five short stories

Williamson/Story Selection One

1

ESCAPADE FOR TWO.

Fourteen hundred hours. Sunlight slanted into the room.

He got up, opened the shutters and saw the town of Lesande on

Zakita Island.

The town was narrow, defined by the formation of the land between

the hills of Kastro and Exantaveloni. Brightly coloured houses with

arches and carved doorways and another hotel similar to the one he was

in.

Had Nadezda arrived while he’d been sleeping? He shaved,

showered and dressed and went down to the lobby. There was only one

other person there; an old lady, knitting.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rush,” she said. “You and I have missed the

tour to St. Aug’s Caves.”

“Afternoon, Miss Duncan,” he said. They had sat together on the

flight from Dublin.

“Did you have a refreshing sleep?”

He looked towards the desk where the register was. It was

unattended. “Excuse me,” he said.


2

He saw there were no new arrivals since his party had signed in last

night. Nadezda hadn’t come in on the noon ‘plane. That left the ferry

arriving in an hour’s time.

He did not doubt she was on her way. Would she make it? Was she

captive or killed? Crossing the borders of one crumbling ideology after

another was dangerous. His own journey had not been without incident

but he was sure he’d lost his pursuers in Ireland. He’d come here as a

tourist.

The old lady put her knitting away. “Will you be so kind as to help

me up?”

He gave her his arm so that she could raise herself from the chair.

“I’ll take a little walk down to the harbour,” she said. “There’s a ferry

coming in and I just love to watch people arrive. Don’t you?”

“Why didn’t you go on the tour, Miss Duncan?” he asked.

“Age, Mr. Rush.”

“Enjoy the harbour,” he said.

“Will I see you there?”

“Possibly,” he said.

“We could watch the ferry arrive, together. Oh, please, don’t

misunderstand. It’s just that you and I are the only two unattached


3

people on the tour and I thought we could see and converse about the

sites together. Of course, if you have come seeking Romance with a

capital R. I shall understand. Are you a Romantic Mr. Rush?”

He watched her go from the hotel.

The desk was now attended and he asked for Internet access. No

messages from Nadezda.

Outside, the day was glorious and the scent of wildflowers blew

down from the hills. Even if Nadezda arrived how could they live the

lives they wanted to? They both had the forlorn and romantic hope that

they would not be traced.

Nobody gets out alive, but they wanted so much to live and love

together before their exit and perhaps have children. Their lives had been

so fruitless and unproductive so far.

What was he going to do about Miss Duncan? He was sure she

knew his real identity. Had she already reported his whereabouts? Was

there someone coming to silence him for what he had in his head, just as,

for the same reason Nadezda would be silenced?

He joined Miss Duncan at the harbour.

“Ferry’s just arriving,” she said.


4

He watched the quayside preparations for the docking. His eyes

scanned the deck of the ferry.

“Are you hoping to meet someone, Mr. Rush?

He did not miss her emphasis upon the word ‘hoping’. Nadezda’s

name, translated, meant ‘Hope’.

His heart soared and sank at the same time. Nadezda was there, but

now he was certain the old woman knew who they were.

“Isn’t that a pretty girl with the rucksack?” she said.

Which left him in no doubt at all.

Nadezda came from the ferry and their eyes met momentarily

before she walked towards the hotel. He scrutinized the other passengers.

Mostly holidaymakers, but two were of his profession. A man with

Slavonic features whose body moved easily in an ill-fitting suit, which

did little to conceal the automatic he carried in a shoulder holster. The

other was a small, lithe, Chinese woman, who carried their holdalls.

“Excuse me,” he said to Miss Duncan.

“Yes,” she said. “You must go.”

He stayed close behind them to act if they moved to harm Nadezda.

She made it to the hotel and registered for the room booked for her. For


5

the Slavonic man and the Chinese woman there was no room at this inn.

They made no fuss and sought other accommodation.

When Nadezda admitted him to her room, she said, “Thomas, we

are discovered.”

“I know,” he said. “Two with you and one with me.” He told her

about Miss Duncan.

