Margaret - Points of View

Margaret - Two points of view

House Fire Scene - Narrator

Jane awoke to the sound of young Alex shouting “Mummy. Mummy there’s a fire.” And just across the hallway Emma was crying. More worryingly there was no sound from little Stevie’s room. Jane turned to wake Henry when he stuck his head out from under the covers and said “What’s up?”

There is a fire according to Alex. “I can’t smell anything and the fire alarm hasn’t sounded.” “Still best be safe rather than sorry.” “You get Stevie and I’ll fetch Alex and Emma”.

Jane stepped out onto the landing and soon realised that Alex was telling the truth. There was smoke coming up from the hall below. She looked over the stair rail and saw that the fire was downstairs in the hallway, moving towards the bottom of the stairs. If they were quick they would be able to get out before it reached the stairs.

Jane went into Emma’s room and called for Alex to come to her. She grabbed a flannel and soaked it in the sink and told Emma to hold it over her nose. Alex grabbed a towel and did the same. It’s a good thing Alex takes note of the public information films Jane thought as she led the children down the stairs next to the wall. By now the fire alarm had gone off making it nearly impossible for Jane to give instructions to the children. She grabbed Emma’s hand and looked round Alex already had hold of her other arm and was leading Emma down the stairs.

Jane, Emma, and Alex all got out of the front door alright but they did not know what had happened to Henry or the baby. Jane had last seen Henry heading towards Stevie’s room at the back of the house.

As they came out of the house one of the neighbours took the two eldest children. Jane had run back into the house to try and save Henry and the baby before anyone could stop her.

Henry had managed to pass the baby out of the back window into the arms of one of the neighbours who was waiting to catch him. The window was too small for Henry to get out so he turned to go down the stairs. By now the banisters were burning and the flames had flared up and set the rail at the top of the stairs alight, the hall was thick with smoke, Henry was overcome by the smoke and fell he was getting up to make a second attempt when the burning banister rail fell and hit him. Jane ran in to try and drag Henry out which she did eventually but burned her hands severely in doing so.

When Jane finally got Henry out of the front door she was greeted by Mr Nugent and Mr Brown carrying a ladder and Alex who told her Mrs Nugent was calling for a fire engine and ambulance. A few minutes later Mrs Nugent arrived with blankets and an invitation to stay the night.

House Fire Scene - First Person

I was woken up by the sound of Alex shouting “Mummy. Mummy there’s a fire.” I could hear loud sobs from Emma’s room just across the hall. Then I realised that there was no noise from little Stevie’s room, which was even more worrying. I turned to wake Henry when he stuck his head out from under the covers and said “What’s up?”

I replied there is a fire according to Alex. “I can’t smell anything and the fire alarm hasn’t sounded, but Alex is shouting there’s a fire and Emma is sobbing her eyes out. And there is no noise from Stevie’s room. “Henry said “If Alex is making a fuss it’s almost, then we had better get them out of the house quickly. He’s not one to make a fuss except when it is necessary.” By this time I was on my way across the landing to get the children.

I shouted to Henry to fetch Stevie.

As I went out of our room I looked down the stairs and saw the fire moving along the corridor from the kitchen towards the stairs. I ran to Emma’s room first as I knew that when she is scared she will freeze like a frightened rabbit.

I called to Alex to come to me in Emma’s room. Which he did so quickly that I realised he must have been standing waiting for me to call him. Alex seemed a lot calmer than I was, he had taken the towel from his bedroom and soaked it in the sink and covered his face with it. Just like in the public information film he saw last night.

I tried to coax Emma out, but Alex realised the need for immediate action, grabbed her towel and soaked it telling her to put it across her mouth. He then grabbed her other arm and started to pull her towards the landing. I realise that Emma was going to slow us down and we didn‘t have time to spare, Alex headed out of the door in front of me picking up the key from the table on the landing as we went. By the time we got to the top of the stairs the flames were starting to burn some of the banisters. I said to Alex “Stay by the wall, get down the stairs and outside as fast as you can“.

Alex got down the stairs with me close on his heals; he was still struggling with the door when the fire alarm went off. As I came to the through the door I saw Alex running in the direction of Mrs Nugent‘s house. I told Emma to follow Alex, giving her an encouraging push in the right direction. I ran to the back of the house to see if Henry had managed to get out with Stevie. When I got there Mr Brown was holding Stevie, Henry had dropped him out of the bathroom window to Mr Brown who had got up onto the garage roof. Henry was too big to get out of the window, so he turned back and headed down the stairs. I panicked and went back in after him just in time to see the burning stair rail fall across the stairs; it hit him on the head. He passed out; I ran to him and frantically pulled him out from under the burning rail. How I managed to drag him clear I don’t know but I did. The blow had knocked him unconscious, and he had sustained first degree burns. I was lucky I wasn’t killed but I escaped with burns to my hands.

I managed to drag Henry out onto the lawn. By this time Alex was back with Mr Brown, Mr Nugent and a long ladder they were planning to use to get Henry out of an upstairs window. They told me that an ambulance and the fire service were on the way. A minute or two after this Mrs Nugent arrived with some blankets and an invitation for the family to stay the night.











　

Sandra - Point of view.

