Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  (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...

      “Monsieur?” A tone of concern. I can hear his voice, but I’m face down on wet grass and can’t see the man. It takes a little time to get my limbs working. I turn and look up at him. He must be about sixty, balding, a small moustache which looks like it’s been painted on.     “Hello,” I say. In English.     “Are you OK? he asks. “Do you need a doctor?” Do I? There’s this feeling that I should stay away from any part of the system … that something has gone wrong … and until I find out what …     “No, thank you. I’m fine. Too much wine you know!” He looks doubtful. Perhaps I look bad but not in a drunk way. “But could you tell me where I am?”     “Sure. You must have had a good night! This is the Rue Maitre Albert. Notre Dame is just at the end of the street,” he says, turning to point the way. “With the rain overnight, it’s lucky you have a good waterproof.” A pity my jeans aren’t also waterp...

  We’re sitting around a couple of tables that have been pushed together in a dimly lit corner of The Spark. A sea of empty glasses covers most of the table tops. Gerry the Collector is off duty. Visiting a friend in hospital, somebody says. His red plastic glass carrier is in full view on the right-hand end of the bar, next to the jar of pickled eggs. But nobody else can be bothered to use it. Tan decides it’s time to get another round in and takes a token empty with him to the bar. With an obligatory stop at the smoking shelter, it’ll be a while before he’s back. We’ve been mainly talking rubbish, but now and then there’s a gem in the dross. Roke’s story about his shoes being nicked in a restaurant and Fletch’s account of cycling home one night on a bike fitted with stabilisers. Tan eventually returns carrying three pints with shaky hands. Packets of tomato sauce crisps tumble from the many pockets of his parka. Someone clears a space for the new arrivals.   ...

She first heard the noise early on Monday afternoon, and only then because the rain had finally stopped thundering onto the skylight above her head.   It was very faint and soon drowned out by the sound of the television downstairs - unbearably loud even all the way up here. She dozed in the warmth of the sunlight as it finally filled the attic room after the gloom of weeks of dark, wintry weather. Early next morning, before the sounds of the houses around her subdued it, she heard the noise again - alien, yet familiar at the same time.   She tried to open the skylight above the bed, but wasn’t tall enough to reach the lever - so frustrating! As the days came and went so did the noise, but she felt it was getting closer to her room at times.   He gently chided her, saying it was her imagination or that she was hearing the television from downstairs.   She was too tired to insist that she was sure of what she could hear. By Friday, the sound was much closer...

  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...

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...

Where to Guvnor? Follow that blue Mazda. What? That Mazda! I want you to follow it. What for real? Exactly – there’s a pony in it for you. In that case I’m already following. So, what’s he done? Who? The Mazda driver. Nothing…yet. Listen guvnor this isn’t going to get dangerous is it…no shooters or anything like that? Nothing like that mate. Get a bit nearer – you’re in danger of losing him. Well we’re in a 30 and anyway it’s not safe to overtake on this street. Just my luck – a cabbie who sticks to the highway code! If he gets onto the ring road, I’ll have a chance. He won’t. What? Get onto the ring road. I’d put money on it. Where do you reckon he’s heading then? The coast. But that’s bloody miles! A good wedge for you then. Suppose so but I’ll be late for my tea and it’s the wife’s homemade pizza tonight. Lucky you. Alright if I call her – hands free like? Whatever, but don’t lose the Mazda. Sounds like I’ll have to leave a messag...

Winston Powel sat on the edge of the bed in the dark motel room, staring out through the grimy window at the low moon. The window was slightly open and a cold night breeze stirred the thin curtains and cooled his skin. He refocused his vision and assessed his reflection. Black skin, white eyes, black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He smiled. White teeth too. The night was not quiet; police sirens blared far off in the city, a dog barked and its owner cursed down in the parking lot, and the phone in the next room rang and rang. His smile faded. He felt a vibration next to his chest and reached into his jacket pocket. Pulling out the phone, he pressed a key and read the words on the screen. "INTERVIEW CONFIRMED. 2AM." Putting away the phone, he stood up. Turning on one heel, he snatched up the car keys and overnight bag from the bed and headed for the door. Taking a quick look back into the room, he nodded in satisfaction, opened the door and walked out into the ...