They took each other in their arms.

In the early hours of the morning they evaded an inadequate

Slavonic surveillance and made their way into the hills to the house he

had bought for them.

They had two idyllic days together before they were found.

“If only this would last, Thomas, my love,” Nadezda said.

“I wish,” he said.

Each day they made a number of circular scouting trips. On this

occasion he was alone moving quietly among the rocks when he saw

Miss Duncan crouched behind a tree. She had a high-powered telescopic

rifle.

He glanced towards the house. Nadezda had come out and was

going to the well for water. Miss Duncan raised the rifle. He cursed

himself for not bringing a gun this time. Those two days had made him


6

careless. He picked up a rock and bounded towards Miss Duncan,

shouting.

She was not put off by his shout; did not flinch, and then there was

a sharp report of the rifle just as he flung the stone. It hit her on the

shoulder knocking the rifle from her hands. He ran on and grabbed it as

she fell to the ground.

When he looked for Nadezda he saw her, frozen for a moment, then

she turned and ran for the house. The old woman had missed.

“Damn it, Thomas, look to your right,” Miss Duncan’s anger came

through gritted teeth. “Before it’s too late.”

What was she trying to pull now? Maybe she had a concealed

handgun. She made no hostile movement. So he glanced to his right and

saw that there was a body lying there and a woman was pulling a rifle

from beneath it. She got the gun free and was aiming it towards the

running Nadezda.

He brought the Chinese woman’s head into the crosshairs of the

’scope and squeezed the trigger. He saw a spray of blood and a

disintegrating skull.

He looked for Nadezda. There was no sign of her. She must have

gained the house. He turned to Miss Duncan.


7

“Just who are you?” he said.

“You want to put my shoulder back in place?”

“I thought you were shooting at Nadezda,” he said. “This will hurt,”

With a sudden pull he relocated her shoulder.

She got to her feet. “I was sent to kill you both,” she said. “I

decided not to.”

“Why?”

“Call it my little act of rebellion.”

“They’ll send someone else,” he said.

“Then we must give them proof that you are both dead.”

“How can you do that?” he asked.

“There is a way. Let’s go to the house. This concerns your Nadezda

too.”

*

Miss Duncan knitted through her debriefing.

“You did well, Sarah,” said her Head of Section. A good clean

job.”

“And you, Henry? Is your opposite number satisfied?”

“He made a slight fuss about his two dead agents, but accepted our

evidence. The D.N.A. matched their records.


8

So Thomas and Nadezda can live in peace with their new

identities?”

“And they can still hold hands,” said Henry. “A hand from each of

them was not too high a price to pay for the possibility of children and a

family life.”

“We should have thought of that for ourselves,” said Sara Duncan

with a sigh. “A lot earlier.”


9

FOR GOODNESS SAKE.

Of course she was scared, it was Christmas Eve for goodness sake

and the first time she’d ever seen Geraldine without her head.

Her name was Catrina and she was a novice assigned to our group.

When she said, “I’d like to go home for Christmas Day,” Geraldine had

laughed her head off.

“You can’t go home,” I said, sharply. There was no use feeling

sorry for the new ones. That only gives them hope in a hopeless

situation.

The fear she felt was not in seeing Geraldine headless. It is the fear

we all live with being where we are and of doing what we do.

“Am I never to see my family again?” Catrina asked.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “If they come here. But perhaps not even if

they do come here.” She gave a moan of despair. “You are here to

learn,” I said. “You will come with me and learn the ways of doing what

has to be done.”

“I know what has to be done,” she said. “And I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. Just do it.”


10

“I know your aims and objectives, and I do not want to do what any

of you do.”

“Come with me.” I took her to the world of the dying which the

dying call living. “You will learn to be headless like Geraldine.”

“I really don’t want to do that.”

“It is not in your best interests to be rebellious.”

“Does that mean I can be?”

“Catrina, there is no kindness here. The consequences of rebellion

are dire. You will be subjected to what you fear most. It is best you

comply. That way you will never lack company for you know that you

do not want to be locked in the darkness of a solitary cell.” She

shuddered at that.

