That first winter was cold.

I wrote this story in my head one morning whilst walking into the village to buy a stick of bread.

I started with the phrase… “Death sat on his bike and waited for me at the crossroads.”

By the time I had walked to the village and back I had the start of the story. A few days later it was finished.

It was the first story that I wrote in France and I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for it.

Death sat on his bike and waited for me at the crossroads.

I pulled up next to him, close but not too close, and killed the engine. I would miss the bike. She and I had done lots of good miles together; but then, there were lots of things that I would miss.

I looked over at him. In the cold evening light he was a shadow in the moonlight that glinted gently off the chrome of the six exhaust pipes that led back from the monstrous engine that he sat astride.

I took off my helmet and put it on the road. I would not be needing it any more, not where I was going.

Death lit a cigarette and nodded towards me.

“Ready then” he asked, “All done?”

I nodded back. I was all done and as ready as I would ever be.

From the pale glow of his cigarette I could see his features. His skeletal face and his dark, unbelievably deep eyes came as no surprise to me.

You see, this wasn’t our first meeting; Death and I had met before.

The holiday was supposed to be a second chance for Christine and me. An attempt to start again, to wipe the slate clean, to forget the past. We had been growing apart for some time. It had been my fault.

When I left Shawcross Solutions to start up on my own, I hadn’t realised how much time all the paperwork and finances take when you are running your own business. No wonder old man Shawcross always looked tired. Besides, when you work as a freelance IT consultant, your customers expect you to be available for them, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

It had become a running joke between Christine and me that, on the rare occasions that I left the office before seven o’clock, the phone would invariably ring the minute I got home. After a while though, the joke had stopped being funny.

Still, taking on a partner had been a good idea, one of Christine’s, of course.

I had known John for years, IT is a surprisingly small world, and he had picked things up quickly. The customers loved him and I felt safe leaving the business in his hands for a week while Christine and I took the time to get to know each other again.

The caravan belonged to Grant and Sue.

They had been more than happy to let us use it for a week; the look that had passed between them when I went around to ask if I could borow it told me that they had been worried about Christine and me in a way that I hadn’t been.

And now, stood all alone in a field in the soft Cornish countryside, the caravan gave us a base, albeit temporary one, from which to rebuild our relationship.

And it was working. Over the last week Christine and I had grown closer. The old barriers were coming down as I learned to relax. We spent our time exploring; both the countryside and ourselves.

For the first time in months, when I made love with Christine, it was making love, not just having sex. I think Christine noticed the difference – I’m sure she did. For, on the third day, when I switched off my mobile, my lifeline to the office and work, for the first time I can ever remember, Christine saw me do it and she smiled.

And the smile in her eyes said “Come here big boy, come and explore some more.”

Oh, we were happy that week. That week was the last time for happiness, at least for me.

It happened on the Sunday, our last day. I had gone to get some water from the farm up the road and Christine was cooking breakfast.

Even before I had got back to the caravan, I somehow knew that something was wrong. I dropped the water can and started running; too slow, all too slow in the slippery field. By the time that I got back, the caravan was well and truly ablaze.

I tried to open the door but it was stuck. I could feel my hand blistering up on the red-hot handle. There was a loud crack, the window broke and, through it, I could see Christine alight, burning. Her face seemed to melt in the smoky flames. I grabbed at the door again, oblivious to the pain and yelled “Christine, Christine, Oh Jesus, God, please – no.”

Suddenly I realised that I was not alone. There was a man beside me. I hadn’t heard him approach. I screamed at him, “For God’s sake, help me. Christine is in there.”

Over the crackle of the flames and Christine’s screams, I heard his voice.

“God can’t help you now – he has no jurisdiction here.”

It was a cold voice, otherworldly. It chilled me to the bone.

“Please, please help me, I’ll do anything,” I screamed.

And I heard the dark voice boom questioningly, “Anything?”

I turned to look at him; Oh God, what can I have been thinking?

I looked into his dark and deep, unbelievably deep, eyes and then, all at once, I realised.

“Yes,” I heard myself croak, “I’ll do anything, just help me get Christine out.”

All of a sudden, I found myself in a cold, dark room. There were windows on all four walls and through each of the windows was the same view: A caravan on fire, a girl burning, a face melting, a face that I knew.

In the middle of the room, sat on a chair, was the man I had met in the field. In the darkness his face seemed to glow gray and pallid, his eyes shining black as they stared at me. He had been talking and now he paused.

“You understand the deal?”

“Your woman’s life returned and, in exchange, I take your life. But first you have to do a job for me; you have to take the life of another. One whom I am not allowed to touch.”

I took a deep breath and nodded.

“OK, but why,” I asked “can’t you take this other life as well?”

“I told you,” the man yelled, and pain shot up and down my spine, “I am not allowed to take the life of the other” he rasped.

