ANGEL WINGS
blue-grey pen strokes of softly shaped feathers
drifting sensually on a surface that moves
follow their lead,
fall swiftly, silently in line
behind them
there’s no beat, no rhythm to these wings
just movement and the sound of wind moving
recklessly about the non-feathers
caressing their owners viking skin
and cooling the solar glare.
in following watch with silent wonder
are they real? how do they work?
are they warm as clothes?
are they heavy?
can they lift into flight?
and what do they conceal?
a world of questions unanswered
yet they fascinate, entice
intrigue
draw alongside and stare,
at the face of this magnificent bird
a black helmet and goggles
and around the neck a coloured band
of linen waving in the breeze
and below? below this neck band?
the exquisite breasts of a biker-bird.
doughty 2008
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
EULOGY FOR A CRIMINAL IN ZURICH
EULOGY FOR A CRIMINAL IN ZURICH
There is a small table at which she sits,
a pale cloth shroud over,
and on it a mirror staring
at dark and defeated eyes
in a determined face
with grooves in wrong places.
She looks through those eyes
and remembers
the old gold plated compact
she used earlier for padding powder
to her face, pale powder
reminiscent of a death mask.
She watches the lipstick,
dark red, as it waxes slowly
across her lips,
guided by a shaky hand,
a frightened, trembling hand.
There is fear in those eyes
and the downturn of the mouth edge,
a dread, not for what is to come,
not for herself,
but for those she will leave.
A fear for her children,
how they will cope,
will ache, will feel,
for their tears and their distractions.
Their loss will be heavy
and her eyes fill
with the burden she will pass them.
There is no tear for death in her face
nor for the blackness she has already seen,
a blackness inviting, serene
and calm, so calm.
She has a faith,
strong at other times
though now she doubts
and it shows.
Her wandering mind stares deeply
into the lines and wrinkles of her age,
and they smooth and fill with youth
as the hint of a smile
steadies her trembling hand.
The view from the window here
is foreign, blank, a colder land,
a place not home
and she sits and waits
and wonders.
A bitter draught in an uneventful glass tumbler
sits with her; she lifts it to her lips and drinks;
now she sees the green fields of her personal place
and strides through the cruel, short pain,
certain that where she will soon be will be home.
doughty 2009
There is a small table at which she sits,
a pale cloth shroud over,
and on it a mirror staring
at dark and defeated eyes
in a determined face
with grooves in wrong places.
She looks through those eyes
and remembers
the old gold plated compact
she used earlier for padding powder
to her face, pale powder
reminiscent of a death mask.
She watches the lipstick,
dark red, as it waxes slowly
across her lips,
guided by a shaky hand,
a frightened, trembling hand.
There is fear in those eyes
and the downturn of the mouth edge,
a dread, not for what is to come,
not for herself,
but for those she will leave.
A fear for her children,
how they will cope,
will ache, will feel,
for their tears and their distractions.
Their loss will be heavy
and her eyes fill
with the burden she will pass them.
There is no tear for death in her face
nor for the blackness she has already seen,
a blackness inviting, serene
and calm, so calm.
She has a faith,
strong at other times
though now she doubts
and it shows.
Her wandering mind stares deeply
into the lines and wrinkles of her age,
and they smooth and fill with youth
as the hint of a smile
steadies her trembling hand.
The view from the window here
is foreign, blank, a colder land,
a place not home
and she sits and waits
and wonders.
A bitter draught in an uneventful glass tumbler
sits with her; she lifts it to her lips and drinks;
now she sees the green fields of her personal place
and strides through the cruel, short pain,
certain that where she will soon be will be home.
doughty 2009
PRISONER
PRISONER
his fingertip a brush stretching
from thought to palette
to canvas
he observes an image
of past memory vague lifting into view
a tear from his eye
she is there moved from vision
to coloured sense
her scent her look her taste
the brush tip bends gently
releasing her
and she whispers his name
stares back at his face
he stretches again to lift her features
into this reality
her presence before him now
dissolving his eyes
his fingers caress her lips to open
created in his cell
she is un-gaoled
the box he opened is empty.
doughty 2008
Monday, 25 May 2009
SAXY
He smiled to himself as he opened the door for her, a knowing smile that said he had plans. With one movement he took her in his arms and carried her carefully to his favourite seat where he sat and admired her as he had done so on many occasions. She stood near him draped only in a light wrap now and he saw the pale reflected light glisten on her curves and her shoulder. She waited as he first stood and then removed his jacket and slackened his tie. He sat down again next to her and as he did so removed the last veil of blue satin that had cloaked her beauty. Then he drew her close to him. His hand moved slowly across her slightly open lips, his fingers barely brushing her cheek as they passed. When his hand came to rest his fingers closed a little and his mouth moved closer to hers. His tongue darted forward and described the outline it found as his mouth closed over hers in the gentlest of kisses. She tasted the wetness of his tongue on hers, moistening it in a tantalising dark embrace that she had long been waiting for.