“But your aims and objectives are so horrible,” she said.

“Of course they are. That’s the whole point. We must torture

people with our little horribles otherwise we will suffer ourselves. Now

I’ll admit that Geraldine’s methods are often crude. I myself prefer

subtlety. Nevertheless, if the methods employed are effective it does not

matter if they are crude or subtle. Geraldine can be subtle when the

occasion demands, and I can be crude. You shall learn all the skills.”

“But will I get enjoyment in doing what you want me to do?”


11

“None. Why should you? There is no joy in our existence here.”

“If only….”

“It is futile to say ‘If only’. What you have to realize is that all of us

here are in the business of making people discontented with their lives

and relationships. Our purpose is to make them selfish so that, to quote

an Irish poet, they have curling gubs, purses they can’t fill, and wagging

tongues that won’t be still. I’m quite good with poets actually, although

one did get away. I’m working on one now.”

“I don’t want to go with you. I don’t want any part in making

people unhappy.”

“Believe me, with poets you’d be doing them a favour. The more

unhappy they are, the better poetry they write.”

We had arrived at a two-storied stone house with frosting snow

glistening on its slate roof. Smoke comes thinly from two of its

chimneys. We cannot smell this or feel the nip of the frost.

My poet is sitting in one room, his wife in another. Despite a fire in

each of these rooms coldness prevails. I tell Catrina that I have been

successful in sending them both to that well-known holiday resort for

married couples – loggerheads. Their attempt at festive decoration is

drab.


12

I introduce Thomas Hardy. “I’m helping him with this poem,” I tell

Catrina indicating the paper under his pen. “It’s called The Oxen.”

“Is he in pain?”

“Excruciating pain. His pain comes from the fact that I am

preventing him from going back to the enemy.”

“I wish,” said Catrina.

“You wish what?”

“That you would let him go back to… to…”

“The enemy. Go on. Why can’t you say it?”

“Because I know now he was not the enemy.”

“Well, he is now. If I let him go back I should be hauled over the

coals, and that is an experience I have no wish to repeat. That is what I

fear most.”

“When did it happen to you?”

“When I lost Thomas Stearns Eliot.”

“Was it more awful than knowing that if you let him go you will

have done some good? Let Mr. Hardy go.”

“You forget your place.”

“I remember it only too well. Do you not remember yours?”


13

“I do not forget the coals. Anyway, after Eliot rejoined the enemy

he wrote nothing great.”

“I will not serve in this way,” Catrina said.

“Then darkness awaits you in a solitary cell. How long do you

think you can endure that?”

“I will endure it for as long as that modicum of good remains with

me. You have it too. Why do you not respond to it?”

“Because I cannot endure perpetual searing.”

“I am going back now,” Catrina said. “I choose darkness and

isolation.”

“Go. Go, then, go.”

After she had gone I wondered why I was so agitated. Deep down

in me something stirred and I struggled not to understand why this

novice had chosen to deprive herself of company and live with her fear

of being closed up in a confined space in order to act upon that particle

of good that remains to all of us.

I let Hardy wrestle with The Oxen until it was Christmas Day.

Christmas Day is usually a very active day for us for we can latch upon

the general sense of anti-climax and build it up into frank


14

disillusionment. In this way we turn the enemy’s triumph into a defeat

for many.

On this Christmas Day, for goodness sake, I lost my head and was

hauled over the coals, again, and again, and again, and again, and…


15

HANDSOME IS AS HANDSOME DOES.

The only person who ever kissed him was his mother.

She alone could look upon him without embarrassment and without

revulsion.

When he was a baby matronly ladies looking into his pram expecting

the utmost aesthetic reward turned away shocked by what their eyes had

seen. They did not look twice but hastily sought solace in other

perambulators to restore their faith in the belief that all babies were cute and

cuddly.

