THE CASE OF THE ERRANT HUSBAND Friday, Jan 18 2008

Matilda Green walked purposefully out of the village post office, realising she was late. Pension day was always a problem, as Mrs Evans, the post mistress, could chat for England. Not that Matilda minded that much. Although not a gossip herself, she so did like to keep up with village affairs.
There was a slight chill in the air, so Matilda welcomed her green cardigan, wrapped around her delicate, seventy year old frame. As she approached her cottage, she noticed a visitor waiting by her door.
‘Good morning, Penny,’ she said as she closed her gate. ‘You’re just in time.’
Penny, a woman in her mid-twenties, attractive with blonde hair, smiled. ‘As if I would be late, Aunt Matilda.’
Of course, Matilda wasn’t really her aunt, but many of the young village wives had a close association with Matilda. Indeed, the villagers thought it quite wonderful how Matilda looked after the girls.
Together, they entered the cottage. Sitting down, Penny said: ‘Aunt Matilda, I think my husband is having an affair. ‘
Matilda sat stiffly, smiled. ‘Are you sure, dear. I’m sure he wouldn’t.’
Penny laid out the facts before her - the suspicious behaviour, coming home late, an obvious worry on his face. As she explained, Matilda remembered the latest gossip from Mrs Evans: ‘And young Penny’s husband,’ she had said, ‘rumour is his farm is in difficulty. Quite desperate, I understand.’
The clock struck the hour as Penny finished her story. At about the same time, there was a knock on the door. Matilda smiled once more. ‘Your eleven o’clock, dear. We’ll talk later. ‘
As Matilda opened the door, and the well dressed gentleman walked in, Penny stripped down to her sexy, silky underwear, pouted innocently at the gentleman and took him into the bedroom. Matilda sat down in her chair and began to knit, happy she was helping the girls to earn that extra cash to see them through hard times.
An hour later, Matilda laid out the facts to Penny; what the gossips were saying about the state of the farm, and her own absolute belief that Penny was wrong.
‘Well we’ll soon see,’ said Penny. ‘He’s going out at three o’clock this afternoon, and I’m sure he’s going to see her. ‘

At ten to three, Matilda Green deposited herself in her Mini and drove off. Just catching the errant husband as he drove from his farm, she followed at a suitable distance. Driving into town, he parked his car and walked over to a nearby cafe. Going inside, he ordered a pot of tea and waited. Matilda, of course, did likewise, secreting herself just round the corner so that the husband could not see her.
A short time passed before the rather attractive woman of forty entered and sat by him. Matilda pricked back her ears. For a woman of seventy, she was remarkably good of hearing - a fact that had often come in handy. And she was soon satisfied that her faith in Penny’s husband was justified.

Later that evening, Matilda sat in her cottage, Penny looking worried in front of her. ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Matilda. ‘Some time ago your husband was quite silly and tried fiddling the tax man. The woman your husband is seeing works at the local tax office, and obviously subsidizes her income by covering up such irregularities and blackmailing the offenders.’
Penny looked annoyed. ‘The fool. I’ll kill him. No wonder the farm isn’t making much money.’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I don’t think we need to tell him anything, Penny dear. I think I’m a good judge of people. I’m sure we can sort this problem out ourselves.’ Matilda leant forward, offered her cheeky smile. ‘Now, dear,’ she said, ‘This is what we’ll do.’

Later that night, Penny entered the bar alone. Matilda had already done the groundwork, found out about her husband, the target’s habits. Noticing the woman by the bar, she approached. Sat. Smiled sweetly.
The signs, of course, passed between them without words, and less than an hour later the two lovers were in the hotel room doing what lovers do.
The following morning, Matilda Green sat in the cafe, waiting for the target to arrive. After all, she guessed she wouldn’t have to wait long. There was bound to be other suckers she was blackmailing.
As the woman sat, Matilda stood up and approached her, sitting down, she said: ‘Lovely day, isn’t it dear?’
She seemed irritated, but replied, yes.
‘A lovely day for taking pictures,’ said Matilda. ‘I do so like taking pictures, dear. Maybe you’d like to see the ones I took last night.’

