FLASH FICTION - JANUARY 2022

Eric had had problems at school. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He blamed his parents. They had not appreciated the importance of the number 7. Instead his teachers had spoken about autism, but Eric had understood that this was just a term which they used in order to ‘keep him in his place’.

As Eric grew into a young man, he found that running gave him the purpose and escape that he

sought in life. He loved the focus, the determination and, most of all, the opportunity to win.

Today was the day of the local seven mile run. It was not a coincidence that Eric had chosen this

race. It was his race because it was his number.

Eric stood at the front of the runners as they stood on the starting line. He surveyed those around

him, seeing a rainbow of colours. Each of them was destined to become a loser in Eric’s eyes.

The starting pistol was fired and the race began. Eric had a plan that would lead him to victory.

It had been raining, but it had stopped now, and the puddles that decorated the route only served to create a further challenge, as Eric’s laser-like focus would not allow him to be deflected from victory.

Thump! Thump! Splash! Splash! Eric’s heart beat to the rhythm of his strides as his legs drove him

forward. The final mile was in sight, but what was this in front of him? He saw two runners, side-byside, jostling each other in a competition to get ahead, or so he thought.

Eric put in an extra effort to sprint past them, when he heard one runner, who appeared to have

more energy than the other, say,

‘You’re nearly finished’.

What?! Eric knew that one runner was threatening the other with unsolicited aggression. What was worse was that the man doing the threatening was wearing Number 13 and the man being

threatened was wearing 77. So that was it! The Devil was seeking to impose his will on the innocent.

Despite his horror, Eric continued to focus, keeping his eyes fixed on the finishing line, before

passing everyone else and raising his arms in the air, projecting his chest forward to claim the

winner’s medal.

Eric felt triumphant but, more importantly, he felt vindication.

But that is not the end of Eric’s story.

The following week, as he turned to the front page of his local newspaper, Eric read a headline that shook him to the core. There, right before his eyes, was a photograph of the man he had seen the previous week, Number 77. He had died.

Then Eric understood. The Number 77 had not died a normal death. He had been murdered. Eric had heard the threat as he had passed by during the race. ‘You are nearly finished’.

Eric knew his duty.

He picked up his phone and rang 999. It was time for the evil to suffer and for justice to prevail, God willing.

It was the usual Monday morning commute into London, a warm early spring day that cheered the passengers on the train with the promise of a pleasant sunny day in the city. The train slowed to a halt. The intercom apologised for a ten-minute delay. The engines powered down to silence. There was an occasional ping of cooling metal and the faint susurration of music leaking from someone’s headphones. No one spoke, but it was the companiable quiet of seasoned commuters content to delay their working day with a few stolen minutes of peaceful contemplation. But it was not to be.

A woman leaned over and tapped the knee of the person sitting opposite her.

“I THOUGHT it was you, HIDING behind that NEWSPAPER!”

Her voice was a nasal drone with a piercing quality that carried through the carriage. Her companion looked up in alarm and squirmed in his seat. He mumbled an inaudible response.

“Oh, busy as USUAL! I’m practically RUNNING the place. But do I get any THANKS!” she declaimed, fixing her companion with a determined stare. The man folded his newspaper in resignation.

She worked for the local council in environmental services. The lack of appreciation at work had not dimmed her self-confidence in the least.  She shared in monotonous detail her single-handed interventions to implement the rules in the face of opposition from colleagues and members of the public. She had personally prevented planning permission for a loft extension because of a minor omission in the application which her co-workers had been prepared to overlook. But, “Rules are RULES. Whatever NEXT! Houses built out of ASBESTOS!?!”

Her meek companion tried to interrupt her monologue, mumbling about the need for family housing in the area.

She ploughed on regardless, this time with a tally of the countless lives she had saved by insisting on the closure of a local restaurant because of a cracked tile in the kitchen. Lesser colleagues had suggested a bit of re-tiling, but, “Rules are RULES! Whatever NEXT! People in intensive CARE with SALMONELLA!?!”