Thus he was not smiled at or cooed over by anyone other than his

mother. Following his difficult delivery, her partner, who, with no ties that

bind, had fled in unbelief that his could ever have been the seed that

spawned such a grotesque, had deserted her.

Was it his guilt that motivated his sending the child’s mother money

each month? His mother did not know, and did not care. The amount was

useful and more than adequate, and along with her own inheritance she used

it to ensure that her son suffered no material disadvantage.


16

She had him christened, Samuel, but even the Minister, as his fingers

sprinkled the water on her baby’s, head averted his gaze.

Drops of it ran down the rough, dark purple birthmark that was

Samuel’s right cheek, while other drops trickled into his left eye with its

drooping under-lid. The water, like a large tear coursed down to his mouth

where it paused on his harelip. When little Samuel looked at the Minister

and began to cry, his eyes were crossed.

The Minister hastily returned the child to his protective mother. As it

turned out the plea he made to the members of his flock that they should

involve themselves in Samuel’s Christian upbringing and welfare, fell upon

deaf ears and his mother was left on her own to tackle that task.

She did so to the best of her ability. The grey-gabled house in which

Samuel grew up was situated in South Belfast. Its front door opened onto a

spacious walnut-floored hall, from which a stairway with walnut banisters

led to the upper floors.

Samuel’s mother kept a bright home with colourful displays of flowers

cut from the gardens where she taught Samuel to husband flowers,

vegetables, and trees.


17

At times she would sit with him by the bay window and read him

stories from the Bible and the classics. Samuel thought they were wonderful

and was transported.

Through time as he grew up she would repeat, “Handsome is as

handsome does, Samuel. Always remember that.”

When she taught him the commandments of God he would ask about

why he had no father to honour. She thought of saying his father had gone

to heaven, but she would not lie to him. Never once did she speak a

disparaging word about the man who had left, but praised him for sending

money.

“Will he come back?”

“Perhaps, someday,” she said, “but it is difficult not to do unto others

what they have done to us.”

“I would like him to come back.”

She thanked God that Samuel’s body had grown straight and strong,

and that he had not been behind the door when it came to dealing with those

at school who would have bullied him. She gave short shrift to complaining

parents referring them to the Headmaster who was fair-minded and

sympathetic.


18

It worried her as she watched him develop a passion for this or that

little girl that he was repeatedly rejected, but by the time Samuel went from

school to university, she observed that he seemed to have become

accustomed to not having a share in what his peers partook of.

He read a lot, and went alone to the theatre and cinema where he

quivered with emotion during moments of tragic catastrophe. He preferred

tragedy to comedy where everything ended with multiple marriages and

turned out better than what it had been in the beginning. This is probably

why, when his mother died of a sudden stroke during his second year at

university, he savoured the sorrow he felt and nourished it with innumerable

memories from his childhood and made the most of it as one would of a

great happiness.

He could no longer ask her about his father.

Samuel completed his second year at university and decided to take a

year out. He wanted to find his father, who for a number of years before the

death of his mother had ceased sending money. He hoped his father was not

dead.

It took time, but Samuel found his father and travelled to Glasgow to

meet with him. The circumstances in which he found him reminded Samuel

of the lower depths described in nineteenth century Russian novels.


19

Samuel sat down amidst the squalor.

“Mother is dead,” he told him.

“What did she say about me?”

“That it was good of you to send money.”

“I did for a while then I drank it instead.”

“Don’t look out of the window. Look at me.”

“I can’t.

“Why? Because I am ugly or because you are ashamed?”

“You are ugly.”

“I know, but I am not ashamed.”

“Why didn’t she get something done with your face?”

“It would have meant suffering for little. Doctors said so.”

“Go home.”

“Come home with me.”

“I’m a drunk. I’d ruin your life.”

“You don’t have to. You can stop being a drunk.”

“Maybe I don’t want to?”

“Come home with me. Die in comfort.”

“I’m far from dead, boyo.”

“You’ll die someday. Why not live at home until then?”


20

“I can’t see why you’d want me?”

“It’s only right. You should have come home when mother was still

alive. We’d have all been together then.”