Penny went to see Matilda that afternoon. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Matilda. ‘She’ll be handing in her resignation today.’ Matilda sat back. ‘I so do like providing a service for the community.’
At that point, another of Matilda’s girls walked in. The appointment would be in ten minutes. Matilda recalled the booking. ‘Something special?’ she had said on the phone. ‘Of course, dear, you want Daisy Mae. But I’m afraid it will cost double.’
To her new arrival, she said: ‘Hello, Daisy, dear.’
‘Hello, Aunt Matilda. Mae said she’ll be along in a minute.’

© Anthony North, January 2008

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A SHOT IN THE DARK Friday, Jan 4 2008

In deciding to write about the adventures of my good friend Marmaduke Grey, I feel somewhat overawed. How does one express, in words, such absolute genius when my own mind is inferior to the task. Of course, this is not to denigrate my own abilities. Simply that, next to him, we are all inferior.
We heard about the case whilst relaxing in Marmaduke’s apartment. ‘What do you think about the case, Perkins?’ he asked as he sat there, pipe in one hand, newspaper in the other.
A quick glance at the paper and I had the basic facts. The previous night a shot had been heard in a street not too far from us. Police had immediately been on the scene, found the body of one Henry Baxter and arrested a suspicious gentleman close by.
‘It seems an open and shut case to me,’ I offered. To which Marmaduke Grey showed intense irritation and rushed for his coat and hat.

‘I’m not quite sure what you intend to discover here,’ said the Inspector of Police a short time later. Marmaduke had summoned him to the scene of the crime and rushed there himself in a Hansom cab.
‘What do you make of it, Perkins?’ he asked.
I looked up and down the street. Scrutinised the ground. ‘There is nothing out of the ordinary, Marmaduke,’ I said.
‘Quite,’ replied the great detective. ‘But don’t you think the lack of blood a little suspicious?’
I had to admit, when he pointed it out it was a little strange. I turned to the Inspector of Police: ‘And the man was shot here, at close range?’
‘He was not,’ interrupted Marmaduke Grey. ‘There would be a pool of blood. No, gentlemen, he was shot elsewhere and placed here to distract the investigation.’

Marmaduke Grey was always irritated when he had to wait. And as we sat in the police station waiting for the suspect to be brought to us, his irritation was rather worse than normal.
‘The fools,’ he said, ‘how could they ever have thought they had the killer. Goodness, they don’t even have the gun.’
I offered, on their behalf: ‘They were of the opinion he had thrown it away, or placed it down a nearby sewer, where it was carried off my the drains.’
‘My dear Perkins, supposition can never replace evidence. And without evidence you have no basis upon which to suppose.’
‘But isn’t such supposition the whole purpose of investigation?’ I asked. After all, Marmaduke had for ever told me to the importance of imagination in solving a mystery.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘But only if you have a mind fit for the task.’
He sneered as the Inspector of Police brought the suspect to him.
Marmaduke looked him up and down. Finally, he said: ‘And you are?’
The man looked frightened. Finally, he said: ‘My name is Rupert Anders, and I am innocent.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Marmaduke, his irritation continuing. ‘But if I am to prove that, we need your help to solve the case.’
This was, of course, a surprise to me. ‘But Marmaduke,’ I interrupted, ‘if you are right and the man is innocent, then he will also be in the dark regarding the motive of the crime.’
‘In that, you are absolutely right. But for the murderer to have a suspect in place, he must have put him there. Ands in working out how that occurred, we can work back to the murderer, and from there intuit the motive.’

I had to admit, it was a strange way of going about the case, but strangeness was a factor you had to get used to when working with Marmaduke Grey.
To me, his interview with Rupert Anders had been of no use. But it was clear, to Marmaduke, that the interview held the solution.
‘A normal street, you will agree,’ said Marmaduke as we exited the Hansom into the commercial area of the London district.
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.
‘And Mr Anders? Did he seem a normal man having a normal day?’
‘He did, indeed,’ I agreed.
‘So what can you deduce from that?’
I offered a blank stare.
‘But it is so obvious,’ said Marmaduke. ‘The murder was an abnormal aberration in an otherwise normal situation.’