“Besides,” he said, more gently now, with what might have been a smile on his face, “You will do it for me and then it will be you that bears the sin.”

“Now tell me, will you do it, your life and the life of the other in return for your woman’s life?”

I nodded again.

“No!” he screamed, and again I hurt, “Say it, say you will.”

“I will.” I said, “I’ll do it.”

I knew that something was wrong even before I got back to the caravan. I dropped the water can and started running. Too slow, all too slow in the slippery field. Reaching the caravan, I wrenched open the door.

“What’s wrong?” Christine asked.

I grabbed her just as she lit the stove.

There was a bang and we were flung to the floor. I pulled her out of the caravan and away. I covered her with my body, I could feel the flames lick at my back. I could feel the warmth try but fail to take the chill off the cold place that I now had, deep inside me.

When it was over, and only when it was over, and the fire had burnt itself out, I finally let Christine get up. I could hardly see her through my tears.

All I wanted to do was to hold her.

To hold her close, one last time.

I left Christine three days later. I engineered an argument, I told her some lies. I stormed out. I wanted her to be hurt by me, to hate me, to think of me as an enemy. I thought that it would be easier for her that way.

I’ll never forget the tears on her face as I left, her confused and frightened face. Perhaps that will be my penance, to always see her tears and the pain in her eyes – to see them for all eternity, and to know that they were my fault.

I killed the other this morning. Somehow I had known the address and had found the way. I made it as painless as possible. He had been sleeping. I put a pillow over his head and pressed down until he stopped breathing. It didn’t take long.

I hadn’t been expecting a baby, that had shocked me. But a deal was a deal and I really had no choice.

Once it was done, I got on my bike and headed for the crossroads. This time I had no address but I knew that I would find my way.

And, all the time, as I rode through the night, I wondered who the other had been. Or, more importantly, who he would have grown up to be.

Perhaps a scientist or diplomat. Maybe he had been destined to discover a cure for cancer or, through his skills and efforts, avert a terrible war.

Or perhaps he was someone else. Someone the religious books spoke of, someone Christians and Jews alike are expecting to return.

Oh God, I hope not. But I guess now that we’ll never know.

Death sat on his bike and waited for me at the crossroads.

“Ready then. All done?” He had asked me and I had nodded.

Yes, I was all done and I was ready, ready to go.

Death finished his cigarette and flicked the butt. He thumbed the starter and the engine roared into life. The exhaust emitted a wail. A wail that sounded like the dead screaming, all the tortured souls of the dead. And part of me, deep inside, also started to scream.

He slowly pulled away. In the distance, lightning flickered in the sky and Death rode towards it. I took a deep breath and started my bike. And then I followed Death into the night.

I was (and still am), living in France and, to be honest, didn’t have the money for a trip home.

I suppose that this must have been playing on my mind. I spent a lot of time that Autumn and Winter writing. This is one fot he stories I wrote.

The story came easily enough and I think that it was because I emphasised with the main character.

When I was finished I realised that it was really just the first chapter of a three or four chapter novella. Although complete in itself, the story seemed to deserve more.

My mother got better, I went back to England for a visit the following year.

I live in Brittany and not the Vendee.

I have never ridden a BMW motorbike.

I parked the bike in the drive and walked slowly up the path to the front door. I knocked and waited. Eventually the door opened and I was silently ushered through the hall and into the kitchen.

My parents’ house hadn’t changed in all the time I’d been away. This is where I’d grown up. This is where, as a child, I’d played ‘Cowboys and Indians’ in the garden and where, alone in my room, I’d dreamed of bikes I’d one day own and the places I would one day go.

I’d come home. As usual, I was late. But this time, instead of my parents waiting up for me to return from some all-night party, there had been no party and my father was all alone.

He looked tired, tired and old. And, although I hadn’t seen him for almost two years, he seemed to have aged at least ten years in that time. And most of it, I knew, had happened in the last few months.

“Father,” I began.

I had started calling him ‘Father’ during my late teens. At the time it had been some kind of reproach but, over the years, it had come to symbolise the growing distance between us.

“How are you?” I continued.

He looked at me with his tired old eyes and sighed.

“Bearing up, old chap. Bearing up” he said. “Things have quietened down a bit now that the funeral is over. Your sisters all came, you know; you’ve only just missed Sally, she went home yesterday. And your brother flew in from the States.”

The implication was there, but unsaid. Of all her five children, I was the only one not to have attended my mother’s funeral.

I sat down at the kitchen table. My father, who had towered over me when I was younger, now seemed shrunken – a shadow of his former self.

“I would have come, you know I would,” I said, desperate to explain.

“I didn’t even know she was ill, she never said,” I stuttered, almost accusingly.

My father smiled, that old wise smile that always used to annoy me so much.

