There came a challenge writ in verse 
So framed to prove her rhyme perverse
But stood she tall with wounded pride
And called her army to her side 
Armoured she in fine haiku
Her steed a gentle Clerihew
A shield of perfect rhyming sonnet
Had runic verse writ large upon it
For greaves she took iambic pentameter 
Vambraces also in that parameter
And rhyming quatrain bright and clear
Provided sword and shining spear
Her tercet bow and arrows bright
Sent singing couplets to the night
While all about her they complained
Nurse, she’s out of bed again!

©️ jane jago 2018

From Haruspex 3: A Walking Shadow - by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The big man, with his little dog trotting at his heels, walked out of the Tavern quietly and without waking anyone. Which was probably just as well, Archanbor decided, as Ritter wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t like being locked up. Outside the streets of Keran were mostly deserted and Archanbor moved with silent speed avoiding those few who were up and around.
“No point startling folks is there Ritter?” Archanbor observed as he opened up the low shed beside the workshops attached to the space port. The small dog seemed to agree and watched as his master rolled the heavy felt cloth back over the body of a PTV.
“Well, if he’d not locked us up I’d have offered him a fair hire price – but he doesn’t bloody deserve it now – that was so not a nice thing to do.”
“What isn’t nice, Drum?”
Archanbor spun on his heel and would have fired if Ritter hadn’t barked a sharp warning and run over to sniff at the figure standing in the door, his tail wagging happily.
“Pan? You look as beautiful as ever,” Archanbor opened his arms to offer her a hug. She didn’t move from the doorway, just stood there arms crossed all disapproving.
“You borrowing Gernie’s PTV then Drum?”
Archanbor lowered his arms sheepishly and tucked the energy snub away out of sight. He nodded.
“Oh aye. I was planning on it. Me and Ritts we need to get to Tabruth and it’s a bloody parlous long walk and swim if not.”
Pan nodded agreement.
“It would be. Not at all safe,” she agreed. “So what business do you and Ritter have in Tabruth? I hear that’s where the Overlord has his capital – you got trade with him, Drum?”
Archanbor rubbed his nose a few times and glanced down at Ritter for inspiration.
“Of a sort,” he said eventually.
Pan looked almost stern.
“You mean – your old trade? The one you promised Ritter you’d give up?”
That was so not fair. Even Ritter growled.
“What’s it bloody matter to you?” Archanbor demanded.
“To me? Not much. But to you it could matter. I know for a fact the Overlord has visitors right now and they are a bit out of your league for nowadays, Drum. I just wouldn’t want to see – see Ritter get hurt.”
Which showed what little she knew.
“If I don’t go Ritter will get hurt. And it’s not like I’m going to drop anyone. Just borrow – like I’m borrowing Tavi’s PTV. It’ll all be fine in the end.”
Pan was shaking her head.
“You go borrowing people you could wind up breaking them, Drum. You don’t want that. We’re all getting too old for it. Why don’t you come have a cup of tea with me before you go, at the least? I got a biscuit for Ritter too.”
He looked at the little dog who was standing head on one side.
“He’s not been eating biscuits recently. I think he’s off them,” Archanbor shot a worried look at Pan. “You think he might be not so well?”
She looked anywhere but at the dog, her face considering.
“He might be. If he is, taking him off out to Tabruth won’t help him get any better. Why not come have that tea and let him curl up by my fire for a few, Drum? Maybe that’ll help him some.”
Ritter barked and showed what he thought of that idea. Archanbor laughed. He wouldn’t be sorry to have some tea, it might help settle out his hangover.
“Alright, lass – and thank you.”
Pan’s domain was always a mix of the domestic and the workaday. She scooped a mug of tea for each of them from the pot and then stirred the embers of the fire to life and put a small log on to burn, before joining him and allowing a space for Ritter on the small rug before the hearth.
“A fine brew this, Pan,” Archanbor told her.”You know if you had not up and bloody married I’d be making you a proposal myself.”
“You’d be in the queue then Drum,” she said, her tone good natured. “But you know, you could always settle down here – find someone nice who’s local. You know you have a lot of friends here, people who’d be glad to see you stay. And Gernie would appreciate the help you could give – he could probably even get you on the official payroll. It would be steady for you – and Ritter, of course.”
She meant well. She always did. Heart of gold – like Gernie. He shook his head.
“Bit late for that now.”
Pan shot him a strange look, like he’d said something rude.
“It’s never too late, Drum. You just stop running, sit down, put your feet up and root in. It’s what I did. And how many other places have you got good friends? People who will look out for you?”
“I have Ritter,” Archanbor told her, smiling slightly at the little dog.
“Of course you do – and you’ll always have him. But maybe he’d like it if you settled down? No more running all over the galaxy.”
Archanbor thought about it and looked enquiringly at the little dog. Honestly, sometimes it was as if Ritter could read his thoughts.
“What you think Ritts? Should we take Auntie Pan’s advice? She’s bloody right you know.”
The small dog yawned and stretched then stood up and put his head on one side.
“What does Ritter think then?” Pan was asking, looking towards the fire.
“I’d say that looks more like he thinks we ought to be getting going,” Archanbor said, feeling just a touch regretful. It would be good to be able to sit here, drink the tea and then maybe spend the day working on mending or building something. He’d enjoyed that in the past. “Maybe when we get back. Maybe then. What you think to that Ritts?”
The wagging tail said it all.
“It might be a bit late then,” Pan said quietly. Archanbor laughed.
“Make your bloody mind up, lass. First, you’re telling me it’s never too late and then you’re saying it will be.”