We entered the shop a couple of minutes later. ‘You will recall that Mr Anders came into this shop in search of a particular item.’ He looked the contents of the shop up and down. ‘Aha!’ he said, excitedly. He held just such an item in his hand.
‘But according to Mr Anders, the shopkeeper hadn’t the item in question.’
‘Exactly,’ said Marmaduke. ‘But he did advice where such an item could be found.’
I was beginning to understand. The shopkeeper had directed Mr Anders to the scene of the murder.
‘Our suspect was quite clear that the shopkeeper was overexcited and anxious. And if you recall, some time earlier, he had bumped into a gentleman in the street who was questioning passers-by in order to ascertain the location of a gentleman he suspected of having an assignation with his wife.’
‘Good grief,’ I said, ‘you mean to say you think the gentleman found him.’
‘I do. And that gentleman was the shopkeeper. And during the argument that followed, the shopkeeper shot the gentleman dead. And after the fact, he thought on his feet, directed Mr Anders to a specific location where he placed the body and fired a shot as Mr Anders approached.’
His speech complete, Marmaduke Grey burst through the curtains to the back of the shop, whereupon we found the shopkeeper dead in a chair, a bullet hole through his temple, and a revolver on the floor by his feet.
‘Ah, the consequence of the normal man descending into crime. Guilt, my dear Perkins, the greatest detective of all.’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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A MINISTERIAL AFFAIR Friday, Dec 28 2007

Detective Sergeant Jordan entered the room with an air of expectancy. It seemed as if he’d been a copper all his life, but although he enjoyed it, he knew that, at thirty five, he should be an Inspector by now. He knew, of course, what the problem was - he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut or tow the line. And with a new user-friendly police service - NOT force - he knew he was seen as a dinosaur.
He turned his balding head to take in the room - called over the Alsatian which sat, peacefully, by a large leather settee. ‘Hello, chum,’ he said, stroking it affectionately. ‘I wonder if you know your master’s dead?’
Jordan certainly knew he was. And it was his job to find out why. And he well knew that if he got this right, he’d be one step closer to that mythical Inspector.
Sir Keith Masters had been found, dead, on the road below his balcony that morning. Jordan’s initial reaction on hearing the news had been that it was suicide, even though there was no evidence of psychological problems before hand. But even this conclusion would be an embarrassment, for Sir Keith was - had - been a junior Minister at the Ministry of Defence.
Murder had obviously to be considered, and it was to check out this possibility that he stood in Sir Keith’s study, the balcony visible through the open french windows.
He had been in the room, alone, for ten minutes, having found no sign of struggle or break-in, when the door opened, the Alsatian ran out, and in walked DS Tina Thompson.
Jordan scowled. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
Tina Thompson pushed back her long, auburn hair and her piercing brown eyes fixed on him. They had only worked together once before, and she’d wished it would never happen again. But the DCI had wanted her on the case, for he just didn’t trust Jordan’s tact. Telling him straight, Jordan paced the room. ‘Typical,’ he said, ‘bloody typical.’
‘Well I don’t like it any better than you do.’
A silence followed, finally interrupted by Tina, saying: ‘So have you found anything?’
‘It’s as clean as a whistle.’
Opening the french windows, Tina Thompson walked out onto the balcony, looked down, winced, and looked over the road. Momentarily distracted from the case in hand, she said: ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely.’
Jordan followed her gaze, took in the Siamese cat sitting on the balcony opposite, and swore. ‘We do have a case to solve, you know.’

Tina Thompson considered herself part of the new, caring police service. Just ten years in the job following her degree, she was on the fast track, not long, she knew, from her inspector. She hated coppers like Jordan and wished they would just disappear. The Met quite simply had no room for them any more. Rather, the future had to be caring, or all that would happen is the circle of crime would go on spinning round and round.
‘Not if we lock the sods up,’ said Jordan as they left Sir Keith’s flat and got into his car.
Their destination was Sir Keith’s London constituency office. Walking into the office, Matthew Perkins was already waiting for them. Sir Keith’s constituency agent, both Jordan and Tina immediately noticed his shiftiness and realised he had something to hide.
The interview was standard: ‘Did Sir Keith have any problems? ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?’ ‘And where were you between midnight and six o’clock this morning?’
The answers were nothing more than they’d expected. ‘But he’s hiding something,’ said Jordan.
Tina agreed, adding: ‘Of course. he’s having an affair with Sir Keith’s housekeeper.’
Jordan whistled. ‘And how do you know that?’ he asked.
‘Because as we entered the office, he slipped something quickly into his desk drawer. And when you were dist¬racting him, I took a look.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘A snapshot of him arm in arm with the woman who let me into the flat this morning.’