“Well, you know what your mother was like,” he said. “I expect that she didn’t want to worry you.”

“Besides,” he continued. “At the end it happened very fast, and then we didn’t know how to get hold of you. And then, it was too late.”

My father put his hand on mine. Years ago, I would have flinched at his touch but not now.

“Don’t worry too much, old chap,” he said. “I know you would have come if you’d known. You were always her favourite, you know. Her little rebel, she used to call you.”

I looked at him. He looked back at me, deeply, as if searching for something and then, maybe finding it. He looked away.

He coughed. “So, old chap,” he asked. “What are you up to these days?”

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that,” I replied, grateful for the chance to talk about something other than my dead mother.

“I spend quite a bit of time at Sam and Tracey’s, down in the Vendee, helping them on their farm. I spent the summer in Spain, working in a bar and, after that, a short trip to Turkey – sight seeing.” I told him.

This was nearly the truth. I couldn’t tell my father that the most valuable crop on Sam and Tracey’s farm was designed to be smoked in small quantities. Or that the bar job had really been arranging muscle for an American friend who had blown his inheritance on a beach bar and was getting hassled by the local heavies. And, as for the Turkey trip, well, I’d rather not talk about that, just at the moment.

My father seemed satisfied anyway.

“Listen, old chap,” he said. “I’ll start dinner. Why don’t you take a wander, if you want to – see if the old pub is still standing. What was it you used to call it – ‘your home from home’?”

I got the feeling that my father needed some time alone, so I played along.

“Yes. I could do with a decent pint after all that foreign muck.”

He smiled. “Dinner will be in one hour – don’t drink too much.”

I almost bit at that, but that would have been like the old days.

Then, I would have told him that I’d seen things and done things that he wouldn’t believe and that I was thirty eight years old and had learned how to handle my drink.

But, with my mother’s death, things had changed between us and so I just nodded and, as my father busied himself in the kitchen, I let myself out.

The pub was the same as it had been the last time I’d been there. Perhaps the staff were different but that was all. I ordered a pint and looked around.

There, sat in the corner, where I’d almost expected him to be, was Monk.

I’d gone to school with Monk. He’d always been Monk to me although I think we started calling him that when he was about thirteen, after a particularly disastrous home haircut.

Anyway, the nickname stuck and none of us were really surprised when, at the age of twenty one, he had changed his name by deed poll to Monk. Monk Monk, that is – both forename and surname.

It still makes me laugh to think of that night, about eight years ago, just before I went to France, when he announced to all of us that he was changing his surname again – this time to ‘Key’.

“Monk-Key, don’t you see,” he had explained.

It had taken all of us, an awful lot of effort and an awful lot of beer that night, to convince him that his money would be better spent on other things, like paying the rent, or food, or beer even.

I walked over and sat down beside him. “Hi Monk.”

“Oh, hi mate. Haven’t seen you for a while – how’s it hanging?”

I hadn’t seen him for more than two years and he acts as though it were yesterday.

“To the left, my man,” I replied. “To the left.”

“To the left. I like it,” he chuckled. He always seemed to find this funny.

“So, what’s going on mate,” I asked. Monk started talking. I sort of listened but I had heard much of it before.

“And how’s the book?” I interrupted.

Monk was writing a book – had been for the last twenty years or so. It was something to do with aliens from another planet – the planet Zog, I believe. A sort of social satire, set in a pub.

“Oh fine – I’ve almost finished the beginning,” Monk replied.

When we were younger – before I moved to France, Monk used to like to talk books with me. He preferred this to actually reading books. His favourite author, probably because for a while he had been my favourite author, was Albert Camus.

Monk was specially impressed that Camus had also been a footballer, playing in goal for the Algerian national team.

“I could have been a great footballer, you know,” Monk always used to say. “If only I hadn’t been so crap at it.”

And with this, he would give one of his high pitched laughs – almost falling off the bar stool in the process.

I snapped back to the present. Monk’s words washed over me. He was talking to himself as much as to me. I was aware that someone else was look at me – staring, even. It took a moment and then I recognised him – Ivor.

We had been friends once, but I had messed things up by laughing at a bike that he’d built. Well, I was never into purple metalflake, girder forks and coffin tanks. Ivor obviously had been and my laughter had insulted his pride.

A waste of a good Honda seven-fifty, I’d called it then. Looking back on it, it probably wasn’t any more silly than the cafe-racered Triumph that I had been riding at the time. Probably more likely to make it to the end of the road without something falling off, at least.

Still, over this small disagreement, we had fallen out and now, sixteen years later, we were still wary of each other.

He nodded to me and then turned away. I tried to return to Monk’s world but it was difficult to keep up with his line of thought. I finished my pint, tapped him on his shoulder, interrupting him in full flow and said that I was off.