E.M. Swift-Hook – Haruspex 3: A Walking Shadow

Sing a song of summer
Braising in the sun
Barbecues and double gins
Having lots of fun
When it is the weekend
Heading for the sea
Playing beachy volleyball
And having chips for tea

Mother’s in the shopping centre
Spending lots of money
Daddy’s had a load of booze
And thinks he’s really funny
The kids are in the paddling pool
Dabbling their toes
And nanny’s in the garden
Sniffing something up her nose

©️jj 2018

Out Today! From the macabre to the deeply disturbing, Lac Du Mort and Other Stories by Joanne Van Leerdam delivers eight chilling tales that will please lovers of horror and dark fiction.

The title means ‘lake of death’, which is also the title of the first story in this collection of original and evocative stories. The stories often draw on typically Australian settings that add an extra layer of originality and interest, and there is actually a town not far from where I live named ‘Mortlake’, which means the same thing. I wonder how many locals have thought about that!  However, I don’t want to be held responsible for a decrease in tourism or business in the area, so Lac Du Mort was probably a better choice.

From ‘Garrawi Lake’.

Lou dumped the totes and towels on the grass, then swung the camera bag off her shoulder and placed it on the blanket that Kelly had spread out. “It is! This was a great idea. Staying indoors in the air conditioning was starting to get on my nerves.”
“Hopefully when the sun goes down it will cool off, too.”
“We could stay here all night.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice?” Kelly sighed. “I love this lake. I’m so glad you brought me here. I’d happily never leave.”
Sunlight glinted on the water, sparks of white fire dancing upon deep blue silk. A flock of white birds flashed past and swooped out over the lake, then out of sight again over the far shore.
“Wow! That had to be at least a hundred cockies!” Kelly exclaimed.
“Yeah. They’re always here. The lake is named after them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Garrawi is the local Indigenous people’s word for cockatoo.”
“I thought ‘cockatoo’ was an Aboriginal word.”
“It might be.  I suppose there might be different words for the same thing in any language.” Lou shrugged and smiled simultaneously. “I want to see if I can get some photos of them. And I want to take some photos of the lake, too.”
“Okay. I might stay in the shade, though. You—” Kelly interrupted her own sentence by placing a soft kiss on Lou’s shoulder. “You may take your beautiful cocoa skin out into the sunshine, and I shall lie here and watch you.”
“I’ll be back soon, Kel.”
“Take your time. I’ll be fine here with this ridiculously beautiful heroine and her equally magnificent vampire lover.”
Lou rolled her eyes dramatically. “One day, I’ll convert you to reading brilliant science fiction.”
Kelly laughed. “That will never happen.”
Lou stood, took the camera out of the bag, and fiddled with the settings before walking down toward the lake. Kelly watched her hold her camera up to take some shots, then walk further toward the shore and change her angle to capture the play of the light on the water in a different way.
In a flurry of feathers and squawks, the cockies flew back over the lake, brilliant white against the azure sky. Kelly shot a rapid fire succession of photos, and then flicked her camera to the video setting so that she could capture the sweeping flight of the flock across the lake, still filming them as they dashed over her head toward the tree under which Kelly was reading.
“Magnificent!” she whispered as the birds chattered and shrieked on their way past, their piercing calls of “talons and beaks, talons and beaks” shattering the stillness of the lake in the broad afternoon sunlight.

