Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  My heart flutters as I drive through the wind battered lanes bordered by tufted grass. It might seem like an odd place to meet, but it’s remote and I feel safe here, despite the lonely surroundings. I park up in a passing place. There’s never anyone here at this time of day as the visitor centre is shut. A chaffinch lands on the bank and stares at me accusingly. I’m used to these avian judgements, why do birds seem to mock me so? I step out of the car and am assailed by screaming gulls and the sound of waves breaking on the cliffs. The salt edged breeze freshens my mind and awakens my senses. I notice an unfamiliar car arriving, a Land Rover, obviously a lost tourist unaware that the visitor centre is closed now. I smile and prepare to wave them down but the man in the car just glares at me and drives on. He stops the car in the car park and turns off the engine. I sigh and head back to my car and phone Jim. He doesn’t answer and I know he’ll be driving, unaware of the rock i...

Walter Cooper had a hand gun one with his name on it if you ignored the fact that an “aitch” was after the “tee” on the stock. Walter did ignore that fact. Walter loved his Walther but didn’t love anything else. Except Hetty a long time ago; he’d given up when she died. Now it was his gun he adored He couldn’t remember a day that passed that he didn’t fire it. One shot. One death. Then a complete strip down and clean. Like his mum did to him every day. Scrub, scrub until it was spotless. Scrub, scrub He’d shot his mum on a Saturday during the football results. After he’d scrubbed her clean with a wire brush he buried her next to the goat. He’d hated that fucking goat. It was Hetty’s and she loved the goat more than him. His love for her was never returned. Still he could say that he did love someone. He was happy with that. It was a shame she died playing with his gun. But he had told her not to. And he’d already cleaned it that day. Fuck ...

A man wearing a hat is up ahead, holsters strapped to left and right thigh, each holding a six-shooter. He’s running. The first thing that strikes you is the horse. There isn’t one. Why is the man running? The second thing that strikes you is the feeling you’re in danger. You look down at dust-covered boots. They feel solid and comfortable. But they’re not your boots. The trousers are worn and frayed at the ends. They’re not yours either. But the nightshirt tucked into the trousers is yours. Your head is throbbing. Reaching up you touch a bandage. When you examine your fingers, there are smears of blood. You’ve no memory of the clothes, the head wound, or how you got here. The man is still running, getting further and further away. A sudden squall blows dust in your face, your eyes water, you spit and spit, breathing is difficult. By the time you’re finally able to open your eyes, the man has disappeared. You keep walking hoping to clear your mind, hoping for some cl...