Samuel’s father closed his eyes, gave a great sigh, and sank back onto

his filthy bed.

Samuel brought him home. He kept the house bright with flowers from

the garden, and he taught his father to husband vegetables and trees.


21

HOW TO FLOAT A LEAD BALOON.

“…, a man we all know as a best-selling author and scriptwriter. One

of the world’s top twenty richest people…. Ladies and gentlemen, Simon

Shaw.”

The audience applauds his entrance all the way down the stairs and his

walk to where Peter Solway, the chat-show host waits to shake his hand

with that professional smile that again reinforces the viewers’ belief that he,

Solway is indeed a sincere fellow.

Shaw sits and acknowledges the studio audience with a broad wave of

the hand and smiles into the camera for the television viewers. He makes

himself comfortable in his chair as he and Solway both sit down.

“I must warn you, Simon,” Solway begins, “that this is not going to be

an easy interview. In fact, quite the opposite. I intend to show you up for

what you are, a fraud.”

He has the attention of the audience. There is a collective intake of

breath just as he thought there would be. Shaw comes forward to the edge

of his chair, his eyes hard on Solway. Each hold the gaze, then Shaw says

quietly and distinctly:


22

“And you think this will improve your dwindling ratings?”

“This has nothing to do with my ratings.”

“Which have been going down like that lead balloon since Christmas. I

must warn you Peter, in trying to show me up as a fraud, you might just

show yourself up as one.”

“That is very unlikely. Can we begin with you telling us about your

father.”

“I have written three books about him. I hardly think there is more the

public could know.”

“When I say your father I do not mean Kenneth Shaw, I mean John

McNally.”

“Ha, so that’s the way the wind blows.” Shaw addresses the audience

and the cameras. “We are in collusion here, Peter and I. Our script is

already written. All we are doing here is acting it out. Thirty years ago, we

got together and made each other what we are.”

The audience stirs and murmurs not knowing how to take this. It is

nervous but settles as a sea when the wind drops.

“Let me assure the viewers that there is no collusion between you and

I, Shaw. Everybody knows you as the rich and famous Simon Shaw, but

that’s not who you really are.”


23

“True enough, but you are not Peter Solway, the perfect television

presenter. Your name is Brian O’Hanlon, and mine is Sean McNally.

“My name is authentic,” Solway says.

“Our names are authentic because we had them changed by deed poll.

How long do you think it will be before your producer finds another

presenter?”

“That’s all very clever, McNally. Realizing we have the goods on you,

you seek to ruin my credibility and career by saying that we are in

collusion.”

“When was it we changed our names? Thirty years ago?”

“Yes, thirty years ago, but you and I never met to collude in any way.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Beg all you please. It never happened.”

“It was through you and your influence with the media that I became

the rich, famous, and successful man I am now. What was it you said to me

one time? Oh, yes, ‘The media gives and the media takes away.’ You made

me and this is where you try to break me.”

“It was through your own efforts, your own ruthless efforts that you

became rich and powerful, and yes, we do intend to show how you have

been deceiving the public all these years.”


24

“Without you, I would not be where I am today, Peter.”

“Nonsense. It was your own presentation of self throughout the last

thirty years that made you what you are, a shark in murky waters.”

“It was you who found me Kenneth Shaw.”

“I don’t know if you found Ken Shaw for yourself or someone else

found him for you. It certainly wasn’t me.”

“How well you deliver your lines, Peter, but you must admit Ken Shaw

was ideal for our purposes. A murdered man with no known relatives who

would become my father and the genesis of all my millions, not to mention

yours.”

“For years I knew you were a fraud, Simon. I said so to your face. You

laughed and challenged me to prove it. It took me years, but I have that

proof now. I found your real father, John McNally.”

“You’ve known all along about John McNally. He never was missing.”