Doreen pulled things haphazardly from the kitchen cupboard.  A saucepan clattered onto the tiled floor, swiftly followed by a tin of shoe polish. Doreen swore under her breath, 'Where the hell had she put it?'
Two very grubby dusters. Doreen grimaced, her mother would not approve of her dirty dusters.
Nothing new there then.  It didn't matter what she did it was never quite good enough for May.
Doreen carelessly knocked a box of washing powder off its perch and it fell dispersing its contents in a mountainous white heap on the floor. 'Damn', she muttered under her breath. 'Where was it ?'
Then she caught sight of a bottle standing behind the pile of paraphernalia on the top shelf. 'Was that it?'.
With both hands Doreen threw the offending items blocking her view of the bottle onto the floor.
She grabbed the bottle and undoing the cap with shaky hands took a big slug.
The whisky hit the back of her throat like a warm fire. She took another slug before finding a tea cup and filling it to the brim with the whisky.  With bottle in one hand and cup in the other she went through to her
living room and kicking aside a newspaper sat wearily down on the stained and threadbare sofa, with its horsehair stuffing poking through.
She sighed and leant back.  Her dark auburn hair fanned out over the sofa. Doreen closed her eyes as if by doing so she could for a moment block out the world.
It was hoity-toity Janet in Gibbs Grocers that had told her in a very superior fashion that she thought her daughter Sarah might be pregnant.  Bad enough to be told your daughter might be up the duff. But, shit to be told by Janet!  Doreen took another large sip of whisky and rather incredulously realised the cup was empty.
She filled it again from the bottle.
Doreen could just hear Janet telling all the customers in the shop that "Doreen Baker's girl Sarah was pregnant. Like mother like daughter."  God, half the village would know now.
Suddenly it became very evident why Sarah had been avoiding her. Why, she spent endless hours at her Grans house. That was probably where she was now- unless she was in her bedroom. Doreen called out to her. 'Sarah, Sarah'. There was no reply the house remained as silent as a mausoleum, just Doreens voice reverberating around the rooms.
Doreens weariness was suddenly replaced by an intense anger.  'SARAH' she screamed as she downed the rest of the cup of whisky. This time not bothering with the cup she picked up her precious bottle and walked unsteadily towards the stairs. 'SARAH'.
Sarahs bedroom door was ajar. Doreen pushed it open. Sarah was not there. Her wardrobe door was open and the small blue suitcase was missing along with most of her clothes. Doreen knew straightaway where
Sarah had gone.
Well,, it was no good Sarah trying to hide from her. She would show her. Sarah might be sixteen but she had to learn she could not just run away from this one.  Doreen tipped the bottle up and downed the remainder of the whisky. She looked at the bottle with disgust then threw it against the wall and laughed hysterically as the glass shards flew like poisoned arrows around the room.
Doreen half ran and half stumbled the mile or so to Mays house.  Several villagers stepped aside to let her pass tut-tutting to themselves and nodding their heads sanctomoniously.  She did indeed make a strange sight
with her pink slippers, half unbuttoned blouse and uncombed hair. Lurching from one side of the path to the other. Swearing eloquently at any lamp post that dared to block her way. She, Doreen Baker would show them all!

SINGING

On this field of broken glass

I stand alone, barefoot.

With each step I take

The red blood flows

Forming rivers between my toes

And in the distance

I hear you singing.

I am so cold

I cannot stop trembling

My head is pounding

My eyes are burning

Is it the fiery whisky

That brings me to my knees

Or just you in the distance

Singing.

Peter--Point of View

Night-time and the bitter wind howled about the snow house that stood alone on the bleak plain.  Inside, Inuits sat in a huddle in their sealskin coats.  A simple oil lamp cast a shadowy light on the igloo walls.  On a slab of rock in the centre lay the carcass of a seal.  Each in turn cut a slice and chewed in silence.

The meal over, the Shaman rose and donned a strange mask.  His coal-black hair fell loosely to his shoulders.  A necklace of blanched white walrus teeth hung round his chest.  In his left hand a thin, caribou skin drum.  Flicking his wrist, he struck each side with a short stick, the beat unvarying, ceaseless, insistent.  Round and round he danced, peering about with his frightful face.  Sometimes he bent forward or leant to the side but the hypnotic rhythm never ceased.  The onlookers watched impassively, eyes glistening.

A squat old woman with a round and wrinkled face broke into song.  The others joined in the low-pitched dirge that seemed bereft of any melody.  Hour after hour this hypnotic concert continued.  Suddenly, the drumming and the singing ceased.  The Shaman screamed out.   The sound reverberating around and around the igloo turned to words:

“HEAR ME.   I AM THE SPIRIT OF THE WILD.    THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.   THE SPIRIT OF BEING.   I SEEK YOUR HELP.   I SEEK YOUR HELP.  I....seek......your....help.   I seek your ......

The words slowly died away, like an echoing voice lost in a tunnel.  The Shaman staggered forward and collapsed on the floor.   No one moved or said a word.   Then the old woman got up and, with the help of the others, lifted the Shaman onto a bed of skins.  Dipping her hands in the open kettle of water that hung on a rod above the lamp, she gently removed the mask.  From outside, there was an eruption of howling and barking.  No word was uttered. Each looked from one to the other.  The frenzied barking continued. 

The two young hunters, Tariquan and Netochiq, donned their hoods and reached for their rifles, but the old woman stayed their hands.  Bending, the two men went out into the night.

The snow swirled about them.  The dogs were some distance away from the snow house, barking and snarling.  Tariquan pointed and, peering into the relentless snow, Netochiq could now see the bear.  It looked like some kind of white phantom, charging towards the dogs, scattering them, then galloping away, before turning and growling defiantly.  The pattern repeated itself again and again, with the dogs being drawn farther and farther away from the snow house, until suddenly the bear vanished in a cloud of snow.

Puzzled, Tariquan and Netochiq looked at each other, then made their way forward to retrieve the dogs, which were barking madly and circling around one spot.  Unsure of what was happening, they ran amidst them, shouting and pulling them back.  A hump in the snow.  It didn’t move.  The bear!  Netochiq bent forward warily.  A hood at one end!   He brushed away the snow.  A….face... a boy.....a stranger.

Followed by the whelping dogs, they carried the body into the shelter of the snow house and laid him down close to the lamp.   Everyone gazed at the figure lying on the floor.  The boy’s eyes flickered.  As they did so, the Shaman sat up.

Point of View - Julie

Third

The taxi swept up the gravel drive to the front of Twilight Years Nursing Home.  Cassie paid the driver and got out, looking round at the imposing building in front of her and the wooded grounds surrounding it.  There was a grand entrance with three steps, bordered on either side by a stone lion.  The large wooden front door had a sign on which read ‘Visitors, please walk in.’ Following the instructions, Cassie found herself in a huge panelled hallway, with a reception desk to the left.  A smiling, bespectacled receptionist asked ‘Can I help you?’ and Cassie walked forward. 

‘I hope so.  I’m here to see my Grandfather, Gerald Mitchell.’

The receptionist raised her eyebrows.  ‘Mr Mitchell?  He doesn’t often get visitors.  I didn’t think he had any relatives.’

Cassie paused, wondering how much to tell her.  ‘My father and him fell out some years ago.  I’m not sure why; that’s why I wanted to see him.’

‘Well, I’m not sure you’ll find much out, dear,’ she said kindly.  ‘Mr Mitchell is senile and probably won’t be able to tell you a lot.  He may get distressed and you may not be able to stay very long.’

Cassie nodded.  ‘I understand, but I would still like to see him.’

