DRIVER CHARD IN TIME SLIP MYSTERY

DRIVER CHARD IN TIME SLIP MYSTERY

Recent events at the headquarters of the Duck Flat Cap Society have left regulars of the hostelry somewhat  bewildered and dumbfounded.

It all started last Tuesday evening when Driver Chard rose from his seat after a testy discussion with Raster Hurley regarding the length of Raster's shorts. Raster Hurley, formerly known as "Basher Hurley", had recently returned from a vacation in the Caribbean, and continued to clothe his ageing body in garments more suitable to the warmer climes of the West Indies.

As the cantankerous geriatric slipped from his stool he glanced at the former military hard man, and mumbled under his breath that he should go back to Barbados if he wanted to dress in such a discourteous manner.

 His deeply creased neck creaked as Driver Chard swivelled his head towards the back door where he proposed to smoke a couple of cigarillos to calm his nerves.

As he approached the door he abruptly came to a halt as he stared at a wooden door beside the entrance to the pub garden. Driver Chard strained his aching brain as he tried to register a memory of the door, but to no avail.

Astonished by the sudden appearance of the door he strode forward and slowly turned the door knob and stepped through the orifice. Ahead of him was a dark tunnel with only an occasional candle to light the way.  Creeping slowly along the dimly lit passage the geriatric acting president ran his right hand along the wall and suddenly paused as his hands stumbled across a large cold handle. Pushing the door attached to the handle released the partially open door hinge and the heavy barrier began to ease open.

Driver Chard gradually squeezed his head around the opening portal and drew a deep breath as he gazes upon the vista before him. As Chard pulled the rest of his body through the partially open door way, his short neck was straining to propel his stocky head from side to side as he tried to take in the view before him. Driver Chard shut his eyes and wiped his hand across his now slightly moist eyes.

Fully opening his eyes he now fully took in the scene before him, a rolling vista of undulating rain forest  stretching in to the far distance, where snow capped mountains towered in to the bright blue firmament. The mountains appeared to curve in a great sweep across the horizon, and before them the lush rain forest rolled forward in a never ending verdant carpet of lush green trees.

Driver Chard strained to locate something or somebody familiar and soon noticed a pygmy lumbering forward approximately five hundred yards ahead. They were following a trail that seemed to be a permanent track through the rain forest. Driver Chard wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and proceeded after the diminutive pygmy.

Soon the pygmy and the following Chard were in a small clearing where he was joined by a large white man with as shaved head and a smaller overweight Arab. Moments later a string of naked ebony  men , woman and children, tied together at their feet, hands and necks entered the opening.
 Driver Chard strained his reddened eyes and noted that the large white man was talking in English to the Arabic gentleman who in turn conversed with the pygmy in an unknown language.   

It soon sank in to the septuagenarian acting president of the Duck Flat Cap Society that he was in darkest Africa, and was witnessing the hand over of a posse of newly captured slaves. Shaken by this revelation the old man crouched in the undergrowth and felt the familiar warm trickle of urine dribble down his trouser legs as his bowels rumbled in his fluttering belly.

Soon the assembled group of slaves and their controllers were gone, and Driver Chard crawled slowly to where they had been conducting their sordid business. The ground was littered with paper, and crouching down to pick up a fallen document, straining to prevent the discharge of a feted stool, Driver Chard picked up a document that appeared to be bill of sale, and a copy of a newspaper that was the London Times.

Both documents were  obviously new, and as the small grey haired driver studied the strap line of the paper, his teeth fell from his mouth as he noted the headline, "Fleet sales for the Black Sea and the Crimea to give the Russian bear a thrashing and relieve our Turkish allies ".  Driver chard quickly diverted his eyes to the date, and he turned pale as he read 1853 at the head of the page.   He scratched his head as his school boy history roused a memory that the UK abolished slavery in the 1830's due to the anti slavery movement headed by William Wilberforce, but was also aware that slavery continued until the present day through nefarious underhand trades, and indeed an Arab was present at the recently witnessed meeting, and the fallen paper receipt was indeed marked with a seal of the Sultanate of Zanzibar.

Driver Chard shivered at the recollection of the recently witnessed events and quickly backtracked retracing his steps back to the Duck and the year 2012.  Soon he was back at the dark passage, and the dark wooden door that he had passed through a number of hours earlier.

