44 Acorn Grove and Other Stories

by Steve Howrie

  “Hello - have you seen my partner? She was in the tunnel...”

  Without speaking, the woman continued to walk towards me. She must have been at least eighty – older perhaps. But the resemblance to Sam was chilling.

  “Audrey?” I asked, thinking it could only be Sam’s mum.

  “Michael,” she replied, “something’s happened to me...” I froze as I saw her clothes - the jeans, the tee-shirt, the boots. All Sam’s. She fell into my arms, arms that were used to holding the firm body of a twenty-seven year old; now they held the frail body of someone fifty or sixty years older. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mike, I don’t feel well… please take me home.”

  I led her away from the tunnel, my mind in turmoil. What had happened? How could this be Sam? What was in that tunnel?

  The next day, I woke up half believing it had all been a bad dream. We had fallen asleep in each other’s arms that night, exhausted by the torment of the previous day. I hoped to wake to find Sam as I’d always known her - young, lithe and attractive. But Sam was not in the bedroom or the bathroom. I quickly looked around the rest of the house, calling out.

  “Sam? Sam where are you? It’s going to be all right love - we’ll get help. There must be an explanation.” No answer. I went back to the bedroom to get dressed - and found the note.

  “Dear Mike, I don’t know what happened to me yesterday - or why - but I’ve got the idea that if I go back through the tunnel the other way, I can reverse it. Just call it female logic. I know how much you hate these places, so I’ve taken your car and gone back on my own. Please don’t try to stop me - I can’t think of anything else to do. I’ll be back soon - one way or another. Love, Samantha.”

  I was distraught. I had to go and find her - I had to help. She couldn’t just shut me out like this. Sam’s car needed some work doing on it - it shouldn’t have really been on the road - but I took it anyway. I drove like a maniac and just prayed that I wouldn’t be stopped by the Police.

  At the cutting, I found my car. I quickly checked that she wasn’t inside, and then headed back to the tunnel. Stupid, headstrong girl, I thought. Why didn’t she let me come with her? But then, that was just like Sam. Some things never change.

  At the entrance to the tunnel, I had that feeling again. But I bit my fear, and called out her name. My voice echoed along the black, damp walls. And then I heard a low rumbling, an unnerving sound that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the tunnel, sending a shiver down my spine. It was almost as if the tunnel was talking to me, warning me to stay away. But I couldn’t - not when Sam could be in there. So I switched on my torch and started to walk purposefully down the dark passage, calling her name. Then, about halfway along, I heard her voice. “Mike… I’m here… at the other end. Everything’s fine… I’m back to normal.”

  Thank god, I thought, and began running towards the sound of her voice. I wanted to see for myself; I wanted to hold her in my arms and know everything was all right, that she really was back to normal. But as I ran, I heard the rumbling sound again - louder this time - followed by an almighty thunder.

  “What the....” I turned to see half the roof falling in behind me, and dove to the side to avoid the falling stones and bricks. Dust filled the air, and for a few moments I struggled to breathe. And then something very strange happened. I can only describe it as electricity - a feeling of being in a force field of some kind. I was turning fast, very fast, and then I blanked out.

  When I came to, I had a very odd feeling… one I’d had before, but couldn’t place. I looked up to see Sam’s smiling face. Her young, beautiful face. She was indeed back to normal, and she was kissing me gently, rocking me in her arms. I tried to speak, but no words came out. Then I heard her say, “I told you not to come, Mike, but you wouldn’t listen. But at least I’ve got what I’ve always wanted now - you beautiful baby boy.”

  * * *

  The Incomers

  Azum & Nadir bent their heads upwards, their eyes squinting in the bright autumn sunshine at the International Airport. Above them, two hundred new incomers were flying in to Britain from overseas. Nadir sighed.

  “Well, here they come again - another load of takers.”

  “Nady! Don’t be so ungracious - we must welcome the new arrivals to our country.”

