she’s moving again how many times, she’s lost count where will she go next?
the custom manager threw the rest of her things out ‘good riddance,’ he shouted
her method is the same she will find another place it’s a tradition
a man’s there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Image credit: Bernhard @Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows the view of a street where a stack of old luggage (suitcases) is piled one upon another, the lowest one resting on a wooden box. There’s a bicycle parked next to this pile, along a no parking sign.
The ash and sulphur became so dense as the plane banked horribly and listed alarmingly – mayday, mayday – shouted the captain; at this point, the red-head writer, aka the Raconteuse, had so many thoughts but then she blacked out, which was just as well, since the plane lost power: it shuddered and quivered but it glided on the ice.
Just a few minutes later she’d recovered, she stared around, the plane was crippled and in a bad way, but it seemed that everyone was safe; and even better the volcano was silent again, just a few plumes of moulted rock and ash around.
The red-head writer realised that it would be a very long way to walk, but what else would she do; she decided that she would go alone and quickly – she was wearing all her warm clothes and she had a big bag – everything she needed.
She looked at her GPS, then set out.
She had been walking at least two hours, there was no ice now and it’s easier to walk, but suddenly the steep shale made her tumbled down, she had a long fall and stopped, she was rather shaken but soon recovered; now she saw a bank with deep water where the stream levels out – and here was the road.
A little later, she saw a huge car, she waved with her big bag, and it stopped; she smiled happily as she was whisked away by an excellent friend who drives too fast.
Posted for The Unicorn Challenge, a magical challenge hosted by Jenne Gray and C E Ayr, where they provide a photo and we, in turn, provide up to 250 words.
Joey glanced at the carnage he’d left behind; an ominous silence pervaded the blood-spattered hallway.
Raising a hand to acknowledge Gary, Joey took a deep breath to quieten his thumping heart and shot back into the building; he burst into his flat and snatched up his back-pack, stuffing it with a handful of clothes and the small battered box which contained his ‘important stuff’.
Skidding back down the stairs, he paused by Ceridwen’s door; it opened before he could knock, revealing Ceridwen, clutching a bristling Cullen in her arms. Digging into his pocket, Joey pulled out a thick roll of notes and started to peel a few off, but Ceridwen shook her head; Joey was about to speak, but she silenced him with a look and with a nod of her head, gestured for him to leave. Giving Cullen’s head a regretful stroke, Joey fled the scene, only pausing to scoop a small shiny object from the hall floor.
Half an hour later, Ceridwen stepped sedately around the fallen bodies and picked up the pay-phone, wondering how she was going to explain all this to the emergency services; one thing was certain though, she wasn’t going to betray young Joey.
‘I lost him!’ Gary panted through the side window of the van, ‘I followed him into the park but he jumped over the wall… I think he’s back in the house,’ his eyes slid to the building where Patterson and his cronies were waiting; one of their number had also just pitched up, red-cheeked from running.
A nerve in Patterson’s temple twitched as he took out his keys and strode over to his car; beckoning to two of his crew, he indicated the now-open boot: one retrieved a crow-bar and the other a stubby-handled axe.
‘They’re going in!’ Gary’s voice rose half an octave with anxiety as the front door began to splinter.
As the door gave way, Joey launched himself over the banister, kicking wildly, taking two of the intruders down as he swung to the floor; spinning away from the man who was wielding the axe and snatching the crow-bar from where it’d fallen; with a mighty roar, Joey raised the crow-bar, smashing it against bone and flesh, Patterson was the last to crumple.
Joey stumbled outside, allowing the crow-bar to clatter to the ground.
‘In here, mate!’ Gary beckoned from the open back door of the van.
Ignoring the repeated ringing of the doorbell in the flat above, Ceridwen was distracting her attention from the menacing figures standing in the front yard, concentrating on the progress of a wheelchair-bound man being chaperoned across the road by a white-clad nurse.
A new feeling of foreboding tugged at the edge of her consciousness, accompanied by a gentle tap-tap on her door; she pulled it open, Joey stood before her emitting the disquieting aura she’d sensed before: ‘How did you get in, Joey?’
‘Through the window by the back door you leave open for Cullen,’ her young neighbour looked about anxiously, ‘I just came to pick up some stuff.’
Ceridwen’s eyes followed his, ‘I take it those people outside are after whatever it is you have; not that it’s any of my business, but I should get rid of it if I were you.’
‘Look, here’s the plan,’ Joey’s eyes darted towards the stairs, ‘I’m in and out quickly, then I’ll ring the phone downstairs from the call-box up the road; you go and answer then tell the man outside it’s for him; I’ll talk to him, draw him off, like…’
Joey was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood.
Stealing a glance around a tatty blue van, Joey observed the man he knew as Patterson drawing on a cigarette and obviously awaiting his return; the man’s head turned to face him and Joey saw the hunger in his piercing blue-grey eyes for object he was carrying in the pocket of his parka.