A Bite Of... Joanne Van Leerdam

Q1: Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?

Heck yes. I write horror and macabre fiction with a very strong sense of poetic justice, so Curious Things and a number of the stories in Lac Du Mort are full of that.  A Poet’s Curse is poetry about evil people who fully deserve what’s coming to them.
Honestly, if anyone is tired of waiting for karma to do its job, I totally identify with that.  When they read my work, they’ll know they are not alone.

Q2: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

A great deal of my poetry is autobiographical. I have often said that there is a part of my soul on every page.  Some of my poems are about other people and fictional things, but there’s always an underlying element of something I’ve experienced or something I’ve observed in someone else’s life or actions that have prompted me to write.
In all honesty, writing some of those poems has been the best therapy I’ve ever had. I’ve confronted a number of demons, and slain a few of them, too.

Q3: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I like to write characters who could be anybody. I believe that people are people, regardless of belief, sexual orientation, or skin colour, so I don’t often mention those things. Another factor is that in writing short fiction, there isn’t always a lot of room for back story or detailed character development, so those things are more implied than overt.
The upshot of that is that someone reading one of my stories can imagine the character to have any colour skin, be of any orientation, or part of any group they wish.
Some might say that is “chickening out”, but I don’t think so. I think it’s giving the reader freedom to interpret my characters any way they like.
Having said that, one of the stories in ‘Lac Du Mort’ features a same-sex couple, one of whom has brown skin. Those things are subtly included because they are not the focus of the story, but they’re there.

Joanne Van Leerdam is a poet, blogger, writer, thinker, puzzler, teacher, traveller, photographer and generally nice person. Despite having lived all her life in Australia, she has, thus, far, avoided being killed or consumed by any of the deadly wildlife, which is probably a good thing.

Other than Australia, Canada is her favourite place in the world.

In addition to writing powerful, thought-provoking poetry and short-but-incredibly meaningful stories, she keeps teens enthralled in her senior high school English, History and Drama/Performance classes. She is an active member and performer in her local theatre company and has directed high school musicals for the past eleven years.

Her poetry is contemporary, sensual, moody and easy to read – and it will get you in the feelings. Her horror fiction is deliciously creepy and macabre, and deeply satisfying.

Lac Du Mort and Other Stories is out today! You can find Joanne Van Leerdam on Facebook,  Twitter,  Instagram,  Pinterest,  Google+,  Goodreads and her Website.

A Dai and Julia flash fiction.

Dai Llewellyn was all but home when a gigantic figure loomed out of the darkness.
“Edbert, you spado, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“No. I’m trying to save your life.”
“Come again?”
Edbert’s laughter rumbled deep in his massive barrel of a chest.
“Julia has been in the kitchen. All day.”
“Julia? In the kitchen?”
“Yes. She has decided she should learn to cook.”
Dai digested that one, and braced himself just in time not to buckle at the knees when Edbert clapped him on the shoulder.