Jordan hated smart coppers, especially if they were female. It was that he was anti-feminist. Just old-fashioned.
‘So that puts him in the frame,’ he said as they got back into his car, heading back to Sir Keith’s flat.
Tina sighed. ‘We can’t say that. Not yet. But it’s certainly suspicious that he didn’t want us to know.’
‘Well I go on hunches, love. And I’m telling you, it’s him.’
‘Don’t call me love.’
‘And they should hang him. Hang ‘em all. That’s what I say.’
‘Yea, yea, yea,’ said Tina, sitting back in her seat, wishing the day would end.

Jennifer Armstrong was maybe forty five, her good looks just beginning to disappear under a profusion of wrinkles. Tina immediately noticed two things about her as she sat in front
of them. First, she just didn’t seem the housekeeper sort. And second, she had been crying a lot, and even now, was forcing herself to hold back the tears. It was midway through the interview that Jordan dropped the bombshell:
‘And what did Sir Keith think about your affair with Matthew Perkins?’
Ms Armstrong was clearly rattled by this, and Tina just couldn’t get it out of her head that she thought it had nothing to do with the case. And it was then that her own intuition struck - a much more fundamental thing, she knew, that Jordan’s animal-like hunches. Excusing herself from the interview, she wandered about the flat, looking for the tell-tale signs she was sure she would find.
‘Well I don’t think that added anything to the investigation,’ said Jordan when they left.
‘I disagree,’ said Tina, feeling rather smug, and determined to show Jordan up for the dinosaur he was.
‘Oh,’ said Jordan, ‘and why’s that?’
‘She was far too upset, so I looked round the flat. There was no sign of Sir Keith having any woman friends visiting him. He’s not gay, so that’s unusual for a man in his position. But I did notice that Jennifer Armstrong’s room had not been slept in for God knows how long.’
‘So what are you getting at?’
Is he dumb, or what, thought Tina. ‘That they slept together, of course.’
Jordan whistled. He had a nasty habit of doing that, thought Tina. ‘So we’ve got a motive,’ he said.
‘It would seem so.’
‘But which one did it?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Which was rather like stating the obvious.

The rest of the day was spent at the station, making calls and confirming that Sir Keith AND Matthew Perkins were lovers of Ms Armstrong. The following day they would have to find out who pushed him off the balcony. Tina Thompson spent most of the night mulling on the matter.
The next morning she entered Sir Keith’s flat. Jordan was sat on the settee, stroking the Alsatian as it sat, patiently, next to him. ‘If only you could talk,’ he said, prompting Tina Thompson to question his hands-on technique.
Jennifer Armstrong entered the study, then. ‘What is it this time?’ she said, irritated.
Tina was about to put the question delicately, when Jordan interrupted and said: ‘So you’ve been playing around. All I want to know is who pushed him? You or Perkins?’
Jennifer Armstrong broke down at that point. Tina Thompson had had enough and needed some fresh air. She opened the french windows and walked out onto the balcony. Embarrassed,by Ms Armstrong’s tears, Jordan joined her, and as Tina flashed him
a look that could kill, said: ‘I know, I know, I’m not good at tact.’
‘Well we’ll never find out which of them did it, now, will we?’ said Tina, walking back into the study.
Jordan looked over the road as he leaned on the balcony. As the Siamese cat appeared once more, he said, ‘your cat’s back. ‘
Tina Thompson suddenly stopped in her tracks. ‘What did you say?’ she asked. Whilst at the same moment the Alsatian spotted the cat, growled, and bounded towards the balcony. With a warning of ‘watch out!’ from Tina, Jordan jumped out of the way just before the dog would have sent him spiraling to his death.

‘Jordan?’ said Tina as they were about to leave. As he looked round, she held up the dog lead, as if a noose, and tugged. Then, following a trail of expletives, she smiled and followed him out.