“Oh, see you around then.” He said. “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.” And with this, the same old high, pitched laugh.

“Same to you.” I said and left the pub.

Dinner was ready when I got home. It smelt good. It was good.

Whilst we were eating, my father and I spoke. Like we should have spoken twenty years before. I tried to explain my lifestyle. Working when I had to, living cheaply, often staying with friends – helping out to pay my way. Taking pleasure from the simple things in life.

I explained about Sam and Tracey. About their farm, their dream of living off the land. of their occasional need for an additional pair of hands. Of the little flat they’d built for me, above the barn.

Of working all day in the sun and then spending the evenings eating, drinking and talking – only to fall into bed, aching and tired, but fulfilled – ready for another day.

I explained that all I needed was my bike, a tent, some maps, a compass and the freedom of the open road.

I explained that it was a good life for me, an honest life, one that made me happy. A life that made a lot of sense.

At the end, I think that he almost understood.

I washed the dishes, he was quiet as he dried.

When it was done he said “You know, if you ever wanted to come back here, start something up on your own – perhaps a motorbike repair shop – you’d be more than welcome. There’s plenty of room here, I could help you out with some money.”

I suddenly realised that he was lonely. My mum had been his whole life. He’d never had any other friends, he’d never needed them.

“Thanks Dad,” I said. “I’ll think about that. But, right now, I’m shattered – I need my bed.”

He looked at me again with that enquiring smile.

“Well, you know where your old room is.”

I nodded, I did.

“Sleep well.” He said.

“You too” I replied.

My old room was pretty much as I remembered it. Posters of motorbikes on the walls. Yards of old motorbike magazines filling the bookcases that my father had once built for me, hoping that they would hold the classics of science and literature. Or, whatever I needed to help me make my way in the world.

I lay down on the bed. God, I really was tired. I remembered telling my father during dinner about one of the jobs I’d had. Working in a chicken processing plant just before Christmas a couple of years ago – I’d need the cash.

After they were killed and plucked, the chickens were transported round the factory, hanging from their feet from an overhead chain. There was something wrong with the system and it was running at double speed.

My job, for a week, had been to catch and re-hang, any chickens that were flung off. “Just like being a goalkeeper,” I had said.

My dad had laughed at this image of his son being paid to catch flying dead chickens.

I closed my eyes. I remembered Monk telling me that he would have been a great footballer, if only he hadn’t been so crap at it. When had that been? I remembered too that Camus had been a goalkeeper. And then I was asleep.

I woke in the morning to the smell of bacon frying. I dressed quickly and made my way downstairs.

Dad was in the kitchen. He was wearing an apron. It was one I’d given Mum for her birthday years ago.

“Your mum’s favourite,” Dad explained.

“Your sisters hated it, they thought it was tacky. But your mother liked it. She said it reminded her of you.”

We ate. We talked. About Mum. About other things.

And then, when breakfast was over, I went and got my bag.

“So, you’re leaving then,” Dad asked me. I nodded.

“Sunnier climes Dad, Sunnier climes.”

“Perhaps I’ll come and visit you one day,” he offered.

“I’d like that Dad, do.” I said. And I meant it.

I went out of the front door, started the bike and let her warm up gently.

Dad followed me and looked at Bessie, my old black BMW R80.

“Still got the same one then,” he said. I hadn’t realised that he’d ever noticed.

“She’s a good bike,” I replied. “Faster than I’ll ever need, reliable, cheap to run and besides, we’ve got used to each other. I couldn’t change.”

“I won’t leave it so long, next time, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry about Mum. I’m sorry about everything.”

My dad looked sad. “I’m sorry too, son. But life goes on – don’t worry about it any more.”

I nodded. Dad looked away. We were still strangers but, somehow closer than we had been – almost like father and son.

I pulled out into the road and slowly drove away.

I looked back only once. Dad was still standing there. I waved.

At the dual carriageway, I turned South – towards Dover.

“On our way, Bessie,” I said to the bike. I can’t remember when I started talking to the bike, or how she’d ended up being called Bessie. But I did and she was.

It had started raining. Cold and bitter. But we were going South, to where it was warm. We were going home and Bessie seemed to know the way.

To be continued….

The chores didn’t take long and I spent the rest of the time writing.

This is the result.

I’m not really sure where it came from. I do know that I shall write more about this small community in the aftermath of the war.

If for no other reason than to find out myself how things work out.

Eating Babies

We saw the bike long before we heard it. The snow that lay thick on the frozen ground muffled most far off sounds and so we had scouts posted; two hours on and then two hours off. That was all that they could take in the cold.

It was Peter who spotted the bike. Only ten years old, he was becoming the very image of his father. He raised the alarm and Marion woke me up.

Through my binoculars I could see little at this distance, except that the bike was alone – that was good.