For him, the taste of the undulating silk smoothness of her mouth threw icicles of anticipation down his spine as he dreamt of how he had tasted her sweet pleasure on many occasions before. But no matter how many times he had loved her previously his mouth still watered as he dreamed and as his hands wandered lower down her smooth curves. With no effort now he lifted her onto his lap, caressing her waist tighter as he did so. She fitted him snugly and he knew she was comfortable with him.
Soon now, he thought, very soon now, I will move my fingers to a rhythm she has never felt before. Soon she will rise in excited crescendo and do my every bidding.
He thought carefully of his next move and how she would react, never taking his eyes off her as he carefully and deftly adjusted her body close to him in readiness. In his mind he could hear the feint strains of a distant rhythm, and felt his whole being reverberate softly to the base notes. He picked up the rhythm, transferred it to himself and began to move in unison with the slow, regular beat.
Moving her more neatly to one side of his knees he grasped her upper body with his left hand and she squealed in silent excitement as he did so. Quicker now, his dextrous fingers moved up and down her, pushing all the right buttons, and she moaned deeply as his lips closed even more firmly around hers. His heart began drumbeats against his chest as his time beckoned and the rhythm intensified and strengthened still further.
Suddenly she felt his breath inside her, pushing out her moans, her quiet screams. Faster he breathed into her, deeper and deeper, until she rose to his breath and then he felt her. Her movement, her echoes of his love for her vibrated from within her arched back and her decibels exploded wreaking havoc with his ears. For almost an hour they writhed in passionate embrace, moving, sliding against each other in perfect movements matched as one. Two lovers wrapped in a solo explosion of rhythm and sweat and sound, reaching crescendo after crescendo until eventually they slowed, energy sapped and exhausted.
The crescendo passed and she fell silent once more. Subdued and breathless he panted, but still his lips tallied a while on hers not wanting to leave, sticking slightly as lovers’ lips often do at a parting kiss. A mellow sadness now tinted the earlier bright bloom on her cheeks as if she had not wanted this early ending. He was right, she had not felt this rhythm before and she had loved it, wallowed in it, breathed it and loudly moaned her sensual approval of it, but now it was gone. When would she feel his fingers again, when would she taste his tongue on her lips, when would she feel his air inside her, breathing life into her once more.
Resignation dawned slowly on her. He was satisfied as she, but he would leave her now, just as he always had done in the past, only to return to pleasure himself of her when it suited him. She was a jealous lover and wanted him permanently. Fastened to her just as he had been for such a short time earlier. But she also knew it could not be. He was a fickle lover and needed her only when his own need was loud. This betrayer would never be wholly hers and she would accept the inevitable and stay silent until the next time.
With this ending, he, Kurtis, stood, straightened his tie and collected and put on his jacket. He looked lovingly upon her and smiled again as if waiting for her to return his smile. But, a little colder now, she was unable to return his wish. He raised his left eyebrow and with a shrug of acceptance on his shoulders, he picked up the fallen blue wrap and once more surrounded her with it. Gently twisting his hand at her lips, he removed the mouthpiece and her reed tongue and laid Saxy lovingly back into her velvet lined music case.
Wistfully he sighed …….. his music practice was over for today.
doughty 2003
For him, the taste of the undulating silk smoothness of her mouth threw icicles of anticipation down his spine as he dreamt of how he had tasted her sweet pleasure on many occasions before. But no matter how many times he had loved her previously his mouth still watered as he dreamed and as his hands wandered lower down her smooth curves. With no effort now he lifted her onto his lap, caressing her waist tighter as he did so. She fitted him snugly and he knew she was comfortable with him.
Soon now, he thought, very soon now, I will move my fingers to a rhythm she has never felt before. Soon she will rise in excited crescendo and do my every bidding.