‘Course, dear, I’ll give you ten minutes.  Could you sign in, please.’  She tapped the visitors’ book with a pencil which was attached to the top of the reception desk by a piece of string and a drawing pin.  Cassie signed the page, dated it and, glancing at her watch, wrote the time: 2.15pm. 

The receptionist came round to the front of the desk and with a cheery ‘Walk this way,’ over her shoulder, set off towards the vast staircase in the centre of the hall.  At the top of the stairs she turned right, and Cassie followed, almost running to keep up, thinking ‘If I could walk that way I’d be in the Olympics.’  She caught glimpses into rooms either side of the corridor, which appeared to be small bedrooms, most of them empty.  The receptionist strode purposefully to a doorway at the end, from where Cassie could hear loud talking.  She entered ahead of Cassie and made straight for the source of the noise, a television, and turned it down.  A woman sitting directly in front of it on a wooden dining chair groaned loudly. 

Cassie waited awkwardly in the doorway.  About a dozen armchairs lined the walls on three sides, with much of the fourth wall opposite being taken up by the television and two enormous bay windows.  Several of the armchairs contained elderly occupants, most of whom seemed to be asleep.  Moving back from the television, the receptionist walked between the two dining tables in the centre of the room and beckoned Cassie over.  ‘Mr Mitchell is there,’ she whispered, pointing to an elderly man in a black blazer and grey trousers who was snoring gently.  ‘Now then, Mr Mitchell,’ she continued in a loud voice, making Cassie jump.  He opened his eyes, pursed his lips and grunted softly. 

The receptionist clasped the top of Cassie’s arm and propelled her forward.  ‘Mr Mitchell, this is your grand-daughter,’ she explained. 

He pursed his lips again and, after several seconds of thought during which he seemed to be processing this information, he cupped his right hand to his ear and said something which sounded like ‘Ughh?’

The receptionist patted Cassie’s arm in a comforting sort of way.  ‘Good luck dear.  You can make your own way down to the front door, don’t forget to sign out, and only ten minutes mind.’

Cassie watched her plump up a couple of cushions on her way out and then she turned her attention back to Mr Mitchell.  His eyes were shut again, and he was making a small ‘puh’ sound with his lips each time he breathed out.  Cassie stared at him for a moment, fascinated, then just as she started to feel awkward, he opened one eye and squinted up at her.  She flinched in surprise.  He opened the other eye and chuckled softly. 

‘Pull up a chair then, gal,’ he suggested, waving his arm in the direction of the dining tables in the middle of the room.  Cassie obeyed, and positioned the chair opposite him, about two feet away.  They observed each other without speaking.  She took in the bright orange cravat he wore, the sparse, grey hair and the alternate teeth, which he revealed as he chuckled again.  Breaking the gaze, he took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the inside pocket of his blazer and turned his attention to the complicated task of commissioning his pipe.  The minutes ticked away as Cassie watched him press the tobacco down with his brown thumb.  He lit a Swan Vesta on the sole of his shoe and, sucking enthusiastically, began to cause vast clouds of foul-smelling smoke to be released. 

‘Mr Mitchell?’ Cassie began, choking slightly and wafting the acrid smoke away with her hand.

He nodded his head thoughtfully.  ‘So you’re Cassandra, are you?’

‘Yes, but most people call me Cassie,’ she answered, surprised he knew who she was.

‘They think I’m mad,’ he began, as if by way of explanation. 

Cassie waited for him to continue, while he sucked deeply on the pipe, closing his eyes and expelling the pungent smoke slowly.  She was about to speak when he suddenly opened one eye and squinted at her again.  She was less surprised this time, but nervousness was taking over now and she giggled uncertainly.  ‘Are you?’ she asked him finally.  ‘Mad, I mean.’

‘In the end, it’s all down to what someone else says.  Someone else’s opinion of madness.  Take Mrs Higgs.  She’s always running around shouting “Fire!”  Nobody takes any notice of her, but in her mind, she thinks there is a fire.  Who’s to say whether there is or isn’t, in her mind?  If there was a fire, her behaviour would be normal.’

‘Yes, I see,’ agreed Cassie, not really seeing at all.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Cassie had rehearsed this speech many times, and it flowed easily.  ‘I wanted to find out the truth: about my real father, about Mrs Fletcher, and about how it all fits together.’

He nodded thoughtfully.  ‘A fine woman, Mrs Fletcher.  So you want to know about Mrs Fletcher?’

‘Yes, please, if you feel able to tell me.’ 

The unexpected rattling of a tea trolley right behind her made Cassie jump, and she looked round to see a large lady, whose right breast was apparently called ‘Thelma’. 

‘Cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.

He stretched out his left arm, extravagantly, to reveal his wrist, where a watch might be if he wore one.  He looked at the place intently and, after a pause, said, ‘Five to eleven, Joyce.’ 

‘Go on with you,’ she giggled and poured him out a cup.  ‘What about you love?’

‘No thanks.’  Cassie looked at her own wrist, and was disappointed to see from her watch that the ten minutes had almost elapsed.

‘You know,’ the tea lady said to Cassie, as she placed the old man’s cup and saucer on a small table beside his chair, ‘I think he knows a lot more than he lets on!’  As the tea lady turned away, Cassie caught Mr Mitchell’s eye, and he gave her a mischievous wink. 

He watched as the tea lady moved her trolley further away and then he said, suddenly, in a grave voice, ‘Rupert Mitchell knew about me and his wife, you know.  I’m sorry to say that’s the reason he shot himself.’

Cassie gasped at this new revelation, at first only catching the significance of half of it.   ‘Charles Fletcher’s father shot himself?’

‘Well, yes, if you believe he was his father.’

‘How do you mean?’

He leant forward conspiratorially and winked again.  ‘Mary Fletcher and I were carrying on long before that.’

Cassie clapped her hand to her mouth and through it muttered ‘Oh my God!’

‘You know,’ he mused, ignoring her outburst, ‘I always did think this succession thing is all based on an assumption – an assumption that who your mother says your father is, is actually right.’  He was warming to his subject now.  ‘One day there’ll be a test, you mark my words, which will prove it one way or another, and that will really put the cat among the pigeons.’

Cassie was about to answer, when the receptionist called her name from the doorway and she looked round.

‘Time’s up, Miss Mitchell.’

Cassie nodded reluctantly.  ‘OK, just coming.’

She turned back to the old man and he leant forward suddenly, an earnest look on his face.

