Author: Alexander Fawn

This was one of the old country’s worst cases of a serial killer that seemed to be unstoppable.

The Essex police were receiving really bad press about the serial killer’s ability to avoid their attempts to get hold of even one witness, let alone capture him. The papers had labelled him the Epping Butcher. After the third female victim, the local community was on edge, with women not venturing out at all at night, unless it was absolutely essential. With a further woman falling prey to the killer, more and more newspapers around the country were giving headlines to the case of the Epping Butcher. They all used the title, and unbeknownst to them, and anybody else as it happened, this was something that enraged the killer to the point where he felt that he had to do something about it. He thought long and hard about it. He knew it would be the end of his career, his killing spree, but enough was enough!

He walked into the nearest police station, both to complain and to put matters right. He explained that he wasn’t an Epping butcher at all, that he was, in fact, a Waltham Abbey Roof Tiler.

Unhappily, they didn’t believe him and threw him out for wasting police time.

He was just an amateur writer, but he was always on the lookout for a story.

He’d been sitting in the carriage hardly noticing his fellow passengers for some time. It was a long journey and through boredom he began looking around at the others. The carriage was full. From his window seat he could see them all quite well.

He noticed for the first time that the man opposite had the word ‘Vacant’ tattooed on his large forehead. He looked slowly along the seats at the other four. The next was an elderly lady with a bone through her nose. Next, a man in a suit with a parrot on his shoulder. Then came a young man in white tennis clothes holding a wet fish across his knees. At the end a man sat staring into half a coconut.

The boy next to him was trying hard to hide the fact that he had a tail. Further along sat a man holding a briefcase and wearing muddy wellington boots. He could see the woman beside him had snails in her hair, and by leaning forward a little could just see a girl wearing goggles and holding a snorkel.

He stared out of the window, wondering.

Surely, there had to be a story here somewhere…

The agonising pain that throbbed inside him was being managed with drugs.

He should call for more painkillers, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want any more care, any more kindness, he only wanted it to end. His head was full of images; beautiful images, of his lifelong partner who had passed away, leaving him desolate, without any desire to carry on. As he drifted off, he found himself standing, looking across a great brightly lit void at his recently departed wife. She looked so lovely. She was smiling. Then she lifted her arm and beckoned to him. He looked on with a different kind of pain. Soon, he thought; soon my love. The vision faded. He was jolted back by both an excruciating pain and the sound of alarms and monitors shrieking.

He thought now that the time had come, at last. The weeks of lying here, just waiting to pass on. Biding his time, until he could join her. Finally being with her again. This was…

His thoughts were cut off by a woman shouting. She was right next to him. Then came the urgent calls and instructions. The bed was moving. People were running around. Then came the shocks; electric paddles sending a pulse of current through him, although he was only just aware of it. This was followed by a period of silence. Then, the sounds started again, and he was gradually becoming part awake. He listened to the noises of happy relief from those that were huddled around him. The murmurs of them congratulating and thanking one another.

He knew what they had done.

He also knew that he would have to wait a little longer…

He was really into codes and he was good at breaking them.

His friends would often come up with encrypted messages, all in a code devised by them, for him to solve. So, that’s what he did. Some took longer than others, but they always got solved in the end. He’d been on his computer for most of the evening and he was getting tired. His eyes kept glazing over, but he pressed on. Finally he slumped gently over the keyboard. As he dozed, the side of his head occasionally rolled around on the keyboard creating, what to most people would be, gobbledegook. He’d only nodded off for a minute or two, but in that time a couple of dozen black symbols had been typed on the blank screen.

As he woke up, he was thrilled to see what was there. He stared at the screen… it had to be a code. He slid his notebook closer and picked up his pen.

If it is, he thought, this is a real doozy, but I can crack it!

From her point of view, life had become a dreadful mess.