  “Why? There’s already enough mouths to feed without any more flying in to sponge off us. They just grab what they can regardless of how it makes us feel. They’re pushy, they steal and I don’t trust them. And they’re always causing trouble; you can be sure they’ll be fights and squabbles when they’re around. They should go back to where they came from - as soon as possible.” Azum knew there was no point in arguing with Nadir when she felt strongly about something. But he tried to offer a different point of view.

  “Look, I know how you feel; but we’re the same race - there should be a brotherhood amongst us.”

  “Should and ‘is’ are two totally different things. I say deport them. There’s enough of us to get rid of the lot of them.” Azum took a deep breath.

  “Well, I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I’ve heard that in some parts of the Midlands, incomers now outnumber the Natives…”

  “What! This is getting ridiculous! I wouldn’t mind if they adopted our customs....”

  “Some do Nady - an awful lot do - be fair…”

  “Perhaps some do - but most don’t. They want all the advantages of our society, but they won’t even try to learn our language or customs.”

  Azum was getting tired of this conversation. He didn’t like to be at odds with Nady - but that was exactly how he felt: at odds and annoyed, though he didn’t want to show it. Instead, he stretched his body and sighed.

  “I’m getting a bit stiff here, Nady. I’ll just have to go for a wander for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  His companion didn’t answer. She knew when Azum was hurt; and now it was best to leave him on his own for a bit to think things through.

  As he left, Nadir watched the planes as they came in to land, wondering what it would be like to emigrate to another country. Would she fit in with another society - learning their language and customs? Or would she expect others to fit in with her way. After thinking for a while, Azum returned to sit beside her, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “You were only saying how you felt. It’s just that I see things a bit differently.”

  “I know you just want things to be nice - everyone getting on together without any of this bickering or fighting. I can understand that. There’s enough trouble in the world without us birds getting involved. We don’t want to end up like those humans, after all.”

  “Now there’s a species that could do with some manners,” said Azum.

  Nadir was quick to agree. “I’ll say. We think the Starlings are bad - but humans! Well, where do you start?”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Compared to them, Starlings are angels - even if they are Scandinavian.”

  “Yes, if we could deport most humans, there would be enough food on this planet for all of us - the Starlings, the Black-Ones, the Ones of the Sea... In fact, all bird-kind would rejoice if humans left this planet for good. There’d be enough nuts, seeds and berries for everyone - all year round - without the humans getting their greedy hands on them.”

  “Talking of food, Nady, I’ve just seen some lovely grubs over there...” And with that, the two grey pigeons flew off into the distance.

  * * *

  The Road to Ruin

  The Island of Ruin, situated off the West Coast of Scotland, was one of those places you’d visited as a child, but never returned to since. Quaint, Victorian and a little run down - but with a big heart and a warm welcome.

  Mainly due to its location and small population, there was very little crime on the island. Oh, the odd shop window broken on a Saturday night, the occasional traffic violation, and a bit of drunk & disorderly - but t
hat was about it. Nothing big at all. Nothing, that is, until one day in February.

  Inspector Stuart Willis knew something was up when he arrived at work one Tuesday morning to find his Sergeant ashen faced, lips trembling.

  “Is everything all right, Ken?”

  “They’ve gone, Sir.”

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Not who - what. The books - someone’s stolen the books.”

  The Inspector was puzzled. “Why on Earth would anyone want to steal our accounts books?”

  “No, not those sort of books, Sir… the writers’ books… their new anthology.”

  The Inspector sat down heavily, amazed. In thirty years in the force, he had never heard of such a hideous crime on the island. After a few moments taking stock of the situation, his police mind snapped into gear. “Right, I need coffee - black, strong, two sugars - now!” Suddenly he was alive; this was why he joined the Police Force, this is what he had been trained for. He hit the intercom button on his office desk. “Susan, get me the Serious Crimes Squad on the phone - and cancel all leave.”

  It had taken Ruin Writers’ group three years to put together their third, and arguably their best, anthology of short stories. The first batch of books had only arrived two weeks ago, and the launch of the book at the island’s Discovery Centre was due in two day’s time. Whoever had committed this heinous crime clearly did not want the book to see the light of day. But who was it - and why?

