From All Angus (Angus Writers' Circle Anthology 2015) Page 5

his bed. Some of the whisky had seeped into the sheets and the smell made Piers retch.

  He went to the shower and turned on the cold spray. Snatches of spiders entered his mind but nothing to alarm.

  His numbness, accentuated by alcohol, dimmed his recollection of the previous evening but then something hit him with such force that he staggered naked out of the shower and into the bedroom. Lying on the bed he began to cry. Caroline was dead. He remembered. They were on her bike; she was screaming with excitement. His arms were around her slim waist, his head tucked into her neck, his senses aware of her soft skin and the distinctive perfume she always wore. They were so close, it was as if they were moulded together, one body, eight limbs. And then there was a black car, which seemed to appear from nowhere, silent as a predator. He lay beside her, stroking her blood-soaked hair. The car reversed, its headlights, like two huge yellow eyes, lighting the scene.

  He could hear voices in the hallway and then a knock on the door. He snapped, ‘I'll be out in a minute.’

  ‘He says he’ll be out in a minute.’ His mother’s voice was very quiet.

  ‘No rush.’ The policeman sounded patient. ‘We’ve got a lead on the black car. It’s a Renault Spider. There aren’t that many of them about so we should be able to track him, or her, pretty quickly.’

  Piers stopped listening and crawled into bed, pulling the duvet above his head. So they had got Caroline. It would be his turn next.

  ELIZABETH FRATTAROLI: Hi, I’m Sophie was written for a five-minute play competition run by Angus Writers’ Circle in 2014, adjudicated by Gordon Strachan. I had never written a play before so wanted to try something a little out of my comfort zone, and this was the result. It was good fun to write and to act out later, and is an example of the type of work that can be generated through being a member of the Circle.

  HI, I’M SOPHIE

  (Setting is a dark bar. A single table is highlighted. A young female walks in and a male – the host, Dominic – rushes over to her.)

  Host: Hi, Sophie. Really glad you could make it. We’re just about to start.

  Sophie: Hi, Dominic. Okay, it’s now or never I suppose. Where do you want me?

  Host: There’s a spare table just here. (He grins.) Have fun!

  (Sophie walks to the table and sits down. A bell rings and Male 1 wanders over and sits down opposite her. Host watches from a distance.)

  Sophie: Hi, I’m Sophie

  Male 1: Hi.

  (long pause)

  Sophie: So, how does this work then? I’ve not done anything like this before.

  Male 1: (looking down at the table in embarrassment) Me neither.

  Sophie: Oh, okay. Well… how about, why are you here tonight?

  Male 1: Dunno really.

  Sophie: (taking a deep breath) No, same for me, but Dominic can be kind-of persuasive.

  Male 1 grunts.

  (The bell rings. Male 1 jumps up quickly leaving Sophie breathing a sigh of relief. Male 2 approaches her table and sits down.)

  Sophie: Hi, I’m Sophie. And you are?

  Male 2: Matt. Hi, my name’s Matt.

  Sophie: So, what brings you here Matt?

  Male 2: Well, s’pose I’ve not really got anything else to do, you know. I was supposed to be meeting my girlfriend….

  Sophie: Your girlfriend?

  Male 2: Yeah, but she broke up with me last night, so I was at a bit of a loose end. I don’t really know what to do now actually. I mean, I thought she was the one, you know? (Starts to sob.)

  Sophie: Oh, ehm, I’m sorry.

  (Male 2 gets up and stumbles out the door leaving Sophie alone. The host starts to wander over but a few moments later the bell rings again and Male 3 sits down opposite her, so host changes course.)

  Sophie (warily): Hi, I’m Sophie.

  Male 3: And you’re speaking to me. Why?

  Sophie (incredulous): Excuse me?

  Male 3: (glares and shrugs)

  Sophie: I kind-of thought that was the whole point of tonight. Why bother even showing up if that’s your attitude?

  Male 3: Cos I was promised free drink! Look, I’m sure you’re all right and all that, but I’m not interested so don’t waste your breath. Just saying.

  Sophie: What a tragedy! Excuse me whilst I pick up all the tiny pieces of my shattered heart. Oh….

  Male 3: What?

  Sophie (leans forward, waves and smiles sarcastically): And don’t feel you have to stick around. Byee.

  (Male 3 slopes off towards the bar. Another few moments pass and then the bell rings again as Male 4 approaches Sophie and sits down.)

  Sophie (wearily): Hi, I’m Sophie.