We lost sight of the bike as the road ran behind Jerome’s Spinney and then, as the bike re-appeared down by Simon’s Dell, we could hear it as well. A soft chuff-chuff that indicated a single cylinder engine, lowly tuned.

All the better; raiders tended to prefer higher powered multi-cylinder machines, their weight and impracticality offset by the social cachet they inferred.

As the bike came past Denton’s cross it slowed and the rider waved first an open right hand and then an open left – a signal that he came in peace.

The other adults in the camp had all gone silently to their positions. All except Carter, that is. He remained in his shed working metal into shapes that would become the tools we needed so bad. Since his wife and children were killed at the Sunnock Massacre he had withdrawn into himself; caring only for the tools he made and keeping what was left of our bikes on the road.

Somehow I’ve become the leader of the group; six men, five women and eleven kids. I’m not sure how it happened and I’m not sure if I’m happy about it. But then, lots has happened over the last two years and very little of it has had anything to do with happiness.

I tried to concentrate on the approaching rider . He had slowed down on the straight bit of road that approached the camp even though this would put him at risk from the snipers – he must know that we would have snipers out.

That would mean that he was trying to give us time, time to think rather just react out of fear and haste. That meant that the rider was clever, or careful. And these days both words meant the same thing.

Off course, it could be a trap. He might just be a decoy. But where would the others come from? Behind him? That would be no good.

From the North? No, the road was blocked by snowdrifts and, besides, when the snows had first started falling we had lain barbed wire across the road, and an old bedstead or two. No, if the attack was to be from the North, they would have to come on foot and, in this snow, they would be too slow – sitting targets.

I waited for the bike to approach the gate. I had an idea who it might be but I had thought he was dead. The bike stopped by the gate and the rider took off his helmet. It was him. It was the Messenger. He wasn’t dead, after all.

I gave the signal to open the gate. Sally’s daughter darted forward with the key. Quick and low, in case there was a firefight; at nine years old she had learned how to survive.

The Messenger rode in and parked to one side to allow the little girl to close and lock the gate. He held his open hands well away from his body; he had also learned to survive.

As soon as the gatekeeper had scurried back to the barn I nodded to the Messenger and he approached. If he noticed the pump action in my hands, it didn’t show. He looked older than I remembered. But then, I remembered him mainly from the old days, before the war. Then, he had ridden a big black Kawasaki – even won a prize with it at one of the shows that we used to meet up at. In those days his face had been unlined and his blue eyes had glinted with fun. Now his face was creased and the eyes were dull.

And it wasn’t just the years that had done it.

It was the places he had been and the things that he had seen. That would age any man.

“Welcome, Messenger. You must be cold.”

“Greetings Marshall. I am he and I am that.” He replied.

“Come and sit thee by the fire and warm yourself.”

He came over and sat down.

“Are you hungry, Messenger? Will you share our food?”

He nodded. “I thank you.”

Marion went to the kitchen to get a bowl of stew. While she was doing that I took the chance to take a good look at the Messenger.

Protocol wouldn’t have allowed him to ask for warmth or food. In the hard first winter that followed the war, those who shared their meagre resources found that word got around fast and either they were swamped by beggars or attacked by raiders.

Besides, nowadays, there just wasn’t that much to go around.

At the same time, protocol also insisted that you feed and help the Messenger and others like him, the Healers, the Diviners and the like. For they all performed valuable services.

The Messenger acted as a sort of freelance spy, travelling around the country and passing on news of what he saw.

Tonight he would tell us of what was going on in the lands outside the borders of our camp and, tomorrow, he would take with him the news that we had food enough to keep ourselves strong but no obvious stockpiles. That we were well organised and that our defences were sound. That our children were armed and the adults that he saw looked capable of either deterring raiders or seeing off any of the travelling beggars that still roamed the land.

In this way, he kept the peace.

It was understood that he could not be touched by any of the camps he visited. That without people like him and the Healers we would revert to the anarchy that had characterised Year One. No-one, not even the raiders, wanted to return to that.

This allowed him to travel freely and kept his belly full without having to farm or kill others for their food or worry about protecting a camp. I envied him all of that.

While we waited for Marion I asked him about the bike he had arrived on.

“My steed. She is a simple beast.” He said.

He spoke, like we all did with outsiders now, in an old-fashioned manner, more suited to the middle ages than the twenty first century. That way, there was less risk of inadvertently causing offence or saying the wrong thing.

And, besides, Grammar and Vocabulary had arrived with civilisation and, in just three days of war, our civilisation had been swept away.

But then, like the Steve he had been before the war and long before he became The Messenger, he added, “But at times she’s simply a beast.”

“An Enfield of royal extraction, so I believe. Built in a far off land.”

I would have laughed at the thought of Steve riding an Enfield in our pre-war days. And, to his credit, so would he have done, as well.