Two schoolboys behind her feigned suicide, one hanging himself with his own tie, the other shooting his brains out with two fingers to his head. They slumped in their seats pretending to be dead. 

Oblivious to signs of irritation from the people around her and barely drawing breath, she launched into another tale about fining a donkey sanctuary because of their failure to secure the proper permission to sell manure to the local allotment holders association. But, “Rules are RULES! Whatever NEXT! …….”

“Let me GUESS!” mimicked a voice from the end of the carriage, “POTATOES with foot and MOUTH disease?!?”

The schoolboys, instantly raised from the dead, hooted with delight. Cheers and laughter filled the carriage. The engines started up and the train pulled into the station. 

The woman, tight lipped, stepped onto the platform and stalked off undeterred, ready to save the world from itself. 

You know, it’s very frustrating when people give your hobby a bad name. I have lurked all my life. It has been a hobby of mine. But please don’t misunderstand me. I have never lurked in order to do harm to anyone. I sometimes feel a bit lonely, you see, and lurking gives me the chance to find out what is going on in the lives of other people, because I am certain that their lives must be much more interesting than mine.

Let me give you some advice, if you ever think about taking up the habit. These are some of the things not to do: when I first started, I tried lurking behind lampposts in broad daylight, but people could see me, so that didn’t work. Then I would go down to the local swimming pool in an attempt to lurk under water, only to discover that I couldn’t hear anything, so that didn’t work either.

Then I discovered the secret. To have the opportunity to lurk properly, you have to be given a part in a soap opera on television. Oh the joy! Do you know that, in almost every episode, I get a chance to lurk somewhere; it could be in the corridor of someone’s house, at the top of the stairs, or even behind a bush. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the opportunities are endless.

And what is so amazing is that the stupid people whose conversations I am listening to, always leave doors open and come out with the most secret of announcements, apparently completely oblivious of my presence. Just in the last month, for example, I have listened to intentions to take revenge on others, the birth of steamy affairs, plots to murder, and even plans for a wild party during lockdown!

Yes, there is no end to the opportunities I have had indulge my fascination with lurking. But what is the downside to all this, in terms of credibility?

To be completely truthful, I have to admit that, very recently, I heard a couple who were embarking on a steamy affair, when one of the characters, a man, propositioned the woman with the immortal line, ‘Is it really serious between the two of us?’ to which she replied, ‘I have never been more serious in my life’. I’m glad she was serious, because I found the whole scene ridiculous. Did she not know that this man had already been married to at least five other women in the same street?

Anyway, I shouldn’t offload. If, like me, you love to spend much of your time listening to the conversations of others, and you have been denied those opportunities because of lockdown, let me recommend you take a role in a soap-opera. You could start as an extra before being promoted to a leading character, as I was.

I promise you, you will fulfil your dreams.

And they pay you as well!

Join me, realise your ambitions, and become a benevolent lurker.

Once, a gentle king named Proboscis ruled over a magnificent kingdom. The people of Apricus

adored their king, for he was as kind and generous as they come.

  Despite his great fortune and the loyalty and admiration of his citizens, the King had one

shortcoming—he was very self-conscious about his appearance. King Proboscis (as his name

suggests), had a long nose that curved down towards his chin like a tapir’s snout. He tried in vain to hide it, but the makeup he applied and the moustache he grew only made his nose more prominent. Proboscis spent many sleepless nights worrying that his people mocked him behind his back. But the Apricusians were too loyal and grateful to mutter unkind words about their King. They loved him for who he was—long nose and all.

  One spring afternoon, the King held a splendid garden party for the citizens of Apricus. He

invited musicians and performers from neighbouring kingdoms, and spared no expense to ensure

that his guests had only the best delicacies to eat and the finest wines to drink. Among the attendees were the palace cook and his closest friends. They sat on the lawn near the bandstand praising the King (as they so often did).