He thought carefully of his next move and how she would react, never taking his eyes off her as he carefully and deftly adjusted her body close to him in readiness. In his mind he could hear the feint strains of a distant rhythm, and felt his whole being reverberate softly to the base notes. He picked up the rhythm, transferred it to himself and began to move in unison with the slow, regular beat.
Moving her more neatly to one side of his knees he grasped her upper body with his left hand and she squealed in silent excitement as he did so. Quicker now, his dextrous fingers moved up and down her, pushing all the right buttons, and she moaned deeply as his lips closed even more firmly around hers. His heart began drumbeats against his chest as his time beckoned and the rhythm intensified and strengthened still further.
Suddenly she felt his breath inside her, pushing out her moans, her quiet screams. Faster he breathed into her, deeper and deeper, until she rose to his breath and then he felt her. Her movement, her echoes of his love for her vibrated from within her arched back and her decibels exploded wreaking havoc with his ears. For almost an hour they writhed in passionate embrace, moving, sliding against each other in perfect movements matched as one. Two lovers wrapped in a solo explosion of rhythm and sweat and sound, reaching crescendo after crescendo until eventually they slowed, energy sapped and exhausted.
The crescendo passed and she fell silent once more. Subdued and breathless he panted, but still his lips tallied a while on hers not wanting to leave, sticking slightly as lovers’ lips often do at a parting kiss. A mellow sadness now tinted the earlier bright bloom on her cheeks as if she had not wanted this early ending. He was right, she had not felt this rhythm before and she had loved it, wallowed in it, breathed it and loudly moaned her sensual approval of it, but now it was gone. When would she feel his fingers again, when would she taste his tongue on her lips, when would she feel his air inside her, breathing life into her once more.
Resignation dawned slowly on her. He was satisfied as she, but he would leave her now, just as he always had done in the past, only to return to pleasure himself of her when it suited him. She was a jealous lover and wanted him permanently. Fastened to her just as he had been for such a short time earlier. But she also knew it could not be. He was a fickle lover and needed her only when his own need was loud. This betrayer would never be wholly hers and she would accept the inevitable and stay silent until the next time.
With this ending, he, Kurtis, stood, straightened his tie and collected and put on his jacket. He looked lovingly upon her and smiled again as if waiting for her to return his smile. But, a little colder now, she was unable to return his wish. He raised his left eyebrow and with a shrug of acceptance on his shoulders, he picked up the fallen blue wrap and once more surrounded her with it. Gently twisting his hand at her lips, he removed the mouthpiece and her reed tongue and laid Saxy lovingly back into her velvet lined music case.
Wistfully he sighed …….. his music practice was over for today.
doughty 2003
Thursday, 21 May 2009
But that wasnt me....
What a fantastic pair of legs. Long, smooth, shapely and with dark tinted stockings.
Mmmm, not tights mind you, real stockings – I know the difference. Ohh and that skin of black satin rolling over her perfectly shaped bottom. God that’s tempting. Wow, I mean.
Obviously, I need to make sure that someone else is in the frame, but in the confines of this lift it could be anyone touching her.
Yeah, go on, do it. Don’t talk to yourself, just do it.
Yes, yeesss –
Well what a result. Really nice backside, just as I thought….
Fancy her turning towards me, just as I did it, and then smiling at me, before she turned back to the scapegoat. He knew it was me, but he couldn’t really accuse me could he, wouldn’t be right would it. Smarmy face, gelled hair, narrow eyes, sharp suit, too smooth by far. Still, the poor sod will remember that slap for a while eh. And there’s nothing worse than taking the stick for something you haven’t done. I know that and now he will. Excellent. What a result. Heh, heh.
Sometimes, when I look out from my apartment window, I see a sort of airbrush of pale orange whisper across the Persil white of the clouds as evening approaches. Reminds me of my life I suppose. Then I wonder how long before the colour changes once more to a darker night-shade and how long before sleep eases my workload. Long days and late nights - the paragraphs of my lifestyle, changing only as the light changes and finishing only when I sleep. I’m told that long working hours are the norm for busy executives, but that doesn’t really mean a great deal to me, I do that continuously just to keep the wolves from the door.