‘You will come and see me again, won’t you?’

‘Yes, course I will,’ Cassie answered automatically, thinking of all the questions she still wanted to ask him.

He looked back at her with watery eyes.  ‘Thank you, Cassie,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like that.’

She nodded, suddenly feeling a deep connection to him.  ‘I would too,’ she said, and realised she meant it. 

She stood up and he held out his right hand shakily towards her.  She clasped it, startled by its boniness, and then bent over and kissed him briefly on the cheek.  His face broke into a broad grin.

‘Long time since anyone’s done that.’

Cassie patted his hand.  ‘I will come back soon.’

Walking briskly, she headed for the doorway.  The receptionist had gone.  Cassie turned back to look at Mr Mitchell.  He had his head down, busying himself with his pipe again, but she had the distinct feeling that he might have been crying. 

There was no-one on reception when Cassie got downstairs so she signed out and left, closing the front door behind her.  As her taxi wasn’t due back until 3.00pm, she sat on the steps, between the two stone lions, and thought about Gerald Mitchell.  She would have liked him to have been her Grandfather, but that could only be possible if he were definitely Charles’ father, and if Charles turned out to be hers.  She decided to take another look at Christine’s diaries that evening.  As she mused in the sun, thinking about Mr Mitchell’s words and the accidents of birth, she could hear, from an open upstairs window, the faint cry of a woman shouting ‘Fire!’

First

The taxi swept up the gravel drive to the front of Twilight Years Nursing Home.  I paid the driver his extortionate fee and got out, looking round at the imposing building in front of me and the wooded grounds surrounding it.  There was a grand entrance with three steps, bordered on either side by a stone lion.  It was certainly worth a bob or two, and I’ll bet the beds there didn’t come cheap.  The large wooden front door had a sign on which read ‘Visitors, please walk in.’ Following the instructions, like a good girl, I found myself in a huge panelled hallway, with a reception desk to the left.  A smiling receptionist, wearing glasses which made her look like an owl, asked ‘Can I help you?’

I walked forward.  ‘I hope so.  I’m here to see my Grandfather, Gerald Mitchell.’  I knew this wasn’t strictly true, but if I had told her he was my step-father’s father, it seemed rather tenuous, and I thought she might not let me see him.

The owl raised her eyebrows, and I thought for a brief moment she had seen through my lie.

‘Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.  ‘He doesn’t often get visitors.  I didn’t think he had any relatives.’

I paused, wondering how much to tell her.  ‘My father and him fell out some years ago.  I’m not sure why; that’s why I wanted to see him.’

‘Well, I’m not sure you’ll find much out, dear,’ she said kindly.  ‘Mr Mitchell is senile and probably won’t be able to tell you a lot.  He may get distressed and you may not be able to stay very long.’

I nodded.  ‘I understand, but I would still like to see him.’  It didn’t sound very promising and I hoped I hadn’t come all this way for nothing.  Oh well, at least it was a nice day for it.

‘OK, dear, I’ll give you ten minutes.  Could you sign in, please.’  She tapped the visitors’ book with a pencil which was attractively attached to the top of the reception desk by a hairy piece of string and a drawing pin.  I signed the page, dated it and, checking my watch, wrote the time: 2.15pm. 

The owl came round to the front of the desk and with a cheery ‘Walk this way,’ over her shoulder, set off towards the vast staircase in the centre of the hall.  At the top of the stairs she turned right, and I almost had to run to keep up.  I thought to myself, ‘If I could walk that way I’d be in the Olympics.’  I had fleeting glimpses into rooms either side of the corridor, which appeared to be small bedrooms, most of them empty.  The owl strode purposefully to a doorway at the end, from where I could hear loud talking.  She entered in front of me and made straight for the source of the noise, a television, and turned it down.  A woman sitting directly in front of it on a wooden dining chair groaned loudly. 

I waited awkwardly in the doorway.  About a dozen armchairs lined the walls on three sides, with much of the fourth wall opposite being taken up by the television and two enormous bay windows.  Several of the armchairs contained elderly occupants, most of whom seemed to be asleep.  Moving back from the television, the owl walked between the two dining tables in the centre of the room and beckoned me over.  ‘Mr Mitchell is there,’ she whispered, pointing to an elderly man in a black blazer and grey trousers who was snoring gently.  ‘Now then, Mr Mitchell,’ she continued in a loud voice, which made me jump.  He opened his eyes, pursed his lips and grunted softly. 

The owl clasped the top of my arm with a strength which surprised me, and propelled me forward.  ‘Mr Mitchell, this is your grand-daughter,’ she explained. 

He pursed his lips again and, after several seconds of thought during which he seemed to be processing this information, he cupped his right hand to his ear and said something which sounded like ‘Ughh?’  I felt this wasn’t going particularly well.

The owl patted my arm in a comforting sort of way.  ‘Good luck dear.  You can make your own way down to the front door, don’t forget to sign out, and only ten minutes mind.’

I watched her plump up a couple of cushions on her way out and then I turned my attention back to Mr Mitchell.  His eyes were shut again, and he was making a small ‘puh’ sound with his lips each time he breathed out.  I stared at him for a moment, fascinated, then just as I started to feel awkward, he opened one eye and squinted up at me, making me flinch in surprise.  He opened the other eye and chuckled softly. 

‘Pull up a chair then, gal,’ he suggested, waving his arm in the direction of the dining tables in the middle of the room.  I obeyed, and positioned the chair opposite him, about two feet away.  We observed each other without speaking.  I took in the bright orange cravat he wore, the sparse, grey hair and the alternate teeth, which he revealed as he chuckled again.  Breaking the gaze, he took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the inside pocket of his blazer and turned his attention to the complicated task of commissioning his pipe.  I was aware of the minutes ticking away as I watched him press the tobacco down with his brown thumb.  He lit a Swan Vesta on the sole of his shoe and, sucking enthusiastically, began to cause vast clouds of foul-smelling smoke to be released. 

‘Mr Mitchell?’ I began, choking slightly and wafting the acrid smoke away with my hand.

He nodded his head thoughtfully.  ‘So you’re Cassandra, are you?’

‘Yes, but most people call me Cassie,’ I answered, surprised that he knew who I was.

‘They think I’m mad,’ he began, as if by way of explanation. 