  ‘We are fortunate to have such a thoughtful king,’ said the cook.

  ‘He is a wonderful man,’ the butcher agreed.

   ‘I’m grateful to wake up in his kingdom every morning,’ the schoolmaster chimed in.

  The doctor raised his glass. ‘A toast! To our most excellent King!’

  ‘I hope he knows how much we appreciate and love him,’ said the butcher.

  ‘Aye! Aye! As long as he knows … ,’ the cook remarked, then took a long swig from his glass.

  King Proboscis happened to stroll past at the tail end of this conversation. You might say his

insecurities got the better of him because he thought he’d heard his cook say, “Aye yai! How long is 

his nose?” Crestfallen, the King dashed into the palace and shut himself in his chamber, where he

remained for seven days.

  All the people of Apricus worried for their King, but none was more troubled than the palace

cook. It wasn’t like the King to refuse his meals, and he had done so for a week. On the eighth day,

the concerned cook tapped on the King’s chamber door.

  When the King opened the door, he frowned. ‘It is he who mocks my nose.’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing,’ the cook said.

  ‘At the garden party … I heard you say, “Aye yai! How long is his nose?”’

  The cook thought back to that day then chuckled. ‘You must’ve misheard me on account of the

music, sire,’ he said, then recounted the conversation, word for word.

  ‘You are a fine King, and we love you, just as you are.’

  From this, the King learnt to never assume the worst when he’s only heard a snippet of a

conversation. More importantly, he learned to love himself—long nose and all. 

“What would Marco do in this situation?” I hear a dark haired woman saying to her companions., in the Eurostar departure lounge at St Pancras. 

“We asked for decaffs but they served us real coffee and we buzzed all night.” 

Who is Marco? Is he an inspiration, an alter ego we can use to help us deal with a crisis?

My wife is in Geneva managing an exhibition stand at a Banking Conference. I’ve decided to get a French Rail Pass and take a week to travel down to see her, stopping off in Paris on the way.

I board Eurostar expecting a place for restful contemplation but I find myself sitting outside Harry Edward’s mobile office. I know it’s him because he tells everyone he calls. 

He has four seats to himself and the central table is laid out like a desk. A large report is spread in front of him, probably key material for his trip to Paris. 

I’m on my own personal mission but for the next three hours it seems that Harry will be sharing his life with me. He tries to read the report but his mobile phone addiction is too strong. 

He calls Ben to tell him he’s making a pitch to Printemps and expects to get a contract. He boasts that he always closes a sale in one visit. 

He calls Mike to say the dinner last night was fun and wasn’t Cathy looking sexy. He tells Mike to make a play for her. 

He calls John and tells him that he’s not happy with Anne’s performance. He’s noted at least ten incidents of her lying and plans to make her an agenda item at the next staff meeting with Dave. 

Now, Harry’s having trouble with his mobile - he’s got no messages. He rings technical support and learns how to load Whatsapp. There are still no messages but he’s convinced this is because of poor reception on the train. 

We enter the Channel Tunnel and the mobile phone users are silenced. Harry looks distraught. At last, I can think in peace. I sip the champagne served by the stewardess with “Love Cynthia” on her badge. “Thanks Love,” I say and she tops up my glass.

When we arrive in France, Harry asks for my help to find a French network. I show him how and note his mobile number . He starts rabbiting again as soon as he’s connected

What would Marco do in this situation? Would he put up with someone making endless loud trivial calls? 

I decide Marco would send Harry some hoax messages, apparently from Dave.

Sorry Harry, Printemps just called to cancel your visit. They have signed with IBM. Dave

By the way don’t attack Anne at the next meeting. We are an item

Harry looks ashen. He obviously hasn’t checked where the messages have come from. At last, with Marco’s help, I have silenced him, 

Living opposite a supermarket was quite convenient.  A two-minute walk if I needed a bit of shopping, or wanted to satisfy a late-night craving after watching The Bake Off! 