  Male 4: Oooh, like Sophie Dahl and Sophie Anderton and Sophie Ellis-Bextor and Sophie….

  Sophie (cutting in): Yes. And you are?

  Male 4 (giggles): Oh yeah. I’m Kev. Well, Kevin Colin Liam Turner actually, but you can call me Kev.

  Sophie: Hi Kev. You having fun?

  Male 4: Oh yes. Aren’t you? I’m meeting lots of new friends and Mum even said that if I meet somebody nice I can bring them back for tea one day.

  Sophie (weakly): That’s... nice? Excuse me please; I need to go to the Ladies’.

  (Sophie leaves and then reluctantly returns to the table where Male 5 is waiting for her. He leans across the table and shakes her hand.)

  Male 5: Hiya, how’s it going? I’m Jim.

  Sophie: Hi Jim. Sophie.

  Male 5: Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Sophie. How’s your night going so far?

  Sophie: Oh, you know.

  Male 5 (smiling): That good, huh?

  Sophie (smiling back): I’ve had better nights.

  Male 5 (with mock incredulity): You have? Wow, those must have been some amazing evenings!

  Sophie: You bet! Like the time I missed the last bus home and had to walk three miles in heels. Now those were blisters!

  Male 5 (grinning): That does sound like an incredible night….

  Sophie: Or how about the time my best friend mistook my bag for the bathroom and threw up all over it?

  Male 5: Stop it, you’re killing me! How can I even begin to compete? (He runs his left hand through his hair.)

  Sophie (frowning and pointing to his wedding ring): Wait: you’re married?

  Male 5 (looks surprised, then starts twisting the ring): Nah, separated. It’s hard though. I miss my wee lad, Sammy. (Takes his wallet out and shows her a picture.) Look, there he is.

  Sophie (a lot cooler towards him): Uh huh. He’s cute. Hope it all works out for you.

  (Bell rings and Male 5 gets up slowly. Sophie doesn’t look at him.)

  Male 5 (regretfully): Bye, Sophie.

  Sophie: See you around

  (Male 6 approaches her table.)

  Sophie (muttering): Oh God! How much more can one person take? Is this not over yet?

  (Male 6 reaches her and sits down.)

  Male 6: Hi pretty lady. I’m Nathan. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?

  Sophie (sighs): Hi, Nathan. I’m Sophie.

  Male 6: Well, Sophie, it is a pleasure and an honour to meet you this fine evening. And when you are not frequenting this wonderful establishment, what is it that you do for fun?

  Sophie: Huh? Oh you know, reading, cycling, clubbing; the usual stuff.

  (Male 6 eyes her expectantly.)

  Sophie: Oh right, and you?

  Male 6: Well, thank you for asking. I am a huge fan and devotee of World of Warcraft and Dungeons and Dragons. I also, funnily enough, like to play with my real life pet bearded dragons, Merlin and Gandalf. Actually, I have a picture somewhere.... (starts rummaging in his pocket) Would you like to see them?

  Sophie: Not really Nathan. Reptiles aren’t really my thing.

  Male 6: But it was taken last Christmas when I dressed them up in little Santa outfits with funny hats and everything.


  Sophie: And yet, oddly, it’s still a no. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I’m done here. (She gets up and walks towards the exit. The host runs over to her.)

  Host: Sophie, wait. Are you leaving already?

  Sophie: Oh hi, Dominic. Yes, sorry. I think this was a mistake. It’s not really my thing.

  Host (clearing his throat): Okaaay, so what would you think if I told you that I set up the whole thing tonight just to try and get you to come out?

  Sophie: What? Are you kidding me? This was deliberate?

  Host (sighs): I like you Sophie. Have done for a while now, but you’re always so busy and I, well, I kinda couldn’t pluck up the courage to ask you out. Thought you might be more likely to do more of a group night out, you know?

  Sophie: Wait. Let me get this straight: you’re saying this whole sorry evening was some elaborate ploy to spend time with me?

  Host (looking at ground): Um, yeah, I guess you could put it like that. Pretty lame, eh?

  Sophie: You’re an idiot! Tonight has been horrible!

  Host: I know, sorry! (starts grinning) But on the bright side, it put me in a more favourable light, didn’t it?

  Sophie (corner of her mouth twitching): ’Night, Dominic.

  Host (crestfallen): Oh. ’Night Sophie. And... I’m sorry. (bows his head.)

  (Sophie starts to walk out the door but turns around just before she lets the door swing back.)

  Sophie: How about the next time you want to see me you just ask me for a coffee, yeah?