I write, but my skills don’t come naturally. Not like the successful sod novelists who rake in the money for seemingly little effort. What I write strikes uncomfortable tones for those who read me. My style’s not always suited to my audience and my publishers’ despair at my colourful use of language. They don’t really follow what I am trying to get Jo Public to understand you see. Those mercenary city boys see success only in volume of sales and return on investment. Still, their complaints seldom reach my ears anyway; they’re afraid I might get upset and throw a tantrum, though where they got that idea from God knows. Publishers, huh ? patronising bastards.
You see, what I want to say they don’t want to hear. I want to tell them that they should pay more attention to the twighlight, the world of evil thoughts and deeds, the unmentionable aspects of abuse and hatred and fear of the unknown; and the discrimination of course. I’m a writer of that world, from that world. I see the evil and the hatred and I try to exploit it. Not for financial gain, but simply to show them all that it exists and needs to be attended to. I shout loudly at them to be noticed, “Hey, you condescending gits, don’t just stand and look away, see me, listen to me.”
I’ve been writing for a few years now. Had some success, but never really a bestseller or even a near bestseller. In fact, the modest number of books I have had published recline on the bookshelves of libraries and institutions rather than on the pushy points of sale at the booksellers. It’s really fact you see, what I write, but everyone sees it as fiction and consequently it comes over as a bit enigmatic.
God knows why I decided to take up writing anyway. Reckon I could have been a dancer, moving to cool rhythms in a rock opera, or a musical. It’s my natural feeling for movement and sound y’see. I’ve got lots of movement, inside me that is. Sort of Jacksonish style, if that’s the right description, real feeling for the beat, but with an interpretation that’s all my own. Smooth and cool. And I love music, all kinds, every kind – it just seeps into me and I come alive.
I love the arts as well. Could’ve been a painter, but there’s no money in that either, unless you’re a bloody monkey maybe. Then again perhaps I should have been a physicist. Sounds completely different to dancer or an artist doesn’t it? Well maybe, but with my IQ of 170 and such devotion to work it’s not really out of the window is it. Only problem is, its too boring, too bloody intellectual a lifestyle and you’re always striving for something you can never achieve - the lost particle, the smaller core that nobody has come up with a name for yet. …. And you never get to dance. I love to dance, at least inside.
I just need some recognition, some damned recognition.
Ahh well, need to stop this daydreaming, it’s a habit I have and it slows my concentration. I’m a workaholic y’know, even though nobody realises it. Think I sit on my arse all day and do nothing but daydream. I’m no different to anyone else I suppose. My output is a bit poor sometimes, but I’ve never missed a deadline. Well, the odd one maybe, when I’m out playing golf or the occasional game of football, heh, heh. I have to get out on occasions, just to break the monotony. I enjoy golf. Played at Wentworth last week and parred the 14th no problem, birdied the 15th and I’m a high handicapper so that’s some achievement. Yeah that’s me, a high handicapper.
Football’s a bit different. Got a good eye for the ball, just the one so to speak, heh, the other one’s well off the mark. Makes things difficult when I play up-front. Goals come few and far between, but then it’s the taking part that counts isn’t it and footy isn’t really my scene anyway.
I hang out with some brilliant guys though. Dave, my right arm, gives me real honest words and gets me through the bad times. Then there’s Mary, my counsellor. Didn’t I mention her before? Ohhh yes, I need a counsellor believe me – what with the sympathetic smiles, the Chinese whispers, the blank understanding. Oh, and of course my total inability to control my workaholism. I have to have someone’s shoulder to cry on and Mary’s only 5’0” tall so I can literally cry on her shoulder all day if I need to, and I do need to on occasions.
Then there’s Jane. Pretty Jane, gorgeous Jane. I’m in love with Jane, she is fabulous looking. Blonde hair that floats silk spider threads around her face in the breeze. Skin that tints her cheeks a paler pink than perfect and deep sea blue eyes that you swim into and never wish to surface from. It’s not just her beauty either, she has this sensual presence that wraps around you and dissolves you into her scent. She’s here all the time when she’s not working and we make love constantly. Deep, precious, silent, smooth, silky love for hours and hours and then we sleep. She’s always gone when I wake up though, strange that, but then she’s always back again in the evening. I’ve thought about asking her to move in, but well….