All was well, until a hand car wash crew moved into the car park. They were just too damn noisy. From eight until five, six days a week. They didn’t know how to talk to each other;  they shouted..…constantly. I could tell you which football teams they supported, what their wives’ names were, what beer they drank, and sometimes very personal stuff! And why they couldn’t just close the car doors is beyond me. I wondered if they were having a competition to see who could slam the doors the loudest. My point is; that they were noisy and irritating all day, and I couldn’t get away from it. Last summer was the worst. Constant shouting and music, it was so very hot that keeping the windows closed was unbearable.

I had complained to the council about the noisy carwash, but it got me nowhere. They said that they had allowed the company a six-month trial period, then they would review the situation. I had asked my neighbours to complain but no one seemed as bothered as I was.

I couldn’t get out much. My car had failed its MOT, so I swapped it for £150 at the local scrap merchants. I was desperate for a day at the beach, so decided to put the money aside for that. I didn’t want to save for a rainy day, I wanted to spend on a sunny one.

I had woken quite early one Monday morning. It was a beautiful warm day and the car wash was quieter than normal. I made myself a cup of tea and sat in my lounge enjoying the peace. Fifteen minutes later a car screeched to a halt and the normal ‘Alright mate?’ began. 

‘You’re bloody late, where have you been?’

‘Yeh, sorry Jake, I got held up by the misses this morning’

‘What? Did she want a bit of hanky panky?’

‘I wish!’

‘Yeh that would only have made you five minutes late’

The raucous laughter pierced through my ears.

‘Cor, a Ferrari, bright red as well, who’s is that?’

‘Some woman who has come to town on business. She’s leaving it here ‘til five.  I have already polished and hovered the inside, it’s a beauty. If I’m not here when she comes for it, it’s a tall woman wearing a black jacket. Right, now you’re here I am popping into the shop for a coffee’.

I went to my wardrobe to find my black jacket, slipped it on, grabbed my £150 and headed to the car wash.

‘Hi there’ I casually called as I walked towards the Ferrari ‘Change of plan, I have been called back to my office, here’s £20, keep the change.’

‘No problem luv’ as I pressed the twenty-pound note into his hand, he pressed the car key into mine.

I stepped out into the warm spring Parisian sunshine. Rue Saint-Martin was its usual ugly façade. The Art Deco so loved by Perret was pockmarked much to the city’s planners chagrin. Like all architectural statements, it tells its story of a time and place. The bulldozers could sweep it away, but my French cousins would not have anything to get angry about. At least, not in Beaubourg.

I had agreed to meet London’s latest recruit, Johnson, at Café Le Fusee at eleven hundred. Hum, the Café seems rather full this morning. 

‘Un tasse de café, monsieur?’ said Henri the proprietor.

‘Oui’

I shall read La Figaro while waiting for Johnson. He is new to the game, so he has so much to learn. The first, how not to stand out in a crowd. I had called Jeanette Varillois last night just to ensure Johnson made it to his hotel. Best I just hold my position. I can at least gaze down Rue Saint-Martin without being blinded by the sun. Who is that man behind me? His phone didn’t ring, but he’s talking. He is American. Surely, he is not on the Russian job or is it my overacting mind?

‘Hi, Pascal. Nah, he's not here yet but I’m sure I am in the right place. He flew in last night. Schapinsky is there watching. Laters.’

Henri’s coming over to me. ‘Un tasse de café, monsieur. Croissant?’

‘Merci’

I have known Henri for years. We have, shall we say, a code. A croissant means that I am being watched. If the croissant is placed on the plate with the horns pointing outward, the person watching me is outside; if placed toward me, the person is in the café. Henri would then bring over a butter knife pretending to forget earlier and place this on the table pointing in the direction of the watcher, and a sugar bowl if he felt I could be in immediate danger. The sugar bowl did not arrive. I stirred my coffee slowly. Henri laid the knife on the table pointing behind me toward my American friend.