  Host (looks up with a huge grin): Costa? Tomorrow? 10 a.m.?

  Sophie: Mine’s a Frappuccino. (Door slams shut behind her.)

  The poem, Regret, is an exploration of the power of words and how hurtful they can be. I wanted to weave in military analogies to represent this as I have always been interested in the psychology of war.

  REGRET

  I said

  a shameful thing.

  It came from deep down

  in the pits

  of bubbling resentment,

  having aged and festered

  over time.

  Suddenly,

  it rose up,

  assaulted vocal chords

  with the element of surprise,

  and escaped,

  landing in the room

  with a deafening thud.

  There followed

  an internal roar

  as my mind brought up

  the rear-guard,

  too late,

  flanking conscious thought.

  I said a shameful thing

  and it is out there now,

  a living, breathing entity

  which cannot be recaptured.

  He visibly crumbled

  before me,

  his defences in ruins,

  but

  it was I

  who felt defeated.

  I live in Broughty Ferry with my husband and young twins and my main interest is writing for children. I have written a number of picture book texts, one of which was shortlisted for The Greenhouse Funny Prize Award in 2014, and my short stories have been published in Scribble Magazine and My Weekly. At the moment I am working on a series for 9-12 year olds and looking for representation for the first book in the series, Pathfinder 13. My ambition is to take my children into a bookshop and buy them a book that I have written!

  SANDRA IRELAND: This piece of short fiction was written for an event entitled Good Life, Good Death at the Royal Society, Edinburgh. The event included presentations by various agencies, including the University of Dundee, with something to say about aging and death in today’s society. I was one of several students from the Creative Writing Programme invited to take part.

  TWO CUPS OF TEA IN THE NIGHT

  He cannot describe the pain he’s in with the arthritis. The doctor says take paracetamol, and he does. The doctor says he can take up to eight a day, and he’s put them on repeat, so that he won’t be short. He’s always done what the doctor says because, long ago, you didn’t question; you got on with things. The paracetamol takes the edge off, but he limits himself to two a day. He doesn’t like waste. He has packets of the things, stockpiled in the cupboard above the kettle, so that if you open the door too fast they spill out, an innocuous-looking avalanche of white cartons.

  Sometimes, he would give Martha a couple if she couldn’t sleep. They seemed to help her drift off. Sleeping was a problem, and since Martha started forgetting things, he couldn’t settle, in case she wandered in the night. The doctor said it was dementia. He did question that. Martha did crosswords and puzzles. She read books, all that Catherine Cookson stuff, and she used to be a bit cross with him sometimes, a bit disappointed, as if she wanted a happy ending and he’d failed her in some way.

  He could be grumpy at times. It was the arthritis, the pain of it, but his daughter said it might be something to do with the pain you can’t see, the inside pain, from the things that happened during the war. Elizabeth’s a nurse. She knew about things like that. But they’d had good times during the war, or maybe just after it, when nobody had anything, and you were all in the same boat. He and Martha had been newlyweds; she’d saved her coupons and had a dress made of silk the colour of bluebells. He thought they were happy times, but perhaps he’d forgotten the bad bits.

  No thinking about death in those days, when the kids were small and there was food to be put on the table. Sometimes he thought his adult life has been like a sandwich, the good meaty bit in the middle, and death at both ends; first in the Japanese prison camp and now, now that he’s ninety, he knew it was waiting for him, just beyond the gate. All the old boys down at the club were gone now. He was the last. He has a pint now and then with the young ones in their sixties and seventies, but he’s happiest in his own home.

  He liked to hear Martha breathing in the night: it was a comfort, like background music. He’d watch the hands of the clock tick by and when it got to three he would get up, pull on his dressing gown and go downstairs to make tea. Elizabeth had made them get a stair lift installed and it had been a godsend. He could glide down, stick on the kettle and glide back up again with his tray: rose-patterned china cups and saucers (Elizabeth called them vintage), two digestive biscuits, one each, and the paracetamol, in case Martha was awake. Sometimes, when she was asleep, he would put the cup down on her locker and, before creeping back to his own side, he would pat her shoulder, very gently, trying not to worry that her bones were too sharp under the skin.

  He still does that, goes down at three in the morning, makes two cups of tea and brings them back up. He puts out biscuits too, but Elizabeth has taken away all the paracetamol. He places one cup at Martha’s side and creeps round to his own. The bed is cold, and he misses the sound of her breathing.

