Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I’m not a detective but a party planner. Not professional, just the kind of girl who likes to do nice things for her friends. With a clipboard checklist.             I’m not particularly a fan of balloons either though, Lord knows, some of my friends are . When duty calls, I can blow up four or five balloons before losing puff. Helium seems like cheating to me.             It’s obvious when balloons have been freshly made. That’s precisely what I was looking at when I saw the gate. Two black balloons on either end, bobbing in the wind. And there was a gale that day: that’s how I knew they had only recently been tied up. If they had been there longer than ten minutes, those flimsy knots would have pulled loose and the balloons would be down the other end of the field.             Still I didn’t like the look of those bl...

“As you know from our website Madam we pride ourselves in doing things differently here. You are free to move around the hotel and browse the interesting layout and décor of unoccupied rooms as we leave these open for people to take pictures of and talk about on social media. We are extremely proud of being the most Instagrammed hotel in the UK.” His demeanour changed as he leant forwards on to the desk and whispered in my ear “Of course there is one stipulation we insist that our guests obey which is that you must not enter Room 27 . It is kept unlocked but we must insist that you do not open the door .” At this I burst out laughing! “Really?! I thought this hotel was called ‘The Pavilion,’ not ‘Castle Dracula!”’ In response, he leant back and grew stony faced. “You may laugh Madam but enter that room at your own peril. Here is your room key.” I looked down in to my hand and saw that the key he had handed me was to Room 26. Was this a subtle form of revenge I thought, but said noth...

(See post of 18 th January 2016 for Part one) Gilou was more than familiar with the dangers of being seized from the streets. Maybe he’d developed a sixth sense, giving him that split second warning. The alley was dark and puddled. He could feel the water seeping through his badly-worn leather boots, hear the scuttling of rodents and smell the night soil, but he stood stock still, breathing as lightly as he could. Something brushed against his knee and it was all he could do to stifle a cry. Moving his hand gingerly down his leg he traced the outline. Of course – it was the Englishman’s dog, another with a sixth sense. They followed the alley deeper into the darkness. A candle stood in a window, illuminating a small room, poorly furnished, a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a dirty shawl. Gilou moved silently past the window, the stench in his nostrils becoming harder to bear, the dog staying close at heel. He moved cautiously as the alley opened into a narrow st...

I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Not after all this time. I thought you’d left me, and all this, behind you. What made you come? Why now? Funny that you knew I would still be at the flat, our flat. Did you know I wouldn’t move on? Not like you, Steven. You, with your nice job, nice home, nice life – all very settled, all very safe. Is that why you came? Is it all getting a bit boring for you? Did you want a reminder of the old life, the old you? Was it strange to be sitting in our old flat, on our old sofa? It hasn’t changed much; there’s still a bit of damp in the corner of the bedroom, the tap still drips in the bathroom. I keep it tidier now, of course. But then, I’m not smoking as much as we were then. It was nice to see you. You looked different - fatter, comfortable in your cord trousers and your chain store jumper. You look like a father, a family man. Are you a father Steven? You didn’t say, and I didn’t want to ask. You seemed sad though, Steven. Are you...

(See July 21 st blog for Part One) Ork walks around the printing room slowly and takes in the mess of papers on the long trestle table and the unfamiliar boot marks on the flagstone that never dries. The cupboard is still locked and he breathes a sigh of relief. There’s a knock at the door. He’s surprised to find a customer who wants to pay him. As he prepares the press for the day’s work, Ork thinks of the provisions he’ll be able to buy. An image of a foaming pewter tankard floats in front of him. All in good time he thinks. When he finally takes out his pocket watch, he can’t believe the day has gone. His hunger hits him suddenly. He wipes his ink-stained fingers on an already-blackened cloth and walks to the door, Digger at his heels. The Oak provides a welcome refuge. He spreads the newspaper on the table, drinks from the tankard and chews the mutton slowly. He reads about the latest Treason Trial. The Government is running scared, Habeus Corpus suspended. The la...