Strange, when I hear my mates talking, they have this odd view of me. I reckon they see me as a bit different - a sort of professor type, a thinker – a guy who wears dishevelled clothes, bottle glass spectacles that no one else could see through and hair that is always in need of a heavy trim. A guy with a head that leans perilously to one side with one eye to the ceiling and the other on the girl walking by, hmmff. I heard some of them talking in the bar the other night. Really pitying this guy in a wheelchair, who types with a stick in his mouth onto a laptop and suffers with some unpronounceable, incurable disease. Can’t hold a conversation ‘cos he’s almost deaf, drives around in an electric wheelchair and has a carer to put him to bed. ‘Poor bastard,’ they reckoned, lives in a dream world without realising it.
I mean we all have our little ism’s, I know. I mean, my saliva misses the edge of my lips on occasions and dribbles onto my lap, I don’t hear so good either, don’t move as quickly as I would like, so yes, I suppose I can empathise with the guy, can’t we all. And, I guess I do speak with an electronic accent – huh, machines eh? - and I do run my wheels over people sometimes, but I’m sound really. Not like that poor sod they were talking about. He must be so miserable, so angry. I just wonder if he knows who they’re talking about.
doughty 2003
Mmmm, not tights mind you, real stockings – I know the difference. Ohh and that skin of black satin rolling over her perfectly shaped bottom. God that’s tempting. Wow, I mean.
Obviously, I need to make sure that someone else is in the frame, but in the confines of this lift it could be anyone touching her.
Yeah, go on, do it. Don’t talk to yourself, just do it.
Yes, yeesss –
Well what a result. Really nice backside, just as I thought….
Fancy her turning towards me, just as I did it, and then smiling at me, before she turned back to the scapegoat. He knew it was me, but he couldn’t really accuse me could he, wouldn’t be right would it. Smarmy face, gelled hair, narrow eyes, sharp suit, too smooth by far. Still, the poor sod will remember that slap for a while eh. And there’s nothing worse than taking the stick for something you haven’t done. I know that and now he will. Excellent. What a result. Heh, heh.
Sometimes, when I look out from my apartment window, I see a sort of airbrush of pale orange whisper across the Persil white of the clouds as evening approaches. Reminds me of my life I suppose. Then I wonder how long before the colour changes once more to a darker night-shade and how long before sleep eases my workload. Long days and late nights - the paragraphs of my lifestyle, changing only as the light changes and finishing only when I sleep. I’m told that long working hours are the norm for busy executives, but that doesn’t really mean a great deal to me, I do that continuously just to keep the wolves from the door.
I write, but my skills don’t come naturally. Not like the successful sod novelists who rake in the money for seemingly little effort. What I write strikes uncomfortable tones for those who read me. My style’s not always suited to my audience and my publishers’ despair at my colourful use of language. They don’t really follow what I am trying to get Jo Public to understand you see. Those mercenary city boys see success only in volume of sales and return on investment. Still, their complaints seldom reach my ears anyway; they’re afraid I might get upset and throw a tantrum, though where they got that idea from God knows. Publishers, huh ? patronising bastards.
You see, what I want to say they don’t want to hear. I want to tell them that they should pay more attention to the twighlight, the world of evil thoughts and deeds, the unmentionable aspects of abuse and hatred and fear of the unknown; and the discrimination of course. I’m a writer of that world, from that world. I see the evil and the hatred and I try to exploit it. Not for financial gain, but simply to show them all that it exists and needs to be attended to. I shout loudly at them to be noticed, “Hey, you condescending gits, don’t just stand and look away, see me, listen to me.”
I’ve been writing for a few years now. Had some success, but never really a bestseller or even a near bestseller. In fact, the modest number of books I have had published recline on the bookshelves of libraries and institutions rather than on the pushy points of sale at the booksellers. It’s really fact you see, what I write, but everyone sees it as fiction and consequently it comes over as a bit enigmatic.
God knows why I decided to take up writing anyway. Reckon I could have been a dancer, moving to cool rhythms in a rock opera, or a musical. It’s my natural feeling for movement and sound y’see. I’ve got lots of movement, inside me that is. Sort of Jacksonish style, if that’s the right description, real feeling for the beat, but with an interpretation that’s all my own. Smooth and cool. And I love music, all kinds, every kind – it just seeps into me and I come alive.