His wrinkled hand grabbed the handle and thrust the door open. He fell through the portal with sweat running down his emaciated body, the smell of the sweat mixing with the stale urine staining his trousers and the stench of fear pervading his body. Driver Chard shut the door behind him and glanced ahead of him, immediately noticing he was back in the Duck and in the company of those he had left hours earlier.

"Chard", shouted Raster Hurley, "that was a quick piss, you were only gone two minutes". Chard stared at the pale faced ex military hard man and spat a flume of phlegm at him. Chard rumbled on for over two hours that he had journeyed back in time to the Crimean War and had witnessed a sale in the long abolished slave trade in deepest darkest Africa.

His ramblings continued, but the procrastination and imbibing sub committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society were familiar with the unfathomable behaviour of its acting Chairman and President, and ignored him completely.  

Further investigations in to the astonishing garbled mumblings of Driver Chard will take place, and any further information gleaned will be reported in due course.

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020     

    

MAJOR THURLBY AND THE HOUSE OF MILK

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 MAJOR THURLBY AND THE HOUSE OF MILK

Major Thurlby sat in his usual seat at the Railway Hotel. His pipe clenched in the corner of his angular mouth, and a pint of Guinness resting on the round table wedged before his ample stomach.

He drained the glass, and after a furtive glance about the bar, left the premises by the side door, adjacent to the public conveniences. Turning right heading towards Killips, he strode out quickly reaching the crest of the steep incline, and immediately turned left towards the police station.

Marching quickly down the slight incline he soon reached St Johns Church, and wavered slightly as he passed the Undertakers positioned on the left side of the road, situated next to Woody's of Wembley.

He quickened his gait and was soon at the entrance of Barham House, originally built by the Copeland sisters, and the former home of Sir George Barham, the founder of "Express Dairies", milk suppliers and purveyor of dairy products, and an early Mayor of Wembley.

The property was built in the grounds of the far more historic Crabs House which had been owned by the father of the Copeland sisters. The Copeland sisters are commemorated to this day in Wembley by way of the secondary school named in their honour, and Copeland road.

The mansion was sited to the west of Wembley, on the main road to Sudbury, and still retained a few of the lavish green acres that had previously surrounded the stately home.

The lush meadows supported healthy herds of dairy cows during the eighteenth century, and as a consequence had provided ample supplies of milk to Wembley and the surrounding villages. During the middle of the century the provision of a railway station at what became known as Wembley Central, provided convenient and easy access to the centre of London and an eagerly waiting market for fresh milk and dairy products.

However, the house had recently been under the control of the local urban district council, and had become somewhat dilapidated, although still habitable.

Major Thurlby turned into the driveway and pushed open the once magnificent wrought iron gates, which were no longer locked due to the apathy shown by those chosen by the council to tend the gardens and house.
 He marched forward towards the entrance and strode up the couple steps leading to the balustrade and open walkway that surrounded the building.

He pushed his right hand in to his overcoat pocket and retrieved a long key that he placed in to the aperture contained within the brass fittings bolted to the mahogany door.

His left hand pushed the door slightly ajar and a shaft of light played across his overcoat and the cracked grey floor tiles which covered the balustrade.

Due to the war time blackout, and lack of street lighting, the light was strangely extenuated, and glowed eerily in the dark.

He placed his head around the door jamb, and the rest of his body followed in a slow and cautious manner.

On entering the premises, his eyes quickly became accustomed to the gloomy light and he swiftly made his way to the staircase and preceded to climb two stairs at a time.  On reaching the first floor he entered the door to the right of the landing and sat at a small table. After checking that the blackout curtains were in place, he switched on the table lamp and removed his hat.

Seated opposite him, in an ancient black wheel chair was the twisted and feeble figure of Lord Chard, the owner of the power station, cooling towers and electricity generating station, which had been partially destroyed the previous evening by the Luftwaffe.

He offered his hand to the Major and they touched hands in a brief but discourteous way.

 “Now, now, Lord Chard”, “that’s no way to treat your colleague and master in this game of intrigue and subterfuge!”

The Major looked sternly at the old man and started to talk swiftly but in a hushed tone. The words were in German, and it was clear that the wheelchair bound Lord was able to understand the speech, as he occasionally nodded his head towards the Major, or raised his clenched hand as if to dismiss the fetid vocabulary spilling from the German spy’s mouth.  

