Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I'd been driving all night on Highway 67. The sun was coming up and the heat haze was turning the horizon to water. Seeing a neon diner sign, I decided to stop. The parking lot was deserted save for a rusty old Buick and a green Mustang. I stepped out of the car into the searing desert heat then wiped the sweat off my neck. I entered the cool air-conditioned diner. My shirt stuck to my back and I shivered. The jukebox was blaring out the strident tones of some goddam awful doowop song. The fake cheerfulness of the song contrasted deeply with the eeriness of the deserted diner. I ignored the sign that said ‘Wait to be seated,’ at the front and sat down in a booth. I figured that it being this deserted, there would be no need for such decorum, but I was wrong. "Hey Mister," a bored bubble-gum chewing waitress came over to berate me. I looked up at her. "Can't you read?" she said, arms crossed with a severe expression on her cheerleader perfect face. Blon...

It was sundown outside The Golden Horseshoe. Everything was eerily silent. There was no sign of anyone. The town was empty, shut like a ghost town. Tumbleweed blew down Main Street. The wind rattled the shutters. I told Bonnie to stay back. I stepped into the street armed and ready. Where was everyone? There was no sign of a body, living or dead, anywhere.  “Hello?” I called, “I know you’re there.” A man stepped out from the shadows. The brim of his Stetson was pulled down low. He was covered in dust and had a thick stubbled jaw. He sneered, pulled a pistol out from his holster and aimed it at me. “James?” I asked. “Is that you? I thought you were dead. Are you James Lennox?” The man walked slowly towards me. All of my instincts told me to back away but I stayed fixed to the spot.  “James. I’m Cal Samuels, your folks hired me to find you. They’re real worried about you. I can take you back to Philly. Why don’t you put the gun down and come with me? You can trust me,...

“Wait!” Hannah shouted. “I know Billy can be a hot headed fool Aunt, but he does have good in him. Good that a wife could nurture, anyhow,” she said, pulling out a ring attached to a delicate chain around her neck.  “Hannah!” Mrs Taylor shouted “Are you married?” “No, not yet Mother, but we are engaged. Please Aunt Margaret, give him a chance? You did say you’d do anything for your family?”  Aunt Margaret paused then nodded and sat down.  “You’d best be careful girl,” she said to Hannah, “if you lie down with rattlesnakes, you’re gonna get bit.” Hannah looked annoyed but didn’t reply. It went quiet and I could hear Bonnie wailing upstairs. She called for her mother who met her on the landing then came over to me. “Bonnie wants you to read this letter, she said it would explain everything.” I looked across at Hannah and Aunt Margaret and they seemed curious but Mrs Taylor took charge. “Read it upstairs in the parlour, you’ll be able to think up there. Bonnie’s c...

He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him.  He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life....