I love the arts as well. Could’ve been a painter, but there’s no money in that either, unless you’re a bloody monkey maybe. Then again perhaps I should have been a physicist. Sounds completely different to dancer or an artist doesn’t it? Well maybe, but with my IQ of 170 and such devotion to work it’s not really out of the window is it. Only problem is, its too boring, too bloody intellectual a lifestyle and you’re always striving for something you can never achieve - the lost particle, the smaller core that nobody has come up with a name for yet. …. And you never get to dance. I love to dance, at least inside.
I just need some recognition, some damned recognition.
Ahh well, need to stop this daydreaming, it’s a habit I have and it slows my concentration. I’m a workaholic y’know, even though nobody realises it. Think I sit on my arse all day and do nothing but daydream. I’m no different to anyone else I suppose. My output is a bit poor sometimes, but I’ve never missed a deadline. Well, the odd one maybe, when I’m out playing golf or the occasional game of football, heh, heh. I have to get out on occasions, just to break the monotony. I enjoy golf. Played at Wentworth last week and parred the 14th no problem, birdied the 15th and I’m a high handicapper so that’s some achievement. Yeah that’s me, a high handicapper.
Football’s a bit different. Got a good eye for the ball, just the one so to speak, heh, the other one’s well off the mark. Makes things difficult when I play up-front. Goals come few and far between, but then it’s the taking part that counts isn’t it and footy isn’t really my scene anyway.
I hang out with some brilliant guys though. Dave, my right arm, gives me real honest words and gets me through the bad times. Then there’s Mary, my counsellor. Didn’t I mention her before? Ohhh yes, I need a counsellor believe me – what with the sympathetic smiles, the Chinese whispers, the blank understanding. Oh, and of course my total inability to control my workaholism. I have to have someone’s shoulder to cry on and Mary’s only 5’0” tall so I can literally cry on her shoulder all day if I need to, and I do need to on occasions.
Then there’s Jane. Pretty Jane, gorgeous Jane. I’m in love with Jane, she is fabulous looking. Blonde hair that floats silk spider threads around her face in the breeze. Skin that tints her cheeks a paler pink than perfect and deep sea blue eyes that you swim into and never wish to surface from. It’s not just her beauty either, she has this sensual presence that wraps around you and dissolves you into her scent. She’s here all the time when she’s not working and we make love constantly. Deep, precious, silent, smooth, silky love for hours and hours and then we sleep. She’s always gone when I wake up though, strange that, but then she’s always back again in the evening. I’ve thought about asking her to move in, but well….
Strange, when I hear my mates talking, they have this odd view of me. I reckon they see me as a bit different - a sort of professor type, a thinker – a guy who wears dishevelled clothes, bottle glass spectacles that no one else could see through and hair that is always in need of a heavy trim. A guy with a head that leans perilously to one side with one eye to the ceiling and the other on the girl walking by, hmmff. I heard some of them talking in the bar the other night. Really pitying this guy in a wheelchair, who types with a stick in his mouth onto a laptop and suffers with some unpronounceable, incurable disease. Can’t hold a conversation ‘cos he’s almost deaf, drives around in an electric wheelchair and has a carer to put him to bed. ‘Poor bastard,’ they reckoned, lives in a dream world without realising it.
I mean we all have our little ism’s, I know. I mean, my saliva misses the edge of my lips on occasions and dribbles onto my lap, I don’t hear so good either, don’t move as quickly as I would like, so yes, I suppose I can empathise with the guy, can’t we all. And, I guess I do speak with an electronic accent – huh, machines eh? - and I do run my wheels over people sometimes, but I’m sound really. Not like that poor sod they were talking about. He must be so miserable, so angry. I just wonder if he knows who they’re talking about.
doughty 2003
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
'YOU NEXT'
‘YOU NEXT’
“That’s it. God that’s it. I’m calling the police. I’m sick to death of this weirdo’s bloody calls. She’s gonna drive me insane.” Helen slammed down the receiver.
When DC Fellowes arrived an hour later he found out just how distraught she was. Every time she started to speak she broke into tearful mumbles. An interview that should have taken twenty minutes was already through the one hour barrier.
“I’m sorry Mrs Peters, but I really do need more information. Can we try again? You say they’ve been happening for about six months and you’ve had the number changed?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve had the number changed twice. Your liaison officer told me that’s all she could suggest, but they’re still happening.”
“And you haven’t given your new number out to anyone?”
“No, the only people that know it are my partner and me. It never happens when anyone’s here, only when I’m on my own and it’s really getting to me. I’m going crazy.