The café door opened and in walked the unmistakable figure of Johnson. Why does he look like a spy of the cold war? This is not Tinker Tailor!

‘Table pour un, monsieur,’ said Johnson in his broken French accent. Henri pointed to the table to my right and Johnson sat down. Our American friend immediately struck up conversation with Johnson. 

‘You Johnson?’

‘Pardon, monsieur?’

‘For heaven’s sake Johnson, your cover whatever that is, has been blown.’ I said turning to look at the American. ‘What’s your business friend?’

‘Don’t you know me, Harris?’

I looked hard into his eyes. I couldn’t place him. 

‘Cuba!’

‘What’s going on?’ shouted Johnson.

‘Your rookie Johnson here, is a double agent damn it,’ said the American. 

Johnson got up from the table and bolted for the door. Henri stood in Johnson’s way of escape. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I just happened to be listening to Vangelis's 1978 LP Beaubourg and noticed (not for the first time) that there is a listening ear on the cover! (see image) - eureka! The Overheard Conversation! I visited Paris in the mid-late 80s (sadly can't remember exactly when) and decided on staying in a hotel in Beaubourg partly as this was reasonably close to the filming sites of the 1950s The Red Balloon; but, also within a short Metro ride to the Louvre et al... Like all parts of cities, Beaubourg has something oddly attractive. The café I mentioned in the story certainly exists, though the characters are fictitious. 

Karen had been at home with the boys all day. She was exhausted. She thought William had picked up a cold at nursery.  Yesterday the baby had started with the same symptoms.  John had slept through both boys crying.  They seemed to play a tag team, as soon as she got one off to sleep the other one woke up. 

John’s alarm rang at 6.30am, he had his shower, made tea and toast, left the dishes in the sink and went off to work. Karen lay in bed, she could feel her anger rising, John had not checked on the boys before he left, he’d not even given her a goodbye kiss.  He’d escaped to work and she had to deal with everything; washing, cleaning cooking, with little sleep and two sick sons.

John’s dirty clothes lay on the bedroom floor. Why could he never put things in the linen basket? Sighing, she picked up the laundry. Karen caught sight of herself in the mirror, hair standing on end and dark circles below her eyes.  She needed a shower.  Turning on the tap, she heard Thomas, the baby start crying. Too late, the day had started.

Thomas was standing in the cot, his face bright red, maybe he was teething after all? William toddled into the bedroom, still half sleep, sucking his thumb.

“Hello my little soldier, how are you feeling today?”

Karen gave him a hug before picking Thomas up. No point rushing to get them washed and dressed, it was another stay-at home day, third in a row. Karen made breakfast with the baby on her hip, whilst William played with his cars on the mat, his head bent in concentration. Karen saw a red patch on the back of his neck,

“William, come to Mummy”

He was covered in red spots, Karen was certain it was chicken pox.  She muddled through the rest of the day, spots gradually appearing on Thomas too. Putting both boys in the bath, she heard John’s key turn in the lock. He plodded up the stairs.  Karen stood on the landing and burst into tears,

“I need to go out and get some Kalpol and Calamine lotion, the boys have chicken pox.”

John started to say he’d go instead.

“John, I just need to get out of the house for half an hour.” 

As Karen opened the front door she realised she hadn’t even brushed her hair, she shut the door again and went into the cloakroom. She then heard John at the top of the stairs,

“Hello Patsy, sorry love, I’ll have to be quick. Both the boys are sick, she’s just gone to the chemist. We’ll have to postpone tomorrow night. No she can’t cope with everything, she was crying when I came in.  I’ll make it up to you when I have to ‘work late’ again.” he laughed.

Karen gripped the sides of the basin until her knuckles went white. Patsy her best friend since school, a double betrayal.