Julia met him at the door with Canis and Lupo at her heels. He bent to kiss her and she dimpled demurely.
“Good day, love?” he asked with careful mildness.
She lifted a shoulder. “Same old. Same old.”
He grinned down into her face, noticing signs of frustration at the back of her bitter chocolate eyes but deeming it safest to say nothing.
“Go and wash your hands, supper is ready.”
Dai ambled off, and he could swear he felt his wife’s eyes boring into his back. This, he thought, could be about to get sticky.
He returned to the winter sitting room, to find the table set and have his nostrils assailed by a savoury aroma.
“Something smells good.”
She showed him her small, white teeth and he gave her his best grin in return.
“Sit,” she said firmly, before serving him with a bowl of thick soup and a hunk of buttered bread.
She brought her own smaller portion and sat opposite him watching as he dipped his spoon into the bowl. He tasted with some trepidation but the soup was fine. It wasn’t as delicately flavoured by any means as Cookie’s handiwork but it was hot and meaty and filling and he had no complaints. He ate his bowlful and cleaned out the bowl with the end of his bread. Julia eyed him narrowly, and he smiled into her eyes.
“What’s up love?”
“Nothing. Why do you think there is something the matter?”
She got up with what was perilously close to a flounce and whisked away his bowl and side plate.
“Cheesecake?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
Julia brought a glass stand to the table, on which rested a cake decorated with raspberry sauce.
“That looks nice.”
She frowned at him and put a knife into the confection, which promptly collapsed with its undercooked centre dripping over the edges of the serving dish. 
Dai knew he had to act quickly to avert a potential meltdown, so he stuck his finger in the gooey mess and licked it.
“Yum, yum,” he said before taking another dollop of goo and spreading it on his wife’s face. 
She opened her mouth to protest and he forestalled her by pulling her across the table and licking her face, to which treatment she responded with some enthusiasm. 
A considerable time later she lay in his arms and he grinned down at her. 
“You can cook any time you like….”

The Dai and Julia Mysteries by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook are a series of alternate history books set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left...

Duty is not a popular concept nowadays. It is usually viewed much as the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner, a heavy burden which must be fulfilled if one is not to be crushed by guilt. That is certainly true for oneself when contemplating the growing pile of books my students and others have sent me, asking me to cast my eyes upon pages of pallid prose and turgid tropes so as to bestow even the merest flutter of words in a review.

If you are one such, awaiting my good offices, be sure I have not forgotten you, whoever you are and your book will be quite safe for years to come in my keeping.

However, there is one duty read I find myself unable to escape. A mercifully thin book produced by the cohabiting creativity of the two dreadful females whose blog I so kindly support by allowing them to host my words free of charge. I was poorly repaid for this act of generosity by being presented, around this time last year, with a copy of their (then just released) novella, with the unspoken expectation that I should review it. 

Review of Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

What an appalling fiasco!

To begin, we have a setting which is in the modern day (indeed, with tantalising hints of futuristic devices and transport), but then we are also assaulted by  inaccurate Latin, as the rather ridiculous premise of the tale is that Merry England is not English – it is a mere province of the still existing Roman Empire. As if!

I was so shocked and appalled by the idea that anyone could cast aside the entire glorious history of my nation and substitute instead a shallow national grave on the ebbing tide of civilisation, that the story itself seemed barely to matter. Something about athletes being murdered and fish sauce…

Avoid at all costs.

Duty called, I have answered.

One star for a clever-sounding title.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

This, Carla realised, was what was meant by ‘tea and sympathy’. Only, in this case, it was coffee and sympathy – well latte to be exact – and some comfort-eating chocolate cake.
“So it’s over this time?” Her cup, broad and deep, clicked back on its saucer. “Really? Truly?”
Emmy gave a sad smile. Over the last hour and the chocolate cake, she had burdened Carla’s soul with a gory, forensic dissection of the breakdown of her relationship. Cut by painful cut, from the first misconstrued comment to the final brutal insult.
“Oh it’s over. Dead. Buried. Jake knows it, I know it.”
“You’re sure? Last time – ”
“Last time I was still half in love.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“So what about Chris?”
Emmy’s blue eyes blinked once, stating clearly that the name was not relevant in her love life and never would be. “I heard from Miranda the other day. Sienna is starting school. Isn’t that incredible? It only seems like last week the three of us were sitting in these very chairs discussing baby names.”
“Emmy – you can’t pretend forever.”
The blue eyes clouded. Emmy grabbed her coffee cup from its brightly coloured saucer and hid behind it. The words ‘I Love Cappuccino’ danced around the rim in bold, red letters.
“Chris won’t just go away,” Carla spoke to the cup.
Emmy lowered the coffee, her face tightly resentful.
“Chris is not involved with this.” Then, suddenly appealing: “Let’s not go there today, Carla hun, please.”
Not for the first time, Carla felt herself being torn between loyalties. Emmy’s baby-blue eyes, pleading, and Chris – dependable Chris – bleeding from a dozen wounds he had never known were being inflicted. Carla shook her head slowly, as the waters of the Rubicon flowed away beneath her feet.
“He’s your husband, not a meal ticket. You have to – ”
Instantly Emmy was by the door, the cup still in her hand.
“I don’t ‘have to’ anything! Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
The coffee cup arced across the room heading for shattering impact and landed at the moment the door slammed. It bounced on the carpet, with a little spray of coffee and rolled, until it stopped on its handle by Carla’s feet, still safe and in one piece.
Carla bent to pick it up, the words facing her read: ‘I Love…’.
For a moment she clutched it close, then she placed it with extra care on its own saucer, where it belonged.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Soul Forge by Richard H Stephens is an epic story of a forgotten hero. Scorned by an ungrateful kingdom, unfairly blamed, for the demise of their beloved Queen, Silurian Mintaka decides he can't fight for his land anymore. To re-enter the hostile fray of his peers would probably end up with him killing them all.