  The group’s chairman was Katie McPherson, a retired nurse married to a local doctor. She looked considerably younger than her fifty-nine years, and was not only a very good writer (specialising in the Zulu tribes of the nineteenth Century), but also an excellent chairman. She greeted Sergeant Ken Pollis warmly when he called to see her about the theft.

  “Will there be a body, Sergeant?” she asked as she poured two cups of tea in her best China.

  “Well, I wouldn’t think so. There isn’t usually in these cases. It’s really books we’re looking for.”

  “Only, if there is a body, my husband would like to do the autopsy…”

  The officer put down his cup, a little concerned. “Oh, I really don’t know about that - autopsies are outwith my jurisdiction…”

  “Please Sergeant, he really needs the work.” Katie was on her knees now, desperation in her eyes. The officer pulled her to her feet, promising her that should a body be found, he would certainly keep her husband in mind. Then he made a sharp exit.

  At the group’s meeting place, Secretary Colin Hempstead, a former accountant from Yorkshire, showed the Inspector where the books had been stored prior to the theft.

  “They were right here, Stuart,” he said, pointing to a rectangular area on the carpet. Since helping the Inspector out with the newly installed CCTV system on the island, Colin had got to know many of the police officers quite well, and was on first name terms with most of them. “We’d left the books in Phil’s care. He’s quite a conscientious and trustworthy fellow - it seemed safe enough.”

  “And who might ‘Phil’ be?” the Inspector asked.

  “Phil Stevens - one of our members. He lives here - or I should say lived here. He’s emigrated to Australia.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Australia,’ thought the Inspector, as images of warm, sandy beaches and sexy women in bikinis flooded his mind. He was snapped out of his reverie by Barbara O’Meara, another member of the club, and a former chairman.

  “I hope you’re going to find these books for us, Inspector Willis. They cost us a lot of money and a lot of hard work. We want them back - pronto.” The Inspector didn’t have to be introduced to Mrs O’Meara. He had crossed swords with her on more than one occasion.

  “We’re going to do our best - our very best - to retrieve these books, Barbara. You can count on us. By the way, what was the title of the book?” Barbara shook her head in disbelief.

  “Don’t you ever read the papers? It’s called, All Roads Lead to Ruin.”

  *

  During the next two weeks, the Ruin Police went all out to find the missing books. Extra manpower was drafted in from the mainland, and door-to-door enquiries gathered apace. Suspects were rounded up, including the Head Librarian, the Manager of the Waste Paper Plant, and the Director of the Roads Division of the local Council. The latter because it was well known that the Council used pulped fiction mixed with bitumen for road repairs. Jeffrey Archer books were particularly good for this. A reward of £100 for information leading to the recovery of the books was advertised in the local newspaper and on bill-boards. Many witnesses came forward claiming to have seen Phil Stevens on the Island, but all sightings turned out to be Bogus (Sam Bogus, that is, landlord of the White Stag pub, who had an uncanny resemblance to Phil Stevens).

  Then one day in March, there was a breakthrough. Colin Hempstead received an email from a writers’ group on the mainland. It said (in Times New Roman, 12 point text, double-spaced), ‘I know where the books are - and so does Jimmy.’ The email was signed ‘Anon,’ with the word count underneath. The first ‘Jimmy’ that came to Colin’s mind was Jimmy McPhee, the Treasurer of Ruin Writers. He lived in an outlying village on the island, having retired there from the big city two years ago. Rather than contact him by phone or email, Colin thought it wise to go to see him in person.

  At the door, Jimmy was clearly nervous, his eyes darting from side to side. “Colin - wh-wh-what brings you here?”

  “Can I come in?” asked Colin.

  “Actually, I’m right in the middle of an episode of Sherlock, and Marjory’s washing the cat…”

  “It’s about the books Jimmy…”

  “Oh. You’d better come in.”