Today she had skipped work, giving herself a day away from it all. A day by the sea was a way of clearing her mind, a way of summing it all up. The people she worked with were truly dreadful. Not one of them was worth knowing. They were just a bunch of lowlifes. She hated the place and would love to quit, but the employment opportunities were equally dreadful. As she slowly bobbed up and down on the gentle waves she thought about the stupid girl she shared a flat with; she was dreadful. As for boyfriends, she had been dating one waste of time after another. Not one of them you could call nice, in fact, they had all been dreadful.

She had been floating there for quite a while, looking up into a blue sky and thinking about how dreadful it all was, when something drifted passed, glinting in the sun. It was some sort of pot. She paddled towards it and got hold of it. It was a small clear plastic container, the sort of thing you get with a small amount of gravy in it when getting fast food. She was annoyed to think that someone would pollute the sea with it. She felt that some people’s lack of caring for the planet was dreadful. When she held it up looking for a brand name, she saw that it contained a tiny piece of folded paper. She was instantly aware of a thrill that rippled through her. This could be it! This could be a sign. She couldn’t let the note get wet, that would be dreadful. She couldn’t wait to swim back to the shore.

Once she was back to where she had piled her clothes, she dried off quickly and sat down with her find. She carefully snapped the lid off and removed the note. She opened it up and read, ‘I know the sea will bring us together, my love.’ This was followed by a mobile phone number.

She grabbed her phone and tapped in the number. A voice came on, ‘That number has been disconnected.’

The language she used, as she dropped and stamped on her phone, was indeed dreadful.

His slippers just weren’t doing the job anymore, his feet were so cold.

This pair had worn so thin. He looked down at the state of them. The uppers were no more than paper now. He would have to buy new. He would take a trip to the shops tomorrow. He’d look for really fluffy ones, the sort that women wear. It didn’t matter, did it? He lived on his own now, he could wear what he liked, nobody would know!

A new thought struck him. The idea appealed. He smiled to himself and the notion that he could do it. This would be something else that nobody would know about. They would not need to know. He fossicked around in the cupboard until he found it. He shook the can, there was not much in it, but it would do.

It was getting dark now, but he would go out before the cold set in. He was sure his neighbours wouldn’t notice what he was doing. He went out into his tiny back garden and placed an upturned bucket in front of his chair. This would elevate his legs.

He squirted the lighter fuel and struck a match. The old footwear puffed into flame. He went back to the chair and put his feet up. He felt the heat on the soles of his feet at first. Then it slowly spread to his toes. He grinned. He couldn’t remember when his feet had felt this good.

His slippers had never before made his feet this warm.

He had bought the painting in an antique store on a whim.

He just liked it. It was a small, vintage oil painting in an oval frame. The subject was a head and shoulder portrait of an elderly gentleman with a warm smile. He knew that it was the old man’s face that had made him buy it. He found himself drawn in by it whenever he looked at it. He hung it on a wall in the cottage were he would regularly walk past it. It hung there for several days before he noticed the change. The old man now had a slight squint in his eyes, it was extremely subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was definitely there.

Then, the next thing he saw, a couple of days later, was the raised chin. It was only slight, but the head had tilted back, just a little. Because of these minute changes, he stopped and peered at it several times a day. It bothered him at first. Then he told himself that whether he was imagining it or not, he should be grateful that he had something so unusual. The next facial shift was a touch troubling. The mouth had moved, altering the expression. To be precise, the corner was up, just enough to have the old man look as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.

When his neighbour called in for a cup of tea and a chat, he told him about it. He described all of the changes that had occurred. He was hoping that some alteration would take place during his visit. For this reason, he had taken his guest back to look at it several times while he was there. Unfortunately, nothing happened. By the time his friend left, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he hadn’t believed him. He waved him off and went back in, going straight to the painting. He really wasn’t expecting what he saw.

The old man’s hair was mussed, his eyes were bloodshot and wide open and he was poking his tongue out!

When they first met they really liked each other.

It was amazing that they had so much in common. They enjoyed the same kind of music, movies, TV shows, singers, and even food! They spent as much time together as they could.

Then, things began to change.

It seemed to be the case that she was always right, so, of course, that made him wrong.

What she wanted was always so important. His needs were looked upon as irrelevant. She would insist on what they would do together.