But he had been Steve then, and now he was The Messenger. And, anyway, I don’t laugh much now, not any more.

Marion arrived with the stew and he ate it with relish.

In his old-fashioned language he praised Marion for her skill and thanked me for the camp’s hospitality. And then he asked if we wanted to hear the news.

“Most of my men are working or on guard duty.” I replied. “But I will gather those I can spare and they will listen at the feast tonight.”

After he had finished I took him for a walk around the camp. He had seen it before, of course, but was quick to comment on the improvements we had made since his last visit.

We had done well with our choice of a site. It was an old quarry situated on top of a hill with one road in and one road out; both easily blocked. To the South were woods that still hosted wild beasts and plains lay on the other three sides.

The quarry walls were pierced with man-made caves where the ore had been blasted out and these now served as our homes and storehouses.

We were sheltered from the wind and, in our shelters, warm and dry.

And, most importantly, safe.

It was easy to defend and could be defended well by the small contingent that we had become. The only way we could be taken by surprise would be an attack by air and we hadn’t seen an airplane for over two years.

I took the Messenger round slowly, aware of the peeping eyes of the children, unused to strangers and aware of the stares of the few adults we had left, those who had learned the hard way to view everything and anything as danger. That’s how you survive nowadays.

I showed the Messenger our store of bikes. Bikes that Carter worked so hard to keep going. Bits of one mated to bits of another; anything we couldn’t salvage we made from scrap. Much as we had started out with our own bikes in the custom scene before the war.

He seemed impressed.

When we had finished the tour, The Messenger slept for a while. Whilst he slept, I wondered what news of us he would pass on when he left. We had found a way of drying fruit and mushrooms and fish. He might tell others of that. That would be good. Perhaps that way, any poor wretches who survived this winter might have an easier time of the next. Perhaps that is how a civilisation rebuilds itself. I didn’t know. There seems so much to do and so, so far to go.

Finally it started to grow dark and some of the men and their women came to the main cave. We all settled down around the fire and ate the stew that Marion had prepared and waited for the Messenger to begin.

He emptied his bowl, let out a respectful belch and then started talking.

We learned of the raid on the Oxenbury camp and the slaughter there. That the nearest raiders seemed to be conserving their fuel, which might mean that either it was running out or that they were planning a big raid. I hoped that it was the former rather than the latter.

He told that he had met few beggars on the road. And that he assumed that they had all died off.

The Messenger spoke for a while longer and then, when he was finished, I showed him to his cot and returned to sit beside Marion with the others in front of the fire. We were silent when there would normally be talk.

The next morning, the Messenger was ready to leave. Carter had topped up his fuel tank and Marion had made him some pasties and put them in a parcel together with a bottle of our home made apple brandy.

I walked the Messenger to his bike. After he had thanked me formally for our hospitality, as was the custom these days, he put his hand one my shoulder and, in a low voice that couldn’t be heard by the others, he surprised me by calling me by my old name, John. The name I had had before the war, when we had met up occasionally at rallies and custom shows. In the days before I had become the Marshall of the camp.

“In some of the camps,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want to hear his own words. “There seem to be less young ones than there were. And the adults have a deep and guilty look to themselves. And they seem well fed, too well fed. I suppose that it makes sense in a way; the young ones can’t do the work of a man but still need to eat. And it’s been a hard winter this year, much worse to the north than it is here. And it’ll be a long time till spring. And many of those camps lost all their livestock to the raiders.”

Here he paused and looked around to make sure than none of our own kids were near.

“I am just a simple man.” He continued. “But I keep thinking of those beggars as well. Some of them should have survived. But then, with no livestock, what does one do for meat. And man without meat won’t survive this cold.”

“You don’t mean….” I heard myself ask.

“I don’t know anything for sure, just that there are less children in some of the camps than there used to be and the few beggars that I meet don’t be so keen on begging any more.”

He patted my shoulder again.

“Not all news is good news, my old friend. And some is not for all to hear. Take care Marshall. You’re a good man. God be with you. If he’s still around, that is.”

I watched him start his bike and opened the gate for him myself. And, as I watched him ride slowly off , I whispered softly into the wind. Too soft to be heard by any but me.

“God be with you, Steve. You’re a good man too.”

I stayed there watching, long after he was gone. Lost in my thoughts; nasty, nasty thoughts.

And when Marion came up behind me and touched me gently on the shoulder I shivered and wondered how long it would be until the spring.

To be continued….

For much of much adult life (although there’s not much of my life that could be considered remotely adult!), I was vaguely troubled.

I worked (and I believe that I worked hard and was successful), and prospered – it’s just that not of it really seemed to matter.

I used to buy sailing magazines and dream of sailing a small boat around Europe; I was too stupid to seize my dream and do anything about it. At least that was the case until 2001 when I jacked in my job (as a reasonably successful IT manager in the city), to start a new life as an abattoir worker in France.