© Anthony North, March 2002

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MATCHBREAKER Monday, Nov 26 2007

Cuthbert King sat in his study contemplating the letter in front of him. Some sixty years of age, his mind was as sharp as ever, and as he pushed his mass of white hair from his eyes, he turned to Mr Sprat.
‘I don’t think I can resist this one,’ he said.
Mr Sprat, a small, wiry man with wire-rimmed glasses, smirked. ‘You never can, Cuthbert,’ he said. ‘You never can.’
Cuthbert sighed. ‘The letter is from a Mr Johnson, who’s son was recently murdered. He was found one early morning on the pavement by his house, his head caved in. The police, it seems, have drawn a complete blank.’
‘They must have a prime suspect,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘For a time,’ Cuthbert replied. ‘His fiancé was in the frame – a girl of twenty one named Kylie Mortimer. But her mother gave her an alibi.’
‘Mothers do,’ said Mr Sprat, sardonically.

Later that afternoon, Cuthbert King and Mr Sprat sat in Mr Johnson’s lounge. They refused a cup of tea.
‘So tell me about Kylie Mortimer,’ Cuthbert said.
Mr Johnson, a rotund man of fifty, looked deeply depressed. ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he said. ‘But more than that, she is pleasant – a charming girl. I can’t believe the police could ever think she had anything to do with it. She was so dedicated to my son.’
The detectives left shortly afterwards. Throughout the interview, Cuthbert had stared intently at Mr Sprat’s nose. His main weapon in detection, it had a habit of twitching whenever his ears heard a lie. Mr Sprat denied this, of course. No one else had ever noticed such a twitch, but then again he didn’t have any other friends to test it on. However, on the occasion he stood in front of the mirror while Cuthbert lied and lied again, his nose never moved; which led Mr Sprat to a simple deduction. It didn’t. Rather, it was Cuthbert’s own intuitive abilities, represented by his seeing the nose move.

The Mortimer household was a hive of activity and intrigue. ‘Come in Mr King,’ said Angela Mortimer, Kylie’s mother, as they arrived. ‘You must excuse me, my daughter is being tiresome again.’
Kylie was, indeed, beautiful, and flitted in and out of the room as she prepared for a date. Cuthbert couldn’t help but notice the strangeness of this. After all, surely she should have been grieving.
‘He is not acceptable, dear,’ said Angela. ‘You are far too good for him.’
‘Excuse my mother, Mr King,’ said Kylie. ‘I know she only wants the best for me, but she can be such a bore.’
‘And who is the lucky man?’ asked Cuthbert.
‘A sore point,’ said Angela. ‘My daughter is dating her dead fiance’s best friend. And like him, she is not good enough for my daughter.’
Finally, Cuthbert grasped hold of the conversation. ‘You were with your mother when your fiancé was killed,’ he said, directing the question at Kylie.
Kylie replied in the affirmative; whilst at the same time, her mother said: ‘You need to be speaking to his father. They never got on, and I’m quite convinced he killed him.
Mr Sprat’s nose was twitching.

‘One of them is lying,’ said Cuthbert, back in his study. But as both ladies were speaking at the same time, it was impossible to decide which. But regardless, the facts were coming together, and as Cuthbert King knew only too well, you could usually gain all the information you needed in the first few hours of an investigation. The remainder of the case was simply a process of putting the information in the correct place.
‘So whodunit?’ asked Mr Sprat, presently.
Cuthbert sat back and thought deeply. ‘We know that Mr Johnson did not lie to us, yet it is clear that he was deceived by Kylie Mortimer’s behaviour. How could she be so dedicated to his son, as he thought, when she is clearly not grieving and is having a relationship with his best friend?
‘I can see why the police had her as prime suspect. And we can, of course, doubt her alibi. A mother will go to the most extraordinary lengths to protect a daughter, so she could well be lying.’
‘So we need to break the alibi,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘It would seem so, but …’
The conversation was interrupted by a phone call. Cuthbert King picked up the receiver, listened and replaced it. ‘The case has moved forward,’ he said. ‘Kylie Mortimer seems exceptionally clumsy. Two of her boyfriends have been murdered within a week.’