“What does the caller say, exactly?”
“Nothing. That’s just the point. It’s as if she’s trying to get inside my head. She doesn’t say anything at first. ”
“At first?”
“No! not at first …. Then a sort of whisper.”
“What does the whisper say, Mrs Peters, Helen – can I call you Helen?”
“Yes… I’m not sure exactly. It’s something like ‘bitch’ and then ‘you next.’ Very quiet and shadowy. I listened at first, but it makes me feel so cold I just slam the phone down. Dave, my partner, said to ignore it. He waits in some days to see if he can catch whoever’s doing it, but it never happens when he’s here.”
“Hmm. And you don’t know of anyone who bears you a grudge. An ex-boyfriend or girlfriend perhaps? ”
“No, no one.”
“What about your partner? Could it be him?”
“Dave! No that’s ridiculous. It’s a woman’s voice, Dave wouldn’t. No.”
“I don’t suppose Dave could be having an affair?”
“Ohh for God’s sake! No, he isn’t. And what’s that got to do with it anyway?”
“Sorry, I needed to ask. We’ll set up a line tap to trace the calls. I’ll be back in touch within a few days. Don’t worry, we’ll get her, …. or him.”
At the station Steve Fellowes approaches his D.S., “Phil, what d’you reckon. Woman gets nuisance calls, changes her number, still gets the calls, changes her number again so that only her partner and she know it. The calls keep coming. Gotta be the partner yes?”
“Yeah, or his bit of stuff !”
“Exactly! So I interviewed the guy – records are checking him anyway, but I don’t reckon to another woman and the victim actually calls him while I’m interviewing him, says she’s just had another call. … she only gets them when she’s alone?”
“She is actually getting the calls Steve? You checked? She’s not losing it?”
“No, – first place I went was the phone company. They set up a logging system after she complained the first time. She’s definitely getting the calls.”
“So why haven’t they traced them or put a block on the line?”
“They’ve done both! The calls somehow get through and get logged, but there’s no voice except Mrs Peters and some feint background. They traced the calls to a public box, but they’ve kept a watch on it and there’s no-one in it at the time.”
“Not possible. They’re taking the piss.” Phil stares blankly and then, “And the caller doesn’t say anything at all?”
“No. Well, the victim reckons it’s a woman - says, ‘bitch’ and then, ‘you next’.”
“Maybe it’s someone who knows her or her bloke, knows about phone systems and number diverts. Diverts the call via the phone box, dah de dah. Yeah, it’s someone they know who works for a phone company or has done in the past. Grudge calls. Happens all the time.”
“So?”
“So we put some high tech kit in the exchange and when it happens again we trace the call and pull the sod.”
“I still think there’s something odd here.”
Five days later Helen Peters opens the door to find DC Fellowes and DS Collins standing sullen faced on the doorstep. She beckoned them into the dining room. DC Fellowes started, “Helen, when I called last you said you thought you heard a woman’s voice say ‘bitch’ and then ‘you next’?”
Helen nodded.
“A woman?”
Helen nodded again.
“Helen, do you know a Karen Cartwright?” Steve noticed a slight shiver in her as he said the name.
Helen answered, “She was Dave’s ex. She left him about a year ago. Why?”
“Did he ever talk about her? Where she’d gone?”
“No. No why? What’s this got to do with the calls?”
“Helen, this afternoon we arrested Dave on suspicion of the murder of his wife Karen Cartwright. Your nuisance calls were traced to a public phone box in Newton. When we checked it out we discovered the decomposed body of a woman in a nearby ditch. The body was that of Karen Cartwright. We also found traces of washed out blood on some items of clothing in Dave’s works locker, they match Karen's medical records.
Our own records show Karen was probably not the first and with a recent insurance policy taken out on your life Dave might have intended, ‘you next.’ No-one actually made those calls, but what you think you heard may have been ‘ditch’, Helen, not ‘bitch’. You had a warning and a very lucky escape.”
doughty 2003
“That’s it. God that’s it. I’m calling the police. I’m sick to death of this weirdo’s bloody calls. She’s gonna drive me insane.” Helen slammed down the receiver.
When DC Fellowes arrived an hour later he found out just how distraught she was. Every time she started to speak she broke into tearful mumbles. An interview that should have taken twenty minutes was already through the one hour barrier.