I was in Redon today and saw a small motor sailor tied up on the quay – a young couple were hanging out some clothes on the stern rail.

It all came back to me. What a way to live; moving from town to town under my own steam, working when I needed to, living quietly, living decently – living life the way it is meant to be lived. I was jealous of that couple on that small motor sailor.

Different Roads

The twisty lane threaded it’s way through the woods and then straightened up as it ran alongside the river. The marshy fields that bordered the river seemed to glow slightly in the shadow of the dying sun. Every now and again I’d pass something that I recognised; a cottage, a farm gate, a road sign that I’d seen before. I was back in Cornwall, there were memories here.

The last time that I’d been down this road was many years before. Then, it had been summer and Christine had been on the back. The bike had been my old Honda, I think.

Now, I was travelling alone and the bike was a Suzuki. It was the time of the year when Autumn turns to Winter and it was raining. I hadn’t stopped since St. Austell and the pain in my backside indicated that it was about time for a rest.

I had just about had enough when I saw the pub. I hadn’t known that it would be there. I hadn’t even remembered that it was on this road but, as I pulled into the car park, it was as if I had never left.

I looked around the car park as the bike stared to cool. There was an old Landrover parked next to the door and next to it, a gleaming black Sportster.

On the other side of the car park, a brand new Volvo testified to recent affluence in the area.

When this pub had been a regular haunt of mine, perhaps seven years ago, there would have been perhaps twenty bikes of all descriptions lined up outside. Now, the car park seemed strangely bare; obviously, things had changed.

I walked into the pub. It was almost how I remembered it, although somehow smaller and more genteel.

A fire was burning in the grate and a restaurant that I didn’t remember was feeding a table of five.

On the bar there was a black open face helmet and, next to it, an empty bar stool. I claimed it.

I ordered a pint and looked around. The tired old jukebox that I remembered from years ago was no longer to be seen and a soft muzak filled the air. The pool table had also disappeared.

At the corner table, where I had spent so many beer fuelled nights, there are two couples about the same age as me. Somehow, one of the men looked familiar but I couldn’t place his face.

He got up and came to the bar.

“Two more lagers,” he said to the barman.

Then I remembered. “Tony?” I asked. “Honda four hundred four?”

Tony looked at me. He’d certainly piled on the pounds since the last time I saw him. And the suit that he was wearing would have looked out of place on the old Tony, the Tony I knew.

“Stringer?” He asked. “God, it’s you.”

He stepped back to take a good look at me.

“You look just the same. You haven’t changed at all.”

I couldn’t say the same about Tony so I just asked, “That your Sportster out there?”

“God no, I gave all that up years ago. Wife, kiddies, job – you know.”

I didn’t but I nodded anyway.

Tony picked up his beers. “Well, nice to see you again, Stringer. Will you be around for a while?”

I smiled and shook my head. I watched as he made his way back to the corner table. Obviously he had chosen a different road from me. Who’s to say which one was best?

“Actually, it’s mine.” A voice beside me said. “The Sportster, that is.”

I turned round to look at the owner of the voice. The man sitting on the stool next to me was young with a rugged face and wore a leather jacket. Only the dog collar around his neck gave his profession away.

“Clive Samsard,” he said. He held out a hand. I shook it.

“John Stringer. Pleased to meet you. Nice bike.”

“Yes she is, isn’t she? And useful too.” The vicar admitted.

“The old dears think I’m rakish, their husbands spend hours telling me about the BSAs and Enfields they owned when they were young and even the youngsters think I’m cool. All vicars should have one – the churches would be overflowing every Sunday.”

I laughed at this.

“You could be onto something there.” I agreed.

Vicar Clive took a swig of his beer. “And what brings you to our little village? I’ve not seen you around.”

“Just chasing old memories.” I replied. “I used to live near here, years ago.”

Clive looked at me. He seemed to be considering his words very carefully.

“It’s nice to return to places from our youth,” he said. “But it’s never possible to go back to them, you know.”

“A subtle distinction.” I replied. “But an apt one, all the same. Don’t worry, I’m just checking out some old memories, not searching for ghosts.”

The vicar picked up his pint and finished it off. He picked up his helmet and held out his hand again.

As I shook his hand he said, “Well, I must be off. Souls to save, heathens to convert and all that. John Stringer… perhaps some of my flock might remember you?”

“The old ones, maybe.” I replied with a smile.

The vicar left and a minute later I heard the throaty roar of a Harley starting up. He blipped the throttle a couple of times – for my benefit, I thought.

I ordered another beer and thoght about where I would stay the night. There used to be a bed and breakfast just down the road, it might still be open, I hoped.

It must have started raining because the door opened and a drenched man rushed in, hastily closing the door behind him. He came over and nodded to the bar stool the vicar had just vacated.