A thunderous detonation rocked the land. The pile of debris they stood amongst lurched and collapsed upon itself, taking everyone down with it. To Jarr-nash’s relief they had tumbled into the relative calm of the shrine’s interior—the spot from which they had fallen, engulfed in fire.
They lay in disarray within a small chapel. The flames crackling from above cast an ethereal light upon a larger than life statue matching the one that had stood guard over the entrance. Jarr-nash’s eyes focused on the empty scabbard hanging from the statue’s waist.
He pushed aside the debris that had fallen on him and went to his queen. She lay half buried in crumbled rock but her even chest falls reassured him she was alive. 
He freed her from the rubble and with Alhena’s help, stood up with Quarrnaine clutched in his arms—silt and small debris sifted from her limp body to the floor.
He traversed the nave and mounted the altar steps. Kneeling before the sacred presence, he gently laid Quarrnaine upon the dusty marble, altar.
Behind him, the bishop prostrated upon the top step, mumbling incoherently to the altar piece. The warlord remained amongst the dusty pews halfway between the cleric and the two knights who had remained at the entrance.
Alhena stood at the base of the chancel steps, glancing anxiously from warlord, to bishop, to the statue.
Jarr-nash shook the queen’s shoulders. “We are here, my lady. We found the shrine. We need you to wake.” 
She didn’t stir.
A crimson flash illuminated the shrine, causing all but the queen to turn and gasp. One of the knights, framed by the flaming doorway, shouted, “It’s coming right at us!”
Jarr-nash’s eyes grew wide, his attempts to awaken the queen more animated.
The knights shrunk away from the doorway, yelling for him to hurry.
Jarr-nash reached over his shoulder. With a euphoric ‘swish’ the blade slid from its sheath. He jumped to his feet, facing the serene altarpiece staring back at him. 
The light in the chapel increased, a harbinger of the fireball’s approach. 
Jarr-nash raised the Sacred Sword Voil, positioning its gleaming tip at the small slit atop the marble scabbard.
Bishop Uzziah’s cry diverted his attention. “No, you fool! You’ll destroy the blade!” He appeared to be having an apoplectic fit.
Jarr-nash stared dumbly at the bishop, unsure what to do. 
A frantic movement near the chapel’s entrance caught his eye. The knights were bent over, covering their heads with their arms. The unnerving whine of their approaching doom rose to a deafening roar.
Jarr-nash hesitated for only a moment longer before doing the only thing he knew to save his queen. With a loud clang, he drove the blade home. The sword’s hilt shuddered to a halt atop the dusty scabbard at the same moment the fiery globe impacted the shrine’s entrance.
Jarr-nash’s last images were of the knights disappearing in a wave of flame as it swept through the chamber on the heels of a powerful concussion. 
The sound of grating rock sounded above the din as the granite roof collapsed into the bowels of the blasted shrine.