  I am a PhD student at the University of Dundee. I live in Carnoustie, Angus. Joint winner of the 2014 Gavin Wallace Memorial Prize for Creative Writing, I have just completed a novel about the dark side of taxidermy.

  RICHARD JENNINGS: I got the inspiration for this poem as I sat having my lunch on a bench at Beach Boulevard in Aberdeen looking out at the oil supply boats waiting to enter the harbour.

  SUPPLY CHAIN

  They sit high like sentinels on the horizon,

  Inert save the silent rotation on anchor chain, with each changing tide.

  They wait patiently for the harbour master to decide.

  Decision made, the pilot and his tug manoeuvre them with skill, to sit in line at Regent Quay, with funnels fuming and bulldog noses sniffing Market Street.

  The team of stevedores with trucks and cranes converge to unload waste, broken bits and parts from boring wells.

  With bulging pockets crewmen disembark; in dockside pubs and clubs they leave their mark.

  The stevedores return with their trucks and cranes; they load weekly supplies for hungry offshore men and machines.

  Low in the water, they slip away unnoticed, save for sea
gulls, harbour master and pilot.

  I got the inspiration for this story as I sat in a traffic jam between lines of traffic cones.

  MEETING OF ROADS

  The speedo was touching ninety when up ahead flashing lights caught my eye. Damn! I was hoping to reach the ton! I slowed, and was diverted off the motorway by a man in a high-viz vest.

  Hemmed in by two lines of traffic cones, my V8 silent, the radio updating regularly. “Motorway closed.” “Burst water main.” “Long delays.” Resigned to the inevitable wait I pondered the wisdom in finishing work early.

  Glancing about, I detected a sudden movement. Two traffic cones appeared to have sprouted legs. They ran in front of my car and disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

  Bewildered, I got out of the car and rushed to the gap. I could see the cones heading for the nearby wood. I followed and entered the wood, only to find my path blocked by a muddy stream. It was evident which direction the cones had taken by the green slimy mud marks on the track ahead.

  I was about to turn back when I heard voices and laughter. Curiosity got the better of me. I had to find out what was happening, but to do so I had to wade through the muddy stream. I squelched through the mud and along the path.

  The voices got louder and up ahead I could see a clearing. To remain unnoticed I crept up behind a fallen tree.

  I peered over the tree and stared spellbound at the scene before me. The two cones were talking to a group of roads. I blinked to make certain I wasn’t seeing things, but, sure enough, there before my eyes chatting and drinking was a Dual Carriageway, a Contraflow, a Bypass and a Main Road!

  I could hear snippets of conversation.

  ‘Hey Contra, how are you?’

  ‘Not bad, Dual.’

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yeah, but not for long. The bank holiday starts tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know. I rather like it: a change from the usual traffic,’ replied the Dual Carriageway

  ‘Yeah; lots of cars and caravans. Even Leafy Lane will get more than her usual one car an hour.’

  ‘And that being the reason for this emergency meeting of FARTS,” mumbled the Main Road.

  ‘Don’t let Leafy hear you saying that. It is the Fife Association of Road Transport Systems,” said the Contraflow in a posh voice.

  ‘What did you mean about the reason for this meeting, Main?’ asked the Dual Carriageway.

  ‘Well, Leafy was furious last year, all because Motorway’s tar melted in the heat and caused mayhem.’

  ‘Talking of Motorway, look who’s just arrived,’ the Contraflow said, pointing towards a gap in the clearing.

  I looked to where he was pointing and there entering the clearing was this towering figure of a Motorway, complete with hard shoulders.

  ‘Hi, all.’

  ‘Hi, Motorway,’ they all chorused.

  ‘Drink?’ the Contraflow asked.

  ‘Beer’s fine thanks.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said the Motorway taking a swig from the bottle. ‘Why are we all here again?’

  ‘Leafy called the meeting because you caused havoc last year when your tar melted,’ said the Dual Carriageway.

  ‘I am fed up with Leafy meddling,’ said the Motorway, ‘I’d like to see her living with forty-ton articulated lorries up and down her day and night, not to mention cars and buses.’

  ‘Not so loud: she’ll hear you,’ whispered the Bypass.

  ‘So what? I don’t care. Bloody busybody, always nit-picking about something. How’s it going, Bypass? Still keeping traffic away from sexy High Street? She won’t be happy.’

  ‘That bitch is never happy except when some idiot is drooling over her,’ the Bypass replied in an effeminate voice, ‘and look: Pervy Pavement is doing just that.’

  ‘Oh meow,’ jibed the