I waited for him to continue, while he sucked deeply on the pipe, closing his eyes and expelling the pungent smoke slowly.  I was about to speak when he suddenly opened one eye and squinted at me again.  I was less surprised this time, I could sense how this was going, but nervousness was taking over now and I giggled uncertainly.  ‘Are you?’ I asked him finally.  ‘Mad, I mean.’

‘In the end, it’s all down to what someone else says.  Someone else’s opinion of madness.  Take Mrs Higgs.  She’s always running around shouting “Fire!”  Nobody takes any notice of her, but in her mind, she thinks there is a fire.  Who’s to say whether there is or isn’t, in her mind?  If there was a fire, her behaviour would be normal.’

‘Yes, I see,’ I agreed, although I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

I had rehearsed this speech a thousand times, and it flowed easily.  ‘I wanted to find out the truth: about my real father, about Mrs Fletcher, and about how it all fits together.’

He nodded thoughtfully.  ‘A fine woman, Mrs Fletcher.  So you want to know about Mrs Fletcher?’

‘Yes, please, if you feel able to tell me.’ 

The unexpected rattling of a tea trolley right behind me made me jump, and I looked round to see a large lady, whose right breast was apparently called ‘Thelma’. 

‘Cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.

He stretched out his left arm, extravagantly, to reveal his wrist, where a watch might be if he wore one.  He looked at the place intently and, after a pause, said ‘Five to eleven, Joyce.’ 

‘Go on with you,’ she giggled and poured him out a cup.  ‘What about you love?’

‘No thanks.’  I looked down at my own wrist, and was disappointed to see from my watch that the ten minutes had almost elapsed.

‘You know,’ the tea lady said to me, as she placed the old man’s cup and saucer on a small table beside his chair, ‘I think he knows a lot more than he lets on!’  As she turned away, I caught Mr Mitchell’s eye, he gave me a mischievous wink, and I began to think the tea lady might be right. 

He watched as she moved her trolley further away and then he said, suddenly, in a grave voice, ‘Rupert Mitchell knew about me and his wife, you know.  I’m sorry to say that’s the reason he shot himself.’

I gasped at this sudden revelation, at first only catching the significance of half of it.  ‘Charles Fletcher’s father shot himself?’

‘Well, yes, if you believe he was his father.’

‘How do you mean?’

He leant forward conspiratorially and winked again.  ‘Mary Fletcher and I were carrying on long before that.’

I clapped my hand to my mouth and through it muttered, ‘Oh my God!’

‘You know,’ he mused, ignoring my outburst, ‘I always did think this succession thing is all based on an assumption – an assumption that who your mother says your father is, is actually right.’  He was warming to his subject now.  ‘One day there’ll be a test, you mark my words, which will prove it one way or another, and that will really put the cat among the pigeons.’

I was about to answer, when the owl called my name from the doorway and I looked round.

‘Time’s up, Miss Mitchell.’

I nodded reluctantly.  ‘OK, just coming.’

I turned back to the old man and he leant forward suddenly, an earnest look on his face.

‘You will come and see me again, won’t you?’

‘Yes, course I will,’ I answered automatically, my mind on all the questions I still wanted to ask him.

He looked back at me with watery eyes.  ‘Thank you, Cassie,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like that.’

I suddenly felt a deep connection to him.  ‘I would too,’ I said, and I meant it. 

As I stood up, he held out his right hand shakily towards me.  I clasped it, startled by its boniness, and then, on impulse, bent over and kissed him briefly on the cheek.  His face broke into a broad grin.

‘Long time since anyone’s done that.’

I patted his hand.  ‘I will come back soon.’

Feeling a lump rising in my throat, I turned and walked briskly towards the doorway.  The owl had gone.  I turned back to look at Mr Mitchell.  He had his head down, busying himself again with his pipe, but I had the distinct feeling that he might have been crying. 

There was no-one on reception when I got downstairs so I signed out and left, closing the front door behind me.  As the taxi wasn’t due back until 3.00pm, I sat on the steps, between the two stone lions, and thought about Gerald Mitchell.  He was certainly quite a character.  I would have liked him to have been my Grandfather, but that could only be possible if he were definitely Charles’ father, and if Charles turned out to be mine.  I decided to take another look at Christine’s diaries that evening.  As I mused in the sun, thinking about Mr Mitchell’s words and the accidents of birth, I could hear, from an open upstairs window, the faint cry of a woman shouting ‘Fire!’

steve tree similies

The blasted oak rose from the ground, leafless, with corpses hanging from it`s great branches, like a macbre christmas tree from hell.
The suns rays pierced the forest canopy, small beams arrowing to the floor, to illuminate the sparse ground hugging fauna with fairylights.
the willow trees long slender fingers swayed in the breeze like a dancers skirts.
fir trees abounded east to west, as far as the eye could see, a huge impenetrable wall that was no more inviting for it`s dark silent foundations.

Sam - similes

The sun glowed red like a bulbous pimple that was ready to burst forth.

The sun's rays pierced the rain cloud like search lights on a darkened night.

The colour of the bark of the tree was grey and faded like an overworn outfit.

The tree dropped its fruits to the ground as a person who, exhausted from holding a heavy object would discard their load.

Ros - Similies

Like a lone swimmer braving a November sea the tree was sillouetted against the sky; bare, bleak and solitary.

Dressed in its summer finery the tree looked like a blousy call girl on a night out.

The pine tree, as straight as an arrow, reached up to pierce the sky.

The  tree was as naked and bereft as a dancer after the show. 

The tree, like a gladiator brusied and battered after an unequal fight, still stood, lone and leafless, but defiant.  The elements had served up their worst but they had not  prevailed.

The willow tree's pale green tendrils hung trembling like widow's weeds, concealing sorrow but promising ongoing life.

Stunted and deformed, the tree squatted like a malcontented goblin contemplating its next evil act.  Twisted and gnarled branches, like mocking fingers, jabbed the air.

A surfeit of similes - Hilary

She walked through the wood, holding her red cloak tightly to her thin body. The lower branches of the gnarled oaks spread across her path like old men’s hands, grasping at the hem of the cloak.

As she reached the clearing the branches parted as if they were presenting her with this new view of the small picturesque cottage which sat within the perfect garden.

She removed the hood from her cloak and gazed over to towards the cottage roof where the last rays of the setting sun were glinting like a Turner watercolour, reds, yellow and blue seeping into one another.

Finally it sank beneath the gable as if it was the dying embers of a fire and she walked towards the cottage in trepidation, wondering what she might find within.