“His whereabouts were unknown. You made sure of that.” Solway

addresses camera and audience. “This man ladies and gentlemen, in order to

benefit from the fortune of Kenneth Shaw, had his own father, John

McNally hidden from public view in a mental institution. What sort of a son

with the wealth and influence he has would allow his father to languish in


25

such a place for so long a time?” Turns back to Shaw. “Perhaps you’d like

to tell us?”

“Sarah McNally was my mother, but John McNally is not my father,”

Shaw said.

“The identity of your mother is not in dispute. She died shortly after

your father, John McNally deserted her, after which you were place in an

orphanage.”

“Which was where I met you, and we formed a friendship I never

expected you to betray in this way.”

Camera pans across the rapt faces of the audience.

“Come off it, Shaw, you and I were never best mates.”

“I’m sure for your own psychological health you’d like to believe that.

It would be hard, if not impossible for you to accept yourself for the

treacherous and traitorous friend you turned out to be.

“I’ll ignore that untruth. You’re an author who writes blockbuster

novels and screenplays, but you’ve also written three so-called factual

books about the unsolved murder of Kenneth Shaw whom you claim was

your father. Tell us how you managed to convince the courts that you were

Kenneth Shaw’s only surviving relative.”

“Kenneth Shaw was my father. The evidence was incontrovertible.”


26

“As I understand it, the evidence consisted of letters supposedly

written to Kenneth Shaw by your mother, and letters from him to her. I put

it to you that you did in fact forge those letters and fabricated a whole tissue

of lies.”

“Ah, Peter, we could not have pulled it off you and I, had there been

DNA testing in those days.”

“Again, Shaw, I say I was not involved. But we can sort this matter out

once and for all. Now that we’ve found John McNally will you agree to a

comparison of his DNA to that of your own?”

“I don’t think you will be able to do that.”

“Are you refusing? I can understand why you are afraid. Such testing

would reveal you to be John McNally’s son, and a fraudster who gained his

estate and fortune by forgery.”

“Not at all. When I say I don’t think you will be able to do that, I

simply meant that if you really had found John McNally…”

“We found him, all right.”

“…you would realize that suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease he has

not the capacity to consent to DNA testing. But…” Shaw paused, “…if you

can get around that difficulty I will agree to provide a sample for DNA


27

testing…,” another pause, “… on the condition that you will also provide a

sample for comparison with the DNA of John McNally.”

“This is becoming ridiculous.”

“That’s the condition. In fact, Peter, I think there’s more chance of a

DNA match between you and John McNally than there is between McNally

and me.”

“You keep trying to implicate me in your nefarious schemes.”

“Only because you are implicated.”

“Does the truth never cross your lips?”

“Frequently. When I say Kenneth Shaw was my father, that is the

truth. If you and Mr. Matthews who owns this network and all those

scurrilous tabloids can arrange it, I’d be willing to have my DNA compared

to that of Kenneth Shaw. That would prove the truth of what I’m saying

once and for all.”

“It’s been thirty years.”

“Which is but a day to a forensic scientist. Forensic science might even

lead to the apprehension of his murderer.”

“It’s something to keep in mind. I deny your allegation that I was

involved in your machinations but I will go along with providing a sample

when John McNally agrees. All this will take time, so, for the moment,


28

unless you want to come clean and admit to everybody here just how big a

scoundrel you really are… No?… Then we’ll leave it there. Ladies and

gentlemen, watch this space.”

Without further ado, Solway introduces his next singing guest.

Later, the show off the air, Peter, Simon, and the producer who is

called Prentice, sit in the hospitality suite. Prentice is jubilant.

“I think it’s going to work, boys. It is going to work. There never was

so many phone calls from viewers. How long do you think you can keep it

going?”

“As long as it takes,” Solway says. “Right Simon?”

“We can make it an ongoing living soap,” Shaw says. “So far we’ve

got it written up for two years ahead.”

“Let’s hope it will hold the viewers.”

“Believe us,” Peter and Simon say in chorus. “It will. It will.”


29

a.k.a.

I have no idea why the ship went down. I was in the water, at

night, becoming colder and colder. I lost sight of the bobbing lights of

other people’s lifejackets, and calling out, and blowing my whistle

brought no life-boat full of people to my rescue. I gave up after a

while. I was on my own and would drown.