  The two men sat in the living room, facing each other across a bowl of fruit, and Colin laid the cards on the table. “I’ve had an email from a writers’ group across the water. I think there’s something you need to tell me, Jimmy.”

  “Oh god, I said I wouldn’t say anything…”

  “You’re protecting someone, aren’t you Jimmy? Is it Phil?”

  “Phil? Well, not so much…”

  “Who is it then?”

  With a big intake of breath, Jimmy said, “It’s Katie.”

  Colin sat back in his chair. “Katie? How is she involved?”

  “After we got the books, she saw how many we were giving away, and she was concerned that we wouldn’t be able to sell enough to cover our costs. You know how much we paid for these books, Colin. Willow are not the cheapest of publishers - though they did do a really good job. Anyway, Katie got me to take the books to the mainland and sell them to other writers’ groups. I had them in a lock-up and sold them from there.”

  Colin couldn’t believe his ears. “But if only she’d said - I’m sure we all would have agreed to the plan. It’s a great idea to sell books to other clubs.”

  “Ah, yes - I wish it had been that simple.”

  “Go on…”

  “Well, the book sales went really well. I’ve only got a handful left…”

  “That’s brilliant!”

  “Then Phil came up with the idea of pretending they’d been stolen, not sold. Katie’d already insured the stock against loss - so with the insurance and the sales money, we’d have a tidy sum. In fact, we were going to split the cash three ways…”

  Colin was in shock - he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. No wonder Phil disappeared off to Australia. “Where’s the money now?”

  “I can’t tell you, Colin - I’m sorry. I’ve said too much already. Katie’s going to kill me...”

  “She’s not like that…”

  “You don’t know her, Colin - I’m deadly serious. She’ll do anything to keep this a secret… anything.”

  *

  A week later, Colin received a phone call from the Inspector. “Good news Colin: we’ve found your books.”

  “You can’t have... I-I mean - that’s marvellous! Where are they?”

  “We’ve got them at the Station - I’m
just reading one now. Did you really do that with a young woman from Halifax?”

  Colin phoned Jimmy, who phoned Katie, and all three went down to the Station to retrieve the books - the books that should not exist. When they arrived, they were led into the Inspector’s Office.

  “Thank you all for coming - but I’m afraid I’ve misled you: there are no books. Just this one I picked up from the local library. And I think you know why.”

  The three writers looked at each other. Then Katie said, “I can explain…”

  “There’s no need,” interrupted the Inspector, holding up his hand. I’ve seen through your little ploy. The books weren’t missing at all - you’ve had them all along, haven’t you? Since we started this investigation, you’ve had a dozen newspaper articles, numerous reports on local and national radio, and even a television interview on Scotland Today. That sort of advertising would have cost you thousands of pounds - tens of thousands even. And that’s all that it was, wasn’t it? A publicity stunt to sell more books.”

  Colin shrugged his shoulders. “That’s about the size of it, Stuart. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  The Inspector let them know that sorry wouldn’t quite cut it, after the amount of man hours spent looking for the books; but in view of the fact that he wanted to support local groups, and they had helped to put Ruin firmly on the map, half a dozen complimentary copies of the book for the Police Station library would be acceptable.

  As they left the Station, Jimmy turned to Katie. “What are we going to do now?”

  “I think we’d better order some more books,” she said with a smile.

  * * *

  Brenda

  Sam was the sort of person many people would want dead. Even perfect strangers after meeting him for just a few minutes would be mentally sharpening their knives, or practising a lethal karate chop to the neck. To call him obnoxious was the understatement of the millennium. How one man could single-handedly rub so many people up the wrong way without even trying was one of the seven wonders of the uncivilised world. He was an expert at being disliked - no doubt about it. Probably all the practice he’d had, his wife Brenda would say.

  The real puzzle for me was what Brenda saw in him - why did she ever get married to such a bigot? It was obvious why he married her though. At forty-five, Brenda was a very attractive blonde with fantastic figure and great personality. She must have been a stunning twenty year-old when Sam first met her on the opening night of a new show in London.