Soul Forge will be released tomorrow, August 21. Don’t miss it…

A Bite Of... Richard H Stephens

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

I have always had a soft spot for people who get picked on or treated unfairly, so I would definitely rather be a hero. Nothing would satisfy me more than to intervene on an unfair situation and make it right, knowing that as the hero, no one would be able to gainsay my decision…at least without ramifications of course. 😉 

Q2: Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

If it weren’t for the present situation in Soul Forge, I would much rather live in Zephyr with my characters and enjoy a much simpler, wholesome life, than having to deal with the fast paced, high-tech, ‘my cell phone is more important than you,’ society we live in today. Then again, now that I think on it, I would choose to live in Zephyr anyway, despite the…whoops, almost crossed into spoiler alert territory. 😊

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Chocolate cake, hands down. Give me a great big, honking piece of chocolate cake, preferably a corner so there is icing on three sides, throw in a tall glass of cold milk, and I will be your friend for life. The only thing that should be associated with the flavour of coffee, is coffee. 

Richard H Stephens in his own words

Born in Simcoe, Ontario, in 1965, I began writing circa 1974, a bored child looking for something to while away the long, summertime days.  My penchant for reading ‘The Hardy Boys’ led to an inspiration one sweltering summer afternoon when my best friend and I thought, “Hey, we could write one of those.” And so, I did.
​As my reading horizons broadened, so did my writing. Star Wars inspired me to write a 600-page novel about outer space that caught the attention of a special teacher, Mr. Woodley, who encouraged me to keep writing.
A trip to a local bookstore saw the proprietor introduce me to Stephen R. Donaldson and Terry Brooks. My writing life was forever changed.
At 17, I left high school to join the working world to support my first son. For the next twenty-two years I worked as a shipper at a local bakery. At the age of 36, I went back to high school to complete my education. After graduating with honours at the age of thirty-nine, I became a member of our local Police Service, and worked for 12 years in the provincial court system.
In early 2017, I resigned from the Police Service to pursue my love of writing full-time. With the help and support of my lovely wife Caroline and our 5 children, I have now realized my boyhood dream.

You can find Richard H Stephens on Twitter and his website.

As soon as the new beds were delivered, Anna and Carrie embarked on a grand clean-up and furniture rearrangement. Sam left them to it as much as possible; when he was not a work, he tended to retreat to his workshop at the bottom of the garden unless required for furniture humping duties.

He was there late one Friday afternoon lovingly oiling the wood of Anna’s surprise wedding present, when she called from the back door.
“Sam. Can you come in a minute?”
“On my way lovey.”
He washed his hands at the tiny sink and brushed the sawdust off his trousers before cantering up the path with Bonnie at his heels. When he got into the kitchen, he found Sandra Wang sitting at the table with a bone-white face. She was clutching a large glass of wine and her teeth chattered on the rim as she took a drink. Anna sat opposite her, looking concerned. Sam sat down beside Sandra and possessed himself of the hand not holding a glass.
“What’s the matter, love? What’s got you so upset and shaky?”
She tried a smile.
“Oh Sam,” she said in a very small voice “I’ve been working in the private wing at Cheltenham for the past couple of weeks, but there’s something very wrong there. First we had a computer virus, and some men from a specialist company had to be called out to fix it. They finished this morning. Then some policemen arrived. They shut down the wing until further notice, confiscated a lot of computer equipment, and arrested half a dozen people. They questioned the rest of us and let us go. One of the policemen told me not to worry, as I hadn’t been in the job long enough to be under suspicion. He also advised me not to go back there and not to be in contact with any of the staff in the NHS bit of the hospital, which I told him would be a bit difficult. When I explained why, he said Ez was in the clear, but there might be some senior doctors in it up to their eyebrows. I dunno if he meant you, but I had to come and see you. I’m sure you had nothing to do with whatever is wrong, so I had to come and warn you.”
“It’s OK. There’s no trouble for me.”
“Thank goodness for that. I didn’t want to think you could be rotten. You’ve been kind and friendly to us.”
“It’s OK, Sandra. I knew there was trouble in the air, but I never dreamed you would be working in the private wing. I thought you were a GP.”
“I am, but between practices at the moment. So I signed on with an agency and they put me in the private wing doing ward rounds.”
“Oh. Right. Well. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”
“Don’t be. I’d have given the game away very quickly. Can you tell me what was going on?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Then it’s not just a case of financial irregularity?”
“No.”
“The police seemed quite cross that the consortium rep wasn’t around. I’m guessing she was up to her neck in whatever was going on.”
“I imagine so, but don’t worry about it.”
“If you say not,” Sandra sounded a bit happier.
Anna smiled at her.
“You look better. More colour in your cheeks.”
“I feel better, but would you mind if I stay here till Ez gets home? Mama and Poh are away for a few days and I don’t quite feel up to being on my own.”
Sam and Anna shared a look.
“Course you can stay, silly,” Anna said bracingly. “What time is Esmond due home?”
Sandra looked at her watch.
“In about an hour if he’s on time, which he probably won’t be.”
“Can you call him?”
“I can leave a message at least.”
“Well, give him a bell and invite him here for some supper.”
“Oh that’s kind, but isn’t it an imposition?”
“No. I wouldn’t have offered if it was.”
Sandra picked up a handbag the size of a compact car and rooted busily in its entrails, finally emerging with her phone. She managed a wobbly smile.
“Yeah. I know it’s huge, but I always think I’m going to need many things at all times.” She keyed in a number and listened. “Ez. I’m at Sam and Anna’s place. We’re invited to supper. Call me and let me know if you are running late.” She ended the call. “Voicemail. But he’s very good at checking it between patients.”
As she finished speaking her phone rang.
“Ah. Here he is.”
She answered.
“Hi love. No. I’m okay now.”
“Yeah. It was scary but Sam and Anna are being kind.”
“You want a word with Sam?”
She passed the phone over.
“Yes. That’s about the size of it. No. I’m not worried now. No problem. See you.”
He handed the phone back to Sandra, who listened for a minute before hanging up.
“He’s on his way. He has heard about what went on today. He worried for me. What’d he say to you, Sam?”
“Just that he knew I wasn’t involved. And he wanted to thank us for taking care of you.”
“That wasn’t a problem was it love?” Anna smiled. “Do you two eat curry?”
“Do we ever.”
“Well then, you sit and chat to Sam while I see what I can rustle up.”
“Can’t I help?”
“No. Sit. Talk to Sam and drink your wine.”