I pictured bodies, one by one, drifting slowly down, like the last

leaves of autumn on a still winter’s day, into stygian deeps, with

glazed eyes, open mouths, and distended nostrils. Had I known, then,

the hell I am going through, now, during this trial, I would gladly

have joined them.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, until something large

drove me under and made me struggle for breath. I surfaced, angrily,

thinking that this was no way for a sixty-year-old man to die. I

reached out and touched what had hit me - a drifting life-boat.

The sea had sapped my strength with its iciness, and with great

difficulty and enormous effort I, at length, fell, utterly exhausted,


30

over the gunnel. I cracked my head and lost consciousness, and when

I came to, the sun was high, and my clothes were dry. My mouth was

parched and my cracked lips full of salt.

At first I couldn’t remember where I was, or what had happened,

but, with the motion of the waves, and the wind spray, it came back to

me and I looked round, and saw him, sitting, staring at me.

I thought I was hallucinating because he was dressed like a

pirate, red waistcoat, white cravat, frock coat, and a cocked hat with a

skull and crossbones. His hair was tied back in a pigtail with a red

ribbon, and he wore an eye patch over his right eye and an ear ring in

his left ear.

“Hey man,” he said, “I was thinking that if you didn’t wake up

soon, I’d feed you to the sharks.”

I tried to speak but only croaked. He went on. “Then I thought,

hell no, I might need to eat him, so I let you be.”

The charge was read out to me.

“Henry Pollock you are accused of raping James Edward

Malone. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?


31

“Not guilty.”

His lawyer, in cross examination, impaled me with gimleting

eyes: “Is this the first time you were aware of my client?”

“Yes.”

“Mr Malone testified that, in fact, it was he who climbed

exhausted into the life-boat, and lay there unconscious.”

“I heard what he said. It isn’t true.”

“Why didn’t you help him into the boat?”

“Because I was in the sea, trying to get into the boat.”

“I put it to you, that instead of being his words to you, those

were your words to him.”

“Ridiculous! I’m telling the truth.”

“Are you indeed?” he said dryly. “What else is he supposed to

have said to you at that time.”

“Objection,” I said, defending myself.

“Sustained,” said the Judge. “Be more careful Mr Rivers.”


32

He told me he was Red Brick, the nineteen year old lead singer

in a hyper-punk group called Red Brick and the Concrete Blocks.

They were part of the onboard entertainment hired by the cruise

organizers.

I asked if there was any water in the life-boat.

“There’s more outside the boat, than in it,” he said, and giggled,

throwing out an indicating right hand. “Water, water everywhere, but

not a drop to drink,”

“Fresh water,” I said. “Have you been drinking sea water?” He

looked maddened.

“You don’t look like any spring chicken,” he said, appraisingly.

“You look a tough old bird. But never mind, I’ll still get enough off

your scrawny old carcass to keep me alive a bit longer.”

By this time my pity and sadness for the Concrete Blocks, who

probably sank without trace, was fast diminishing in the face of Red

Brick’s pointed remarks about eating me.


33

“Why don’t you row,” he said, kicking an oar in my direction.

“If you row far enough and fast enough, we might be rescued before I

have to eat you. I only want to eat you as a last resort.”

I ignored him, and lapsed into wary silence.

“Your witness,” said Mr Rivers, handing him over to me after

leading him gently through his lying evidence.

“Isn’t it true,” I began, “that when we were fortunate enough to

reach the atoll, you began to suffer withdrawal symptoms?”

He looked at the Judge and then at the jury, intook a long

breath, and said with an air of infinite patience, “I think you have

that back-to-front.”

“Are you saying that it was me who had the withdrawal

symptoms?”

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was not,” I snapped. “Why don’t you tell the truth?”

“Mr Pollock,” interrupted the Judge. “Things will go much

better if you do not lose your temper.”


34

“Instruct him to tell the truth, then, my Lord.”