With one nod from Patterson to his little crew of small squat men lurking in the driveway, the chase was on.
Joey spun around and sprinted back down the road; hearing a vehicle’s doors slamming behind him and a voice calling out his name, he ducked into the grounds of the nearest building.
In one fluid movement, he cleared the back boundary wall, landing heavily on the grass at the edge of Princes Park; he dove down the leafy corridor between the bushes, feeling like a fox with a pack of hounds at his heels threatening to devour him.
Joey was almost level with his own building; grabbing for the top of the wall, his feet fought for purchase on the shiny brick, then he swung himself over and stumbled towards the slightly open window.
Minutes later, Joey was knocking softly on the door to Ceridwen’s flat.
Gary paced the floor in front of his girlfriend, Gina, struggling to regain his composure after speaking to Joey – the moment the interview had ended he’d grabbed his jacket and sprinted back to their flat, ‘I have to get the camel off Joey!’
‘Aye, aye, what’s the shouting about?’ Bob entered the sitting room breathing heavily, having taken the stairs two at a time, followed by Fingers, his pet monkey, ‘we only took a little detour to fetch that paper for me Nan.’
‘Bob, mate, I need your help… it’s about the camel,’ Gary grabbed his friend’s arm, ‘we have to hurry!’
A moment later, Gary and Gina piled into Bob’s van, ‘assuming we get the camel back, we need to make a plan to get rid of it, we can’t dump something like that in the trash,’ she shouted, gripping an agitated Fingers as they sped off.
Bob pulled in behind a large midnight-blue car; the man who was leaning against its glossy bonnet calmly lit a cigarette with an elegant silver lighter and turned towards them, a malevolent glint in his blue-grey eyes.
‘One thing at a time,’ said Bob, ‘we have to get past him first.’
Ceridwen gazed out of the open window watching the pink May blossom float like confetti over the path outside her flat and inhaling the yeasty smell from Cain’s Brewery, which was carried on the same soft breeze; Cullen, purring on her lap, stretched out his front paws, kneaded her thigh for a moment, then curled up again, his purr drifting to silence, only to be replaced by a louder, throatier purr as a sleek, midnight-blue Silver Shadow glided to a halt outside; a vehicle which was definitely out of place in the neighbourhood.
The driver’s door opened and an immaculately dressed silver-haired man got out, carefully adjusting his white shirt cuffs a precise half-inch beyond his grey-wool sleeves as he watched four strange squat little men descend from the car.
Ceridwen craned forward and Cullen sprung from her lap, jumping onto the window sill to observe the scene below.
As the four little men gathered around him, the silver-haired man stared upwards, his gaze meeting Ceridwen’s; Cullen’s tail began to twitch.
The first of the strange little men advanced to the front door and applied a doughy finger to the bell labelled five.
Joey, flush with his wad of winnings, tucked into the Philharmonic’s lunch-time special, a steaming bowl of meaty scouse*, congratulating himself on his escape.
He’d only just started on his second glass of stout, when he remembered he was due to sign on; he gulped the smooth liquid down, just as the original antique clock hanging above the bar was beginning to strike two: he was already late.
Gary, the counter supervisor, hadn’t been amused, so much so that Joey had found himself staring back at him across a sticky Formica table in Interview Room One; Joey looked down at his bitten fingernails, ‘sorry, I must’ve left me card at home’ he muttered.
To Joey’s surprise, Gary slid his UB40 across the table, ‘listen Joey, I brought you in here for a warning, but it’s not about being late,’ Gary’s grip on the table edge tightened, ‘it’s about the jade camel, trust me, mate, you’re better off without it.’
Joey held up his hands, ‘if that’s all, I’ll be going.’
Gary, rapidly losing control, flew round the table and grabbed Joey by the lapels, ‘I mean it, mate, it’s like it’s cursed; bad people are coming after you for it.’
Aurora’s carmine lips formed a determined line, as she received Patterson’s latest up-date; she favoured him with an ice-blue stare: ’and when might I expect the camel’s return?’
The suave, silver-haired man spoke smoothly: ‘a plan is being put into place.’
On the south-side of the city, in the DHSS Office on High Park Street, Gary glared across a yellowing Formica table-top at his subordinate Reg, a short, squat individual whom he’d never taken to, waiting for his response.
‘It was just a favour, like, for a mate; Joey Moran’s got something of his and me mate wants it back,’ Reg shrugged, ‘said it was valuable – even showed me a picture of it – I dunno what’s so special about a little curled-up camel statue, it looked more like a turd to me.’
‘Your mate has Mr Moran’s UB40 but he doesn’t know his address, so you took it upon yourself to look it up in the office records?’ As Gary spoke, dread rose from the pit of his stomach – a curled up camel – his fingers gripped the edge of the table-top, purple veins standing out on the backs of his hands – surely notthat same evil little statue?
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