“I’m sorry Mrs Peters, but I really do need more information. Can we try again? You say they’ve been happening for about six months and you’ve had the number changed?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve had the number changed twice. Your liaison officer told me that’s all she could suggest, but they’re still happening.”
“And you haven’t given your new number out to anyone?”
“No, the only people that know it are my partner and me. It never happens when anyone’s here, only when I’m on my own and it’s really getting to me. I’m going crazy.
“What does the caller say, exactly?”
“Nothing. That’s just the point. It’s as if she’s trying to get inside my head. She doesn’t say anything at first. ”
“At first?”
“No! not at first …. Then a sort of whisper.”
“What does the whisper say, Mrs Peters, Helen – can I call you Helen?”
“Yes… I’m not sure exactly. It’s something like ‘bitch’ and then ‘you next.’ Very quiet and shadowy. I listened at first, but it makes me feel so cold I just slam the phone down. Dave, my partner, said to ignore it. He waits in some days to see if he can catch whoever’s doing it, but it never happens when he’s here.”
“Hmm. And you don’t know of anyone who bears you a grudge. An ex-boyfriend or girlfriend perhaps? ”
“No, no one.”
“What about your partner? Could it be him?”
“Dave! No that’s ridiculous. It’s a woman’s voice, Dave wouldn’t. No.”
“I don’t suppose Dave could be having an affair?”
“Ohh for God’s sake! No, he isn’t. And what’s that got to do with it anyway?”
“Sorry, I needed to ask. We’ll set up a line tap to trace the calls. I’ll be back in touch within a few days. Don’t worry, we’ll get her, …. or him.”
At the station Steve Fellowes approaches his D.S., “Phil, what d’you reckon. Woman gets nuisance calls, changes her number, still gets the calls, changes her number again so that only her partner and she know it. The calls keep coming. Gotta be the partner yes?”
“Yeah, or his bit of stuff !”
“Exactly! So I interviewed the guy – records are checking him anyway, but I don’t reckon to another woman and the victim actually calls him while I’m interviewing him, says she’s just had another call. … she only gets them when she’s alone?”
“She is actually getting the calls Steve? You checked? She’s not losing it?”
“No, – first place I went was the phone company. They set up a logging system after she complained the first time. She’s definitely getting the calls.”
“So why haven’t they traced them or put a block on the line?”
“They’ve done both! The calls somehow get through and get logged, but there’s no voice except Mrs Peters and some feint background. They traced the calls to a public box, but they’ve kept a watch on it and there’s no-one in it at the time.”
“Not possible. They’re taking the piss.” Phil stares blankly and then, “And the caller doesn’t say anything at all?”
“No. Well, the victim reckons it’s a woman - says, ‘bitch’ and then, ‘you next’.”
“Maybe it’s someone who knows her or her bloke, knows about phone systems and number diverts. Diverts the call via the phone box, dah de dah. Yeah, it’s someone they know who works for a phone company or has done in the past. Grudge calls. Happens all the time.”
“So?”
“So we put some high tech kit in the exchange and when it happens again we trace the call and pull the sod.”
“I still think there’s something odd here.”
Five days later Helen Peters opens the door to find DC Fellowes and DS Collins standing sullen faced on the doorstep. She beckoned them into the dining room. DC Fellowes started, “Helen, when I called last you said you thought you heard a woman’s voice say ‘bitch’ and then ‘you next’?”
Helen nodded.
“A woman?”
Helen nodded again.
“Helen, do you know a Karen Cartwright?” Steve noticed a slight shiver in her as he said the name.
Helen answered, “She was Dave’s ex. She left him about a year ago. Why?”
“Did he ever talk about her? Where she’d gone?”
“No. No why? What’s this got to do with the calls?”
“Helen, this afternoon we arrested Dave on suspicion of the murder of his wife Karen Cartwright. Your nuisance calls were traced to a public phone box in Newton. When we checked it out we discovered the decomposed body of a woman in a nearby ditch. The body was that of Karen Cartwright. We also found traces of washed out blood on some items of clothing in Dave’s works locker, they match Karen's medical records.
Our own records show Karen was probably not the first and with a recent insurance policy taken out on your life Dave might have intended, ‘you next.’ No-one actually made those calls, but what you think you heard may have been ‘ditch’, Helen, not ‘bitch’. You had a warning and a very lucky escape.”
doughty 2003
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