The crime scene was like any other. The physical facts may differ, but to Cuthbert King there was always the smell. Yet it was not a physical smell, but the sense of human decay; yet not the decay of the body, but the decay of the perpetrator’s mind.
Police and forensics had done their work, but to Cuthbert this was when he began his.
‘The body was laid here,’ he said, pointing to the road. ‘The man had been walking when someone came from behind and struck him on the back of the head with a heavy object. Not satisfied with a single blow, the perpetrator then finished him off with four others.’
Mr Sprat said: ‘That’s identical to the previous murder, so we’re dealing with the same person.’
‘We are indeed. But we must look further afield to discover who it is.’
Cuthbert walked to the end of the road. ‘The problem I have is that, if Kylie Mortimer killed them, why did she do it in public?’
Mr Sprat seemed confused.
‘She could have done it at a time of her choosing, when no one could possibly see her. Doing it on the street is just too clumsy. Our killer simply has to be an opportunist, unable to gain intimate access to the victim.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘And look here,’ continued Cuthbert, scrutinizing the bush close by. Branches were broken and leaves lay on the pavement. ‘There’s been a recent struggle here.’
Mr Sprat said: ‘But it could have been anybody. And anyway, what’s the relevance?’
Cuthbert smiled. ‘Imagine the scene – an opportunist kills, but was the person seen? And if so, would a struggle take place close by?’
‘Possible,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘And look at this,’ said Cuthbert, reaching into the bush. He brought out a piece of torn cloth and smelt it. Suddenly, as he recognized the perfume, he froze. ‘Of course,’ he finally said. ‘Come on Mr Sprat, we haven’t much time!’

For a small, wiry man, Mr Sprat had an unusual strength. Hence, it took him just a few seconds to batter down the locked door to the Mortimer residence. However, his excitement waned into sadness as he saw the battered body of Kylie Mortimer on the floor by the stairs.
Cuthbert King stared at the body also, recriminating himself that he had not been in time. From a closed door, they heard a muffled voice. Slowly, Cuthbert walked over and opened it. Within the room sat Angela Mortimer, covered in blood. In her hand she held a phone to her ear.
‘That was the problem,’ said Cuthbert King, later that day. ‘Mrs Mortimer could only accept the best for her daughter, and that is why no man could ever meet her expectations.’
‘But to murder them,’ said Mr Sprat, ‘is going a bit too far.’
‘Not at all,’ Cuthbert advised. ‘Not when it becomes an obsession.’
‘But that hardly explains why she killed her daughter.’
‘Angela Mortimer had mis-calculated her attack, and her daughter was a witness to the murder.’
‘But to kill her seems absurd.’
Cuthbert offered a grim smile. ‘When a parent wants only the best for their child it can often mean they want to live their life through them. And when that happens, the child becomes just another aspect of their own obsession.’
Mr Sprat was beginning to understand. He recalled Angela Mortimer’s words on the phone:
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she had said to the undertaker. ‘I want the most expensive coffin. I’ll only have the best for my daughter.’