--------------------------------------------------------

It is not usual to put quite so many in one small piece, so it may seem a little over egged!

Julie - Tree Similes

The branches of the tree looked like the fingers of a wizened crone.

It seemed as if, overnight, the trees had unfurled their new leaves triumphantly, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

The trees proudly showed off their blossom, as a newly engaged girl displays her diamond ring.

The two trees stood either side of the gateway, like sentries outside Buckingham Palace.

The wind blew, making the bare branches of the chestnut tree outside scratch the bedroom window like fingernails on a blackboard.

Sandra: Similes

The tree stands like a sentinel.
Surveyor of the horizon.
Waving like an angry taskmaster,
At its audience of fools.
The roots spread out like the devils tablecloth,
Enticing the unwary to enter in.
The green canopy shudders in anticipation
As the sap drips slowly down,
The cracked bark as rough as a cats tongue
Licking at an old wound.
Forming strange craters that arrange themselves
As ogre's faces in this dark and shadowy place.

======

The Tall Tree

I want to be the tallest tree in this green clearing.
I want to wave my large green hat to the sun.
I want to be the one the children choose.
The one the small ones hide behind.
And the one the adventurous run to find.
Eager to scrape their hands and knees on my rough bark.

The one the lovers lay beside.
Their heads against my mossy roots.
Their bodies entwined as tightly as the ivy on my trunk.
The one the old ones rest against.
Lulled into sleep by soft breezes like playing chinese whispers.

And when they have gone.
I will open my arms to the creatures of the night.
As the chosen protector
I will wave my thousand fingers
And make 'v' signs to the world.



=======



The Sapling

Unseen by the many,
Glimpsed by the few.
As shy and timid as a hand-maiden.
Just three small leaves tightly folded
Like a bankers handkerchief.
Around a fragile stem

Desperate for survival.
Sending out its pin thin roots
On a prestined journey they spin out
Like an underground map.
Probing into the dark earth.
Where nothing gets through
Neither pain nor joy.

The clumsy foot shatters its dreams
Squashes its destiny.
Leaves it laying crumpled and bleeding.
All its efforts trampled on.
Left to merge with the earth
It recedes back into the womb it sprang from.

Sun Similes: Sue

 Like a big fat leech, the sun sucked and sapped the lifeblood from the fragile crops.

The frustrated sun glared fiercely from behind the thick clouds, as thwarted and angry as a waning dictator unable to sustain the supremacy he had recently taken for granted.

The sun softly spread its gentle warmth across the land, like a child’s blanket.

The sun stamped its mark on the humans like a branding iron, leaving raw, red patterns on flesh that had been exposed to its heat.

Like a magnificent soufflé, the sun rose majestically, peaking at noon. It then softly and slowly deflated, sinking back from its heights, to below the rim of the horizon.

Peter--Similes: The Arctic Sun

l.   Beyond the shimmering mist the sun was lurking like a phosphorescent philanderer.

2.  Swarms of hovering ice crystals, beset  the watery sun that  glared down at the bleak landscape like a crazed eye.

3.  Red, red, red the sun lay like a cardinal’s ransacked wardrobe.

4. The still waters of the lake lay like a vast fragment of translucent amber beneath the sorcery of the dying sun..

5.  Across the sea, the sun like an old magician,  cast a glittering yellow path to an undiscovered world of glory.

6.    Like a yellow cannonball, the sun wickedly suspended above the devastation  that lay scattered  like  a delicate Chinese Empress’  vase  smashed into a thousand precious pieces.

7.  Slipping slowly  behind the sombre mountains the sun glowed like a gigantic electric bulb.

8. Trapped between the dark,  brooding   sky and the sinister shadows of the mountainous  crags the bright rays of the sun boiled like a yellow sea thrashing to escape the clutches of the  night.  

9.   The low rays of the sun’s light cast such a spell on the troubled landscape that all was transformed into a tea set of  fine bone china.

l0.  Across the horizon the sun flowed like a golden river.

Margaret - Tree Similes

The tree stood with its branches spread across the gateway, as though it were a guard stretching out his arms to prevent unwanted visitors.

As the wind moved gently through the canopy of the tree, the leaves moved like dancers swaying to the rhythm of the breeze.

As the gentle breeze moved through the canopy of the trees, the leaves seemed to murmur like children playing Chinese whispers.

The lines of tall cedars appeared like two rows of soldiers standing to attention, in a guard of honour spreading along both sides of a great ceremonial procession.

The sun shining through the leaves on the tree made a pattern on the ground like a silhouette of a paper doyley.

Out of the deep dark mist a large ancient gnarled tree appeared, like some giant troll, with hair blowing in the wind and arms flailing madly, as though to ward away strangers travelling along the road at night.

Class times

Here's a reminder of the class times:

April 14 - class as usual
BREAK on April 21
April 28 - class as usual... and onwards
See you all then,
Gary

Ros - Five Senses

'Let's wait for the next one,'  said Holly nervously as she watched the packed train rattle into Oxford Street Station.

'There's no point', replied Marie, it will be just as busy'.  Marie grabbed Holly's hand.  'Come on.'

Holly reluctantly followed, silently wishing she had heeded Marie's advice to wear different shoes; but they were awsome, the first really fashionable she had persuaded her  mother to let her have.  The heels were a mile high and the red leather shone like Italian glass. She imagined all London girls would be similarly attired.

The shoes were the first casualties.  As Holly ran blindly following Marie her heel caught in a crack on the platform. In her panic Holly tugged it out roughly and, although there was no time to inspect the damage, she knew that damage there was.  Breathing rapidly she launched herself onto the train and immediately they were swallowed up by the mass of humanity. They squirmed like eels, under arches of  arms through non-existent gaps, brushing past bulging briefcases and a woman hugging an awkward basketweave bag.  This time it was Marie who suffered; she scratched her arm on the basketwork and had to disengage a thread of her jumper which had become looped around a spike of straw.

At last Marie gauged that they had struggled enough.  She clasped an overhead rail.  Her  hand joined an assorted range of other hands, one white with glossy nails, another brown and slender.  She would have liked to have rescued one of the free papers which had been tossed away, cluttering up the space between seat and windows; but she couldn't reach one. Holly insinuated her arm between a velvety faux fur jacket and  a harsh school blazer to discover a slippery hand hold.  A long arm reached over her and fastened on a position above  her head.  She wrinkled her nose in distaste as the unmistakable whiff of sweat assaulted her nostrils.  There they stood, face to face, hip to hip, toe to toe; intimate yet aloof from the citizens of the world whose lives collide  for a few short miles on London's underground.