Anna chopped and prepared while Sandra and Sam chatted lightly. She noticed the strain slowly draining out of Sandra’s voice, and smiled inwardly. Keeping an ear cocked, she heard a car draw to a halt outside. Sam obviously heard it too because he got up quickly.
“I’ll go open the gate.”
He slipped out.

By the time Sam got outside Esmond was just about to get out of his car. Sam motioned him to stay in his seat, and  opened the gate. Once the Jaguar slid in he closed the gate behind it. Esmond jumped out and grasped Sam’s shoulders.
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“I’ve got a friend who works at the GMC. He called me this afternoon. Said that the police had notified them that the private wing was closed as of right then. He even hinted at what has been going on. Said three senior doctors had already been charged. Apparently you and me are in the clear, but a lot of the other senior men are under suspicion. Some have even been suspended from the register.”
“Well I’m glad you know I’m straight. But. Your friend shouldn’t be telling people stuff.”
“He knows that: normally wild horses. It’s only because of Sandie.”
“I guess I can understand that. But I’m also guessing that whatever exactly is going on it involves some very nasty people. So I’m keeping my head down. I have Anna to think about. And someone who talked to me said that this makes Harold Shipman look like a fucking philanthropist.”
“Yeah. I got that.  Does Sandie know what was going on?”
“No. And if I was you I wouldn’t tell her. At least not yet. She was badly frightened by what happened this morning. Just come and have some supper and a glass of wine. You can always leave the car here and walk home.”
“Thanks Sam. I might just do that.”
And that, Sam thought, was all he would hear about the rotten goings-on in the private health care sector. Which proves how wrong a human being can be.

Jane Jago

Just take a step over here, please,
and sign on the dotted line.
Your conscience is perfectly clear now
And it’s all going to be just fine.
It isn’t a question of principle,
when wrapped in a fictional skin
A story is simply, exactly that
It can glorify any old sin.
The reader will know it’s only a tale,
And never it serious take
They are fully aware, the words that you writ
Are totally, utterly fake.
So keep your eye on that pay cheque
It’s all going to be just fine
And you really won’t even notice that
You’ve crossed a horrendous red line…

E.M. Swift-Hook