below. I’ll put the kettle on while you sort out his nappy.’

Could the baby (or parents) have an allergy to the material the bootees are made of? Perhaps the parents have decided to go vegan and object to wool-based items, especially if the wool is mohair from the angora goat. Even worse if the fabric is angora wool, which is ripped from a rabbit’s back.

You can have fun imagining that there are secret messages within the phrase. Count up the number of each vowel and you might be meeting someone at 5 pm on the 2^nd of April. If you get it wrong, you’ll be standing there on the 4^th of February wondering where everyone has got to.

Try anagrams. It could be a rejection of a hopeful lover, because ‘Abbye Berton never woos.’. A secret rendezvous may have been discovered as ‘we observe Abbye Norton.’.

But not everyone thinks the same way. Picture the scene:

‘Hello, Aunty Jemima, how lovely to see you after all this time. Come in.’

‘Tom, how you’ve grown. And a father, now. How is the little one?

Tom laughs. ‘Ah, the secret’s out is it? She’s doing fine, quite a little roly-poly. Takes after her mum, I say.’

They both chuckle as Tom leads the way from the front door, through the house and out into the garden. Sally looks up and smiles. ‘Dear Aunty, have you come to see the baby? Here she is.’

She gathers up the bundle of a small tartan blanket and squirming legs. She holds it out towards the old lady. ‘She does wriggle a bit. That’s why we decided to call her Ziggy.’

Aunty Jemima’s face falls as she clutches the twisting torso of a tiny terrier. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous,’ she says, mentally consigning the blue bootees to the charity shop.

Lost - Part 2 by Dave Rigby

 

(Part 1 was on the Blog on the 10^th April)  

I wait a while and press the apartment bell again. The street is very quiet, apart from a man walking slowly along the opposite pavement, singing a Richard Anthony song, loudly and badly.

How come I can remember the song, but not my own name?

The door opens. A tall, slim woman stands there, long hair, long dress, long fingernails. A small tattoo on a bare forearm. It must be Simone, but the memory is hazy. She reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. Not on the lips. What does that mean?

    “You don’t look good Liam! Where have you been?”

Liam! That’s good to know. She makes no move to invite me inside. No lip-kissing, no invitation. There’s a message here.

    “I got lost and ended up sleeping at the bus station,” I lie. “I have your key and wanted to bring it back … and to see you, naturally.” I’m struggling to talk in sentences. “Could I perhaps come in?”

    “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m expecting The Brewer.”

    “Who?”

    “The man you upset yesterday.”

I have no idea who this man is, or how I upset him.

    “Is it money that you need?” Simone asks.

I have money, quite a lot. The money brought with it a problem. But I can’t remember what that is.

    “No thanks. I just want to talk.”

A ringtone. Simone reaches into a pocket and pulls out her phone. She says, hello, listens and looks worried. I stand there waiting.

A sudden memory.

I’m with Simone and a man with a big beard, in a café. He’s wagging his finger at me. There’s something I need to do, but my brain’s too fuzzy to work out what it is. The man stands up, pushes his chair back and strides round the table towards me. I rush out of the café and run to the river. The man follows me. I manage to hide. A small gap in the stone wall on the quayside. I stare at the Seine for ages and watch a passing pleasure boat, lights twinkling, passengers drinking, talking, laughing. I try to wish myself onto the boat.

Coast clear, I emerge from my hiding place and walk upstream. Two men are suddenly very close, either side of me. Neither is the man from the café, but they are not nice. ‘Wallet and phone,’ they demand. I hand them over. They don’t frisk me. They don’t find the envelope with the money.

I walk away from the river, very tired. Too tired to care about anything. On a quiet side street, there’s a patch of grass. I lie down to sleep.

Simone is shaking my shoulder.

    “Liam, you are not listening! You must go. That was The Brewer. He’s on his way. If he catches you here, it won’t end well.”

    “Who is this man!” I say, far too loudly. She retreats a few steps.

    “I want you to go Liam.” She closes the door.

I haven’t even given her the key. It goes through the letter box. I begin to walk back to the river. In the distance there’s a short stocky man walking towards me. A man with a large beer gut and a big beard. Shit! The Brewer.

The story comes back to me.

The money in the envelope was his. But he owed me. That’s why I took it. However, he’s unlikely to it see that way … or give me any time to explain. And despite the gut, he can move worryingly quickly.

Just as I’m beginning to panic, a car pulls up beside me, driver’s window down.

    “Do you want a lift? No charge.”

It takes me a few seconds to take in the taxi sign and to recognise Marcel. A few seconds during which The Brewer gets near enough to realise it’s me. He breaks into a run. A bit like a rhino. Fast and heavy. I jump into the back seat of the taxi.

    “Move!” I shout. Marcel grins in the mirror and the taxi shoots off down the street.

    “That man makes a bad enemy,” he says. “How about we head off somewhere nice and quiet?”

    “That sounds just right,” I say. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

    “So, you’ve remembered! That’s a good step forward. And what about the young lady? What did she say?”

I explain.

    “Not so good then. Are you staying in the city or moving on?” Marcel asks. “If you want to stay, I can get you work. You remind me of me when I first arrived here.”

I think about this and wonder if I’ll remember anything else that happened before today. Or failing that, anything that might explain why I can’t remember. It’s hard work thinking like this.

    “My passport was stolen last night. Would you be able to get me a carte de sejour?” That would at least allow me to stay in the country. Give me time to try and retrieve my past.

    “As long as you have money, I can get you most things,” Marcel says as we cross the Pont de Sully in the morning sun.

He pushes a cassette into the old deck. This time Richard Anthony sounds perfect.