“Feel free.” I said. It must be my night for talking to strangers, I thought.

The man took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. He sat down next to me and ordered a pint.

He introduced himself. “Name’s Jerome, most people call me Jez. That your bike outside?”

“Skinner,” I replied. “John Skinner. And yes, she’s my bike.”

“Nice,” my new friend Jez replied. “I had to sell mine when I got my boat.”

This was a new one to me. He didn’t look like a sailor. Or, at least, he didn’t look like my idea of a sailor – too much money, posh label casual clothes, a BMW in the car park and a job in advertising in London. In fact, he looked a bit like me; unshaven, long hair and wearing jeans and a jumper that had clearly seen better days.

“You sail?” I asked.

“Well, that’s the theory anyway. Most of the time I seem to spend holed up in quiet creeks doing running repairs.”

“But,” he continued. “With a bit of luck I’ll have her shipshape by June and then I’ll be off to Cork for a month. I’ve got friends there. Then across the Bay of Biscay to the Canaries to wait for the trade winds and then, when they arrive, across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. And then, who knows?”

“Sounds nice.” I said.

“It is.” He agreed. “The freedom to travel and I get to take my home with me wherever I go.”

I thought about this. It seemed to make a lot of sense to me.

“Of course,” he continued “it’s not what my parents wanted for me. But I think that they understand now that, for me, it’s not about a nine to five job, a mortgage and an expensive car. I tried all that but I couldn’t make it work.”

I thought about my own parents. About how they couldn’t understand the life I led. Working when I had to and traveling when I could.

Jez and I talked for two hours and, the more we talked, the more we found we had in common.

We’d both been in St. Malo during the summer of 2003. Me on my bike, living out of a tent in the local municipal camp site and Jez on his boat, doing odd jobs to pay for a new self-steering gear.
When time was called we’d made vague plans to meet up in Cork in June. It had been a few years since I’d been to Ireland and I was suddenly keen to go back again.

Jez gave me the address of the friends he’d be staying with in Cork and I gave him the phone number of my cousin in Falmouth. He had a boat as well but he was more interested in fishing than voyaging. Come to think of it, I don’t think he’d ever been out of Cornwall. I wondered if I envied him for that – perhaps, in a way, I do.

We said goodbye and I headed towards Truro. The bed and breakfast was still there and I booked in for the night.

As I got into bed I thought more about Jez. He and I weren’t so different after all. Always travelling, always trying to find new places to see and new people to meet. he on his small boat and me on my bike. We were headed in the same direction. We were just travelling on different roads.

Just before I went to sleep I decided to head on to Camborne in the morning and put some flowers on Caroline’s grave. I’d also lay a bunch of flowers by the side of the road where she’d died.

I’d told the Sportster riding vicar that I was just checking out some old memories and not searching for ghosts. And that’s all it was. You can never go back but that doesn’t mean you have to forget.

Besides, Caroline had always liked flowers.

This story could have been oh so true.‭

It was inspired by a silly Saturday morning,‭ ‬a new motorbike and a girl in a red sports car.‭

There was a lorry,‭ ‬I was overtaking the sports car and yes,‭ ‬there was a lane‭ ‬-‭ ‬if there hadn’t been,‭ ‬I wouldn’t be writing this now.‭

And,‭ ‬as for the barman‭ ‬-‭ ‬well,‭ ‬there is this strange pub that I know…..

The Waiting Room

Joe sat alone in the bar and waited.‭ ‬Far off,‭ ‬in the distance,‭ ‬he could hear a car approaching‭; ‬its unmuffled pipes singing a song of hell.‭ ‬There was still time left though‭; ‬time left but nothing left to do.‭

He had been riding since dawn.‭ ‬With neither destination nor schedule he was happy to be alone on the road,‭ ‬free at last.‭

The last few months had been hell,‭ ‬a drunken hell,‭ ‬filled with misery and pain.‭ ‬But it was over.‭ ‬He had survived and he was grateful that those days were behind him and all in the past.‭

His fall had come when Susan had left him.‭ ‬He had always been a heavy drinker but,‭ ‬with his enforced solitude,‭ ‬he had seemed to lose control.‭ ‬Going over and over in his mind,‭ ‬all the things that he had said or hadn’t said,‭ ‬he drank more and more until the days seemed to pass in a drunken blur.‭

Finally,‭ ‬he lost his job,‭ ‬which was maybe what he had wanted all along.‭ ‬Now he was free to drink even more.‭ ‬He awoke in the mornings with a craving that was only satisfied by the evening’s oblivion.‭ ‬Days turned into weeks,‭ ‬weeks passed into months and he drank the time away.‭

To find out what happened next you’ll need to buy a copy of Different Roads – available from Lulu.com from 1st August 2011.