Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Robert Kitchener, aged 48, was tossing and turning in his bed. He was striving to hang on to his dream but she was slowly disappearing once again. He awoke with a start, banged his head on the headboard and cursed loudly. He was also acutely aware that his bladder was full so he leaped out of bed, trod on an empty vodka bottle as he did, fell over and pissed himself. His alarm clock was in full voice so he threw it at the half open bedroom door and it landed on the top step of his stairs and proceeded to bumpily but somewhat tunefully, make its way to the front door from where it kept up its tune for a further five minutes, ending with a weak squawk. Robert sat in his wet pyjamas and wept floods of tears much like other days but this day was the worst for two weeks. How could this be happening? What had happened to his life? Of course, as he told himself every day, he knew full well what had happened to his life. In just three years of forced retirement, he had become a shadow of...

  (See 2 nd May for Part 1) Harrison finds it hard to keep up the pace. Unlike the dog, who is more or less pulling him along. Surely the lad will turn off at Lock 9 and head into town. But no, he seems to be glued to the canalside. Although he glances back briefly, perhaps sensing someone’s on his tail, there’s no sign of recognition. But shortly afterwards, he comes to a halt, phone clamped to his ear. Harrison puts the brakes on. The dog looks up at him, wondering why the game has come to an abrupt stop.       “Are you Harrison?” The dog barks. Harrison jumps. Where has this man in a grey overcoat sprung from? He’s too breathless to reply.       “Well … are you?” Harrison doesn’t like his tone. Like he’s got some right to ask a stranger a question in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe not nowhere, but nowhere special.     “Who are you ?” he manages, finally, turning to check what the lad is up to. But he’s dis...

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 … ...

Her second set, A Jazz Christmas , ended with even more applause than her first. She found herself wishing Lawrence had seen it. He was quite different to her usual taste in men but she liked his cheekiness and confidence. She would dress for lunch. She gathered up her music and went to the bar, had a single nightcap. She became conscious that a man was trying to catch her attention. Hoping he was not a fan, she beckoned him over. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Johnson, I have a message from Mr Foster.” He handed her an envelope saying, “No answer is required, Miss. Goodnight.” She looked at it for a full minute trying to guess what might be inside then, ripping the top open, she discovered it was a short note inviting her to his hotel after she finished for the night. She was not expecting that nor would she ever do such a thing after a short time of knowing anyone. As was her habit she would take a cab home. Putting her coat on, she went outside and immediately saw an orange light....

He lay on the bed in his custody cell wondering what possible, provable defence he would need. He had never met Valerie therefore his fingerprints could not have been anywhere on her. He certainly did not know what she looked like and he had never been in the bathroom, where it was alleged she had died. The house though was his as part of a new development site. He wondered how the police arrived and also how they knew where to go. He could not imagine it was coincidental. He ran through everything over and over again, then a wry smile crossed his face – Mitchell, of course. It had to be. He wanted the Heathrow site. The events of the last few days prior to his arrest clearly pointed him to the Housing Minister. He realised that Mitchell would be clean but that he was the murderer in absentia. His outlook was bleak. He, Robert Henry Bond, property developer of some repute, received a call from Edward Mitchell, Member of Parliament Surrey East. Mitchell knew Robert had sites all over th...

23 rd December 1965 He knew something was amiss as he approached the front door; water was leaking out and trickling down the steps like a small stream over rocks. He climbed t hem but, as he turned the key and opened the door, a deluge stormed out, caught him by surprise and took his legs from underneath him. He was momentarily dazed but recovered quickly enough to dodge a floating milk bottle coming straight at his head. He swore as he climbed back up the steps, but the deluge had abated so entrance to the house was easier. Once inside he stood and took in the scene before him. “Chaos, bloody chaos,” he said aloud. He’d left a light on when he went out that morning but assumed the water had put paid to the electricity supply. He made his way gingerly towards the kitchen to fetch the torch which he found in its usual drawer. Switching it on gave him the full picture of the damage. “Bloody hell, what a mess,” he said to himself as he shone the light at the ceiling, at which poin...

Three friends were sitting drinking coffee. They were deciding which one of them would do the deed. It wasn’t going well. Barry, Kenny and George were mates from way back. Same estate, same trouble, ducking and diving since they were in the last year of junior school. They’d all three encountered the local police and had spent time away from their loved ones for minor offences, (well minor in their eyes). At least they hadn’t topped anybody. However, topping was the subject on the table for discussion. The arguments were getting serious. Barry was the largest and strongest of them therefore Kenny and George assumed he would do it. It would require some strength and bulk.   Barry though was more a gentle, genial giant. He had no appetite to do it. He was not about to agree it should be him. His wife would go ballistic and he wasn’t going to let that happen. Barry and George turned to Kenny. Kenny had seen a topping after all. Had the experience so to speak. The hands on, eye...

It started with a debt. Well quite a big debt. Albert liked a bet and when he’d had a drink or two, it all got a bit out of control. Frankie Collins had helped out, lending him money so he could continue paying for his addiction. But he knew there’d come a day when Mr Collins would want his money back. That day had arrived. It began with a knock at Albert’s front door – a sound loud enough to waken the dead. The man who’d lent him all that money stood on the doorstep and invited himself in. They sat in the front parlour, two glasses of stout and a trilby on the Sunday tea table, a photo of Mabel looking down on them from the mantlepiece. It was cold enough for a fire, but there’d been no chance to lay one.     “You can’t pay me back, can you?” Albert shook his head.     “So, what are you going to do about it?” Albert said he didn’t know.     “How about this then. There’s a feller who’s caused me more than enough bother, so much ...

Jack Armitage is sitting on a hard, metal chair, chin cupped in both hands, elbows on knees.   The Green, Green Grass of Home by Tom Jones is in his head “… then I awake and look around me, at four grey walls that surround me…..”. Well, that is certainly true other than the colour, he muses. A wry smile skitters across his face. But here he is, banged up, his past life playing like a Tom Cruise movie. He is back in ’74 on his first “job” with Harry Miller a very nasty piece of work, not that Jack knows that. He is to drive the car that will carry the two of them to their safe place. There are however flaws in this plan in that one, Jack has not passed his driving test and two, the chosen car is an old Ford Consul with a column gear change. Jack is having a bad time remembering how reverse gear is engaged which is critical since there is now a car parked tight up to his front bumper. He has no chance of a forward exit hence he has to work out how to back up. It’s when he is tryin...

Judge Pebble Presiding The Defendant: Mud Speck (representing himself) The Prosecutor: Paper Scrap The Charge: Trespass of the puddle beside the lamppost on the other side of the road. The Plea: Not Guilty. PAPER SCRAP -  Mr Speck, you float accused of a serious offence here. You are aware that the puddle in question is only an inch deep, are you not? MUD SPECK -  I am. I refuse to further comment on such a shallow charge. PAPER SCRAP -  Mr Speck, this is a cross examination. You are expected to comment. MUD SPECK -  I refer back to my alibi. PAPER SCRAP -  Yes. Your alibi. I would like to clarify some detail. MUD SPECK -  If you must. PAPER SCRAP -  You claim that on the night in question you had...sunk? Is that correct? MUD SPECK -  Yes. To my usual crack in the pavement. PAPER SCRAP -  And the purpose of your visit? MUD SPECK -  I have relatives down there. PAPER SCRAP ...