“I suggest you calm down and continue with your cross-

examination,” the Judge said.

“Did I not nurse you through your withdrawal from alcohol and

drugs?” I asked Red Brick.

“It was I who nursed you, old man. Me. You gave me a hell of a

time. I was never so frightened in all my life. I thought you’d have a

heart attack or something. It was awful.” This time he looked from

the jury to the Judge, his face an appealing canvas of painted

innocence.

“Are you going to persevere in this trick of turning the truth

back-to-front?”

“Surely, it is you who is doing that,” he said.

I was getting nowhere. The judge adjourned for the day.

One morning, after a night of unpleasant dreams, we awoke to

find ourselves in sight of a not too distant palm-strewn beach with

white-water breakers. Red Brick was still talking to himself in his

fitful sleep, and not being sure if the island was a mirage I took up the


35

oars. Our casting up on the beach owed more to the incoming tide

than to my rowing, but it was certainly terra firma.

When I had given my own evidence concerning the time we were

on the atoll, Mr Rivers approached the witness stand.

“How many times have you had treatment for your alcoholic

addiction Mr Pollock?”

“Six times.”

“Those were the times you were in the Nelson Psychiatric

Hospital?”

“Yes. I dried out successfully, and I have been dry ever since.”

“Did you, because of your alcoholism, lose your job, your home,

your wife, contact with your family, and your dog?”

“Yes. But that was before...”

“Answer only the questions asked, Mr Pollock,” said Rivers.

“I think,” said the Judge, “a little leeway can be afforded Mr

Pollock who has chosen to defend himself.” The way he said it left

everyone in no doubt what he thought of such a practice.


36

“I was going to say your Honour, that since I lost everything, I

now have my own business, my own home, and a female live-in

partner, or at least I had until this trial, and I have re-established

links with my daughters. I am a reformed character. I no longer

drink.”

“Quite,” Rivers said.

On the island, I found the water. I built the shelter. I made fires

on which to cook the fish I caught in rock pools and lagoons. This

was both during and after Red Brick’s delirium. He was too weak

afterwards, and even when he did gain strength he was useless at

practical things, even gathering firewood, for he got lost and I had to

find him again.

I had constructed a hut beside a waterfall. When we were not on

lookout for passing ships or aeroplanes we sheltered there from the

sun during the day, and slept in its shelter during the night, covered

with a piece of canvas that had been in the boat.

“Mr Pollock, are you ready to continue with your cross

examination?


37

“I think so my Lord. But I have no great hopes of proving my

case if this person does not cease to perjure himself and tell the

truth.”

“Objection,” chimed in Mr Rivers.

“Sustained,” said the Judge.

“I really don’t know what to do. I know he’s going to turn

everything I say back-to-front All this is not true. I said to him what

he told you he said to me. I have no further questions,” I said.

After that I built myself another hut, and moved further upriver,

but as he was practically useless at looking after himself, I shared the

fish, and the nuts, and fruits with him during the day. At night I had to

guard against him trying to kill me. He became abusive and

threatening, and he attempted a number of inept ambushes. I moved

to another part of the island shortly before I spotted and signalled the

ship which rescued us.

The first thing he said to the shore party was, “This man tried to

kill me.”


38

The Defence and the Prosecution summed up their respective

cases, and the Judge laid down the law. The jury retired after taking

one last long look at both Red Brick and myself.

The jury seems to be taking a long time to reach their verdict.

The Judge sits reading a newspaper. He hands it to me. I read an

obituary:

James Edward Malone, a.k.a. Red Brick of the seventies group,

Red Brick and the Concrete Blocks, a.k.a. Henry Pollock, novelist

and business man, yesterday at Dryden Hospice, of alcohol related

diseases.

I drifted slowly down, like the last leaf of autumn on a still

winter’s day, into stygian deeps, with glazed eyes, open mouth, and

distended nostrils.

five short stories

Documents

miss duncan

nadezda hadnt

reason nadezda

old lady

romantic hope

town of lesande

hills of kastro

hotel similar