© Anthony North, August 2006

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MUGGED Friday, Apr 13 2007

To say that Mrs Sleeman was subjected to the most tragic of horrors is an understatement. At seventy five years of age she was a typical, if active, pensioner. Widowed the past ten years, she had organised a relatively busy life for herself - bingo twice a week with the cabal of other ladies in the street; the weekly journey out with her daughter. She dearly missed her late husband, but she had the strength of mind to rise above gloom and sadness and always see the best in life.
Principal to this outlook was her total belief in independence. Not for her the home help or intrusion by state busy¬bodies. Her philosophy was simple. Come the day that she couldn’t look after herself, it would be time to meet her maker - end of story, and that was that. However, life WAS to change the day she came out of the post office with two weeks pension in her purse.
We can argue why the young man did it for ever. Some would say that he had been brutalised in life. In this particular young man’s case the signs were obviously there. Consider the psychological trauma caused by his mother’s refusal to give him Weetabix in the morning; and consider, too, his clothes. No designer labels here. No, this young man tried his best to make up for the poverty he suffered, but he simply wasn’t a walking billboard like his peers. And that, without doubt, could be classed as abuse by his parent.
But whatever the reasons for his actions, at half past nine this particular morning, this particular young man ran up to this particular old lady, formed his hand into a fist, punched her once in the face and then twice in the stomach, placed his other hand in her bag and ran off with her purse.
Mrs Sleeman crumpled into a heap on the pavement. Immediately, people surrounded her, soothing her, checking she was alright and sympathising with her. But although Mrs Sleeman had the presence of mind to realise that the vast majority of humanity in her town were sympathetic and good, the event had an ominous effect upon her philosophy. For as she found herself deposited back in her house, she felt a sudden comfort from its security that she had never before known.
As the days dragged on this security became more omnipotent. Many times each day she would look out of her window and see the world. But whereas before it had been most definitely her world, it increasingly seemed to be alien - to be menacing. And as the days turned to weeks Mrs Sleeman cut herself off from that world. Shopping was done by a home help, and twice
a week the social worker would call to make sure she was alright. Oh, her cabal of friends continued to call, but rather than encourage her to go out, they sympathised and considered cutting themselves off from the world lest they, too, be mugged.
And so the effects of the mugging grew. Mrs Sleeman, no longer active and optimistic; her friends no longer jolly as they went off to bingo, but looking over their shoulders at every shadow and putting distance between themselves and every passing youth. For they were no longer just youths, but would ¬be attackers.
Of course, the young man was oblivious to all this. Immediately upon disposing of the purse he had gone out and bought a pair of designer jeans and a named T-shirt. Now he too could be a walking billboard and, due to the immense courage he had shown during the mugging, was a bit of a hero to his friends. However, one day, unbeknown to him, he and his friends walked past Mrs Sleeman’s window just as she was looking out and hating the evil world outside.
No one can truly explain what went through her head as she saw this young man walk past with his friends. The attack had been locked in time and she had a perpetual memory of the event, including every element of the youth who attacked her. And this young man was that attacker, she knew. But whatever the thought processes, an energy rose within her and, almost without thinking, she found herself rushing to her door, opening it and going out into the world.
Hurrying after the youth, she first called him and then caught him up. His friends looked aghast as she spun him round, poked him in the eye, raised her knee to his groin and waited for him to crumple. Then Mrs Sleeman rifled his pockets and found the proceeds of his latest mugging. Delightedly placing it in her pocket, she totteringly raised her foot and kicked him in the face before heading for home to prepare for Bingo that night.
The effect on the young man was incredible. He had been shamed in front of his friends, and their laughter made him withdraw into himself over the coming weeks. And being so withdrawn, a complete change in attitude occurred and he mugged no more - indeed, he became a totally new man. As for Mrs Sleeman, after being told off by the police, she received an award for courage. And as for the youth who mugged her, his transformation was complete and he became a vicar.

© Anthony North, 1993

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THE PASSION OF CATHY Friday, Mar 16 2007

WARNING: SOME STORIES MAY CONTAIN DISTURBING SCENES

The seduction is good. It is the beginning that will end in climax. It is the intent that will unleash the passion; that drives manhood on to take woman; to fulfill desires. It is the reason for life.

The seduction begins slowly - the kiss; the exploration of her body; the search for the centre of her passion. When I do this I feel like another man; a man released from the confines of ordinary living - released to become a god.

 It is a process that began in literature; in the words of the great romantics, opening up vistas anew. And it was confirmed in the character of Heathcliff, the most passionate of all literary lovers. And the seduction goes on, her clothes peeled away, revealing the ultimate desire. It is a place I have been many times before, in my search for the perfection of erotic love. It is a process I have been through many times, in my search for Cathy.

And slowly we fall to the bed, wrapped in each other’s embrace, and our passion comes out through fevered breath. And soon I am upon her; the passion builds up. Will this be the one?

For her, I feel I am the one. She reaches deep down into her passionate nature, and her erotic desires are satiated in her climax.

 It is a magnificent climax for her. But as she writhes below me, the thought enters my head that she is not Cathy. For so long the search has gone on, and still it is not complete. Still, I do not find the ultimate passion of Heathcliff. Still I feel cheated by woman of flesh and blood. Still I do not reach my climax.

Even as my disappointment leads my hands to encompass her neck, the climax does not come. Rather, I feel cheated. And as I squeeze, the frustration comes.

It is a terrible frustration. And as her tongue goes purple, her eyes glazed, her breath stilled, my frustration takes me on to the next.

One day. Yes, one day, I will be with Cathy. And I will be fulfilled.

(c) Anthony North, April 2006

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