The train lurched into life and with it the passengers.  Try as she might Holy couldn't prevent her body bumping into the fur jacket. It tickled and she sneezed as she inhaled a mixture of fur and cheap perfume. In turn the boy in the blazer turned pink and apologised as his head connected with Holly's bouncing bosom.  Holly attempted to communicate with Marie but her soft voice was no match for the cacophony of competing sounds.  Above her head two suited and booted princes of commerce discussed in booming voices the price of shares and the muted sounds of West Llife leaked from an iplayer clamped to a nodding head. Wedged beside her, two girl backpackers conducted an animated discussion in a language Holly couldn't understand The rest of the carriage, studiously pretending that they were quite alone, read, dozed  or texted. Below, feet tapped or shuffled and  shopping bags creaked. In the back ground, enveloping them all,  the thrumming rhythmn of the train, as it raced along, could be heard.

With no warning the carriage was suddenly plunged into darkness.  Just as quickly the lights flickered back on.  Nobody else seemed to notice, but  Holly's stomache turned a somersault and the bitter taste of bile rose in a throat.  They were in the bowels of the earth a place of potential interrment.  Holly shuddered.

Sam: Senses

   'Turn the handle and open the door for Christ's sake!' said Seb.
'I've got a bad feeling about this,' Ellie hesitated, 'It feels wrong.'
'Well we can't just turn around now, we've come too far to just walk away.  Just open it!' said Elizabeth impatiently.
   Ellie slowly turned the smooth brass knob and felt the heavy door give.  With an audible snap the latch sprung back in its casing and Ellie let the door swing in of its own accord.  The air around them grew cooler and Damo felt his arms prickle.  The cool air seemed to gush out from the room which upon further inspection revealed a shadowy darkness containing deeper silhouettes. Just floating under the surface an unidentifiable but somehow familiar smell.
   Seb  instantly started forward, which seeing as he was near the back had the effect of shoving everyone into the room (not of their own accord).  The group stumbled in as one and tried to keep their footing in the gloomy surroundings, arms outstretched.  There was a small shriek as Ellie tripped over something and the vibration of her thump on the wooden floor was felt by everyone.
'Who was that?'  Damo cried out, 'Who fell?  Is everyone okay?'
'It was me Damo,' said Ellie in a bemused but unmistakeably Ellie voice, 'I tripped over something, just everyone keep still while our eyes adjust.'
   Seb started to scrape his fingers against the walls around the door frame, looking for a light switch.
'There!'  he said triumphantly clicking the switch. 
   But as the room was illuminated a grisly scene greeted them.  There on the floor sat Ellie, and at her feet lay the body of a woman not long dead by the look of her, but the more the four friends gaped, the more that now slight but persistent odour seemed to intensify.
'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,' Ellie repeated, with each uttering becoming slightly louder and more hysterical.
   Damo gagged and choked back the salty tasting vomit that threatened to spew forth.
   Elizabeth began to back away and bumped into Seb, which made her cry out loud.
'Ellie,' said Seb holding Elizabeth's shoulder and beckoning to Ellie, 'Ellie, just get up slowly and come over to us,' he coaxed in a soothing voice.  'Ellie stop looking at it, look at us and come over here where it's safe.'
   Ellie got up very slowly.  All she could feel was the cold spot on her foot where she had stumbled over the, the........She began to shake and could taste her own tears as they slid into her open mouth.
   What snapped Ellie out of this frozen state was the loud crash as Damo fell to the floor in a dead faint.

Steve: senses

The boy ran through the cornfields, using the narrow paths between the rows of golden long stems as his guide, careful not to tread over the line and damage the precious life-giving crop.  He glanced backwards at the figure striving to keep up and slowed his pace until irritably he stepped and turned,
'Come on Kesa, Ma will box our ears if we're late.'
The girl pouted as she neared him, 'Maybe yours Tynan Bleddows, but my Da might have something to say when I go home and tell him you left me behind.'
The boy pulled a face but was careful not to let her see it.  It was just like her to tell tales on him, usually culminating in him getting a thrashing.
'Besides,' she said, 'you weren't so quick to get home when I allowed you to kiss me.'
His cheeks reddened, but he felt a strange warmth in his chest as he thought about their lips touching,
'Well, you said you had something in your eye, and when I looked you grabbed me, ' he shot back hotly.
'Din't see you complaining tho' Kesa said slyly, 'and you were walking funny afterwards.'
It was true.  Lately he had had strange feelings towards his old playmate, and it was typical of her to always get the upper hand in their bickering.  They walked the rest of the way in silence, him stomping ahead but careful not to get too far in front.  They reached her family's farmstead in due course and he raised a hand in farewell,
'S'long Kesa, see you tomorrow.'
In response she stuck her tongue out and turned away without looking back.  'Women' he thought, 'They really are from the wastelands!'  He didn't know what it meant, but he had heard Diggary and the other wranglers discussing it over their cups of beer.
He jogged the rest of the way home, and noticed a bag outside the door that didn't belong to him or his family.  Opening the door he stepped over the threshold and awaited the scolding his mother would surely give him.  The kitchen was empty, the only sound the large pot of bubbling gruel that was served with every meal in Haven, either mixed with wild herbs or spoonfuls of honey to flavour.
'Ma?' he called hesitantly, not used to her being outside her domain.
'Come through to the sit-room Ty,' he heard his father say.  A feeling of dread came over him, his father was never home this early.  He took a deep breath and pushed open the door that led to the room that his father's voice had come from.  His mother and father were sitting in two of the three chairs in the room, the other was occupied by a stranger in a wide brimmed hat that covered his eyes in darkness.  A pipe pointed straight out, as if gripped by teeth trying to bite through the wooden stem.
'Ty, this is Mr Shadow,' his father said in an unfamiliar voice, 'me and your Ma have employed him.  It's time for you...'  he trailed off, and seemed not to be able to meet his son's eyes.
If you don't mind, Mr Bleddows,' the stranger said, 'I'll take over here.'
Remembering his manners, Ty offered up his palm raised in the welcome/peace greeting, and stepped forward closer to the man in the hat.
'How do you fare sir?' he said formally, 'My name is Tynan Jonathan Sweetbriar Bleddows.'
Before his lips had finished the introduction, a crashing blow to his cheek had laid him to the floor, the side of his face numb yet tingly.
'Let's get one thing straight boy,' the man now standing over him growled, 'your name ain't shit now, an' if you talk to me again with your hand out, why I'll bite it off and use your fingers to clean my pipe with.'
Stunned, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, Ty raised his head and looked at his mother, expecting outrage at his treatment.  She looked away, with a strange look on her face as though she would cry.  An agonising pain on the top of his head made him cry out as a large hank of his hair was grabbed, and he was dragged to his knees.  The man leaned closer, his sweat smell mixed with that of the weed he smoked, and for the first time Ty looked into his pale blue eyes.
'Your poor ma and da have entrusted me with turning you into a man.' he said, scorn dripping from his voice. 'An' I don't mind telling you, now I sees you, that a more pewling, pathetic runt has I never seed.'
Tears ran down Ty's face, as the hand in his hair gripped tighter,
'Ma....' he began, before another blow to the side of his head sent him to the floor once again.  He lay silent, too stunned to comprehend the quickness of events.
'From now on boy, you will calls me Master, an' you will do what I telt you.  From now on, an' until I says so, your poor suffering ma and da don't exist, not until they has a son they be proud to call their own.  Now stop your sheep's bleating and go sleep with the pigs, cos they the only kind you be fit to reside with.  GO!'
Dimly aware of strange sobbing sounds coming from the room, Ty crawled away towards the door, and was in the yard before he realised they came from him.  His cheek and head throbbing from the impact of the blows, he leaned against the door, and heard from the sit-room the wicked stranger's voice.
"Now don`t you be frettin` none missus. Tis the only way to knock the boy out of `im. Ol` Shadow be makin` men of Northland boys for nigh on twenny years now, I knows what I'm doin.'
Still with tears falling down his cheeks, Ty the obedient staggered to the building where the animals were kept at night.  Making a nest in the soft comforting hay, he cried himself to sleep.