After a while, he realised just how tired of the situation he was.

Over time he began to prefer the company of others and so did she.

They hardly ever speak now.

I guess that’s just the way it is with eight-year-olds.

It was a chance meeting.

It was a hot afternoon in the city when the men bumped into each other. They were browsing in an electrical store when it happened. Recognition was slow at first. The first man had been watching the other for several minutes before approaching. The upshot was, after smiles and a handshake, it was decided that they both had time on their hands and could easily sit and chat in a nearby café. This is how it happened that two schoolboys from one country, were absolutely delighted to meet again more than fifty years later in another; and this was how they came to be reminiscing in a coffee house that they both knew.

The first man had moved to the new country some four decades earlier, while the other had done the same thing a dozen years back. In many respects their working lives, marriages and families were remarkably similar. It was soon established that the relatively new immigrant had most recently been a full-time Sales Manager for a medium sized car yard, while the other had spent a number of years as a contract Technical Writer for the mining and resources sector before retiring. Now, having both left the workforce, in the main their time was their own. After spending a couple of hours chatting, catching up and comparing their lives, it became evident that there was a major difference regarding their current retirement lifestyles. The first man had a hobby, while the other didn’t.

He said, “I tell you, you really need to have a hobby.”

The second man said, “You say you post your short stories and poems, tell me how you do that?”

The first man said, “I have set up a simple blog site on the internet where I post items weekly.”

Second man: “Is that a difficult thing to do?”

First: “It was initially. The actual business of creating it was hard going, for me at least. But, I had help from a blog building company online.”

Second: “So, some of your time must be taken up by the organising and posting of your work, as well as any other administration of the site itself.”

First: “Yes, you’re right, but remember, my hobby is writing, that comes first. I’ve developed a system of comprehensive folders to manage that, along with a detailed schedule of upcoming items that enables me to spend as short a time as possible carrying out the business of posting new material.”

Second: “Well, it sounds as though you have that in hand.”

First: “Pretty well, I think.” At this point he handed the other a card. “Have a look some time, the web address is on there.”

Second: “Thanks. I will. As I said earlier, I do have a small open motor boat, with an outboard motor. However, I wouldn’t call it a hobby. There’s the business of getting the cover off, hooking it up to the car, taking it to the boat ramp and getting it into the water. To be honest, I do it for the family; sometimes friends. No, I wouldn’t call it a hobby.”

First: “Doesn’t sound like one. After all a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation.”

Second: “That sounds like a dictionary definition.”

First: “It is!”

A short time after this they began to leave, having exchanged their contact information and having agreed to catch up again. As they went out to make their way to their respective carparks in opposite directions, the first man smiled and said, “Get a hobby.”

The people in the street were convinced that the woman at number nine was odd.

Not odd in a bad way particularly, just strange in her ways. She was generally regarded as a weirdo. It may have all started a couple of years back when her husband died or maybe that’s when neighbours began whispering about her weird habits. She seemed to be forever throwing things out. Sometimes she’d put bits of furniture out on her front verge, items that often looked quite reasonable. She would sometimes do this when there wasn’t a bulk collection scheduled, and if none of it moved she would stake a notice in front of it, saying ‘Free’. Every bin night, hers was crammed full, the lid bulging open with clothes, mainly men’s. The rumour was that she was selling a lot of stuff off through internet sites.

People started to wonder how she could live in there, with a house that must be all but empty. The only time anybody had tried to enquire about her wellbeing was when the woman at number sixteen took it upon herself to call in and see if everything was all right. She was thanked for asking but didn’t get passed the front door.

When news of this got around, the general feeling in the street was that she’d gone a bit loopy. She wasn’t that old, but it was reckoned that dementia was setting in and some relative that none of them knew about would turn up one day and arrange for her to go into a care home. In fact, this looked as though that might be the case when the ‘For Sale’ sign went up.

Nobody actually saw her leave. It was suggested that it happened during the night.

It was the woman at number sixteen who received the postcard.

It was franked, Palm Beach, Florida.