Sue: use of sense data

Following the late morning performance, Charlotte rushed from the circus to her locum work at the dentist’s practice in Bournemouth.

The tangy, mixed aromas of diesel, mud, musty canvas and popcorn soon faded. Charlotte was no longer aware of how her body absorbed these smells, so she always took the precaution of showering before she left the site.

The sea of faces and the reactions to her performance were less easy to eradicate.  The collective response of the audience … chatter, coughs, shuffles, whoops, applause in the right places..was always unpredictable. She tried hard to deconstruct and categorise the responses after each performance. The bottom line seemed to be that all performers, including her, instinctively knew when they had got it right but had no idea of how to ensure a desired audience response each time. She was also mystified as to how she could instantly recognise and label silences, such as silent disappointment or silent awe.

Charlotte was more practiced in knowing what to do and getting it right, in her more familiar environment, the dentist’s practice.

The practice was a stark contrast to the soft sided, drafty, noisy, chaotic and smelly big top. Despite the scenic posters and piped classical music, it was essentially a sterile, predominantly white and hard-edged environment. Cold metal instruments looked like medieval torture devices, yet when switched on, reflected modernity through their high-pitched electronic pulses and screeches.

Most people anticipated their visits as a form of voluntary torture, undertaken for the greater good of their health. In addition to the dreaded drill, patients associated the smell of the dentist with fear and pain. At worst, all their fears would be realised, accompanied by the indignities of numbness, dribbling and more expensive treatments to come. At best, their clean-mouth, smooth-teeth feel or instant resolution of nagging problems would offset any anticipated or temporary discomforts.

To Charlotte, the dentist’s practice felt womb-like, secure, safe and tranquil.

In perfect control, she laid out her instruments in ordered lines and picked up the printouts of notes that accompanied her appointments list.  The receptionist had scrawled hand-written notes in red biro on some of the patient’s records. For reasons she could not fathom, this felt like a personal violation to Charlotte, temporarily spoiling her calm. She took a deep breath – inhaling the clove-like aroma of eugenol, mixed with fluoride, mint, surgical alcohol and latex. She was immediately soothed. She loved this aroma, which defined for her, the smell of clean.

hilary - Using sense data

  Using the five senses        

The fist made contact with Josh’s cheek without warning. He felt a searing pain – like a scream-  go through his head and into his stomach. The next blow hit him in the solar plexus.

“Don’t -  think – you – can - leave – my  -friend.” Josh could see that his attacker’s face was contorted with the effort of making sure that each word was accompanied by yet another blow as Josh tried to escape the continuous beating from Sigmund.

Josh tried desperately to cover his face and head as the other gang members surrounded him. One, he recognised Raoul, kicked him in the groin. He could taste a mixture of blood and vomit as he bent double with the pain.

“ Please, what do you want from me?” he gasped. “ I have no money for you Sigmund. Do you want to kill me is that what you have to do?”

He suddenly remembered Carrie and saw her standing transfixed outside the gang who had surrounded him.

“ Run Carrie!” His voice sounded too small for his head, but thankfully she began to back away, then quickly turned to flee in the direction of God knows where. But at least she was away from this. He saw her fleetingly as yet another blow rained down on him from one of the gang members.

Sigmund, by now taking a breather as the others strode in, turned and looked at Josh. Josh saw that he was smiling at him as he produced a small flick knife from the back pocket of his jeans. He was still smiling as he toyed with the knife. Tossing it from one hand to the other and back, his gaze remained fixed on Josh, who by now was writhing on the dirty pavement in agony.

The wet pavement was cold and the smell of dirt and rain mingled in Josh’s nostrils, making him feel even more sick. He gave in and vomited, spitting out the resulting mess along with a tooth.

Josh could hardly see as one eye was nearly closed. Blood covered the other lid, pouring from the gash which had been the result of the boot that had kicked him as he was bent double, finally making him fall to the ground. All he could take in was the sound of the heavy boots which strode toward him. He could hear the chains from Sigmund’s belt chinking as he made his way across the now bloodied pavement towards Josh.

“ This is just a small warning to you, you snake in the grass. I will see you again – very soon.” The blade of the knife appeared to slide across Josh’s arm as the trickle of blood appeared in its wake.  “ Don’t let me down will you? ”

He quickly snapped the knife shut as he stood over Josh by now crying like a child in pain. Then – as quickly as they had appeared the group dissipated.

 Josh rolled over, he looked at the work of Sigmund’s knife. The shape of the triangle was unmistakeable. He was definitely a marked man now.