After a few minutes the Major finished speaking and walked across to the seated Lord and shouted;

”VON CHARD!” “Do you now understand?”

He turned to the door and strode through it with a swish of his trailing coat, rapidly descended the stairs before exiting the way he had entered the semi dilapidated building.   

Back on the first floor, Lord Chard, or as his German ancestors would have entitled him “Von Chardz” pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocked and wiped a tear from his eye. He then grabbed the hand wheels of his chair, and propelled himself towards a small chest of drawers, which he unlocked with a small key concealed in his left palm.   

He opened the box and removed a number of documents, and carefully placed an old blue envelope marked “Par Avion” on his lap. He withdrew a number of black and white photographs and stared coldly at them through his old red rimmed eyes, now sore and filled with tears. 

He spread the photographs across his lap and let out a small laugh as he picked up the photograph of himself and a young Hitler youth boy scout, both stark naked and frolicking before a roaring fire in a compromising position..

 Next to the photo was a paper note typed in Germanic script and stamped with the seal of the Fuhrer. The note consisted of a couple of lines that simply read;

 “We have the negatives and we will be contacting you soon so that you can assist the motherland in its glorious fight against the British Bulldog in our struggle for Liebensteaum”.

He ran his fingers across the photograph and then grabbing the faded note, crumpled it in his soft pink hands and threw it in the dying embers of the open hearth. As the open box of tricks sat upon the unpolished surface of the bureau, the last embers of the  flickering fire cast a waning shadow of the weeping Lord Chardz upon the wooden floor, until after a final flicker all was dark and quite.   

Back outside Major Thurlby was striding towards Sudbury Town and  an appointment with a representative of the Duck Flat Cap Society at The Mitre public house, who was to vet his application for membership.

 However, he was unaware that as well as the anticipated warm pint of best bitter and a stale cheese roll, another far more sinister entity awaited his arrival in the snug of the quite, semi rural retreat. 

The Mitre was almost empty apart from two old men playing darts in the public bar and a youngish couple in the saloon. Adding to this loose confederacy was a small, thick sett man, with thinning hair and huge belly, standing at the snug bar slowly draining a pint of strong Ale.

 

Dr Doyle had been a regular at the pub for many years and was well known by all who frequented the establishment on a regular basis. However, he was also known to venture a number of miles along the Harrow Road towards leafy Harrow Weald, and had become a member of the committee of the locally infamous, Duck Flat Cap Society.

Also, unknown to Major Thurlby at this time, Lord Chard, or should we say “Von Chardz”, was also a member of this society and had been the acting President and Chairman since before the onset of the war. Chard was also a good friend of Dr Doyle, and they had recently exchanged pleasantries and convened a very long conversation, in a local hostelry in Sudbury Town, known as “the Swan”.

Major Thurlby slipped in to the pub and awaited his meeting with Doctor Doyle, unaware of the momentous events that this meeting would unleash.
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THE ABOMINABLE MAJOR THURLBY

 THE ABOMINABLE MAJOR THURLBY 

The lonely Nazi spy was known to occasionally enjoy a few beers and often sat alone in the Railway Hotel, now known as the Village Inn, located on the corner of Ealing Road and Wembley High Road.

He soon became known to the regulars as the “Major” or “Major Thurlby” and became the subject of various rumours regarding his sexuality and his actual profession or job.

He was never short of cash for a pint of best bitter or a large scotch whisky, but none of the clientele had ever noticed the well dressed Major acting in any professional capacity or even as a senior clerk in the many affluent stores that then lined the High Road. 

However, most pushed their thoughts to the back of their minds as the air raid siren screamed the alarm, alerting the unlucky imbibers to the fact that the Nazi Luftwaffe were again unleashing their explosive load upon the defenceless populace below their dive-bombing stukers and Junkers.

They were of course unaware that just a few hours earlier, the Major had radioed the coordinates of the large Power Station located at the end of Copeland playing fields and adjacent to the main line railway link with Euston, to his handlers in Berlin.

He was confidently aware that the target of the high explosives raining from the bellies of the Luftwaffe’s finest was not for the benefit of the High Road but would fall approximately a mile away, wreaking destruction and mayhem amongst the cooling towers and turbines of the power station.

The Major sunk the dregs of his pint, picked up his trilby and exited the pub via the street entrance and strolled fifty yards down the road towards St Johns church and the Police Station.

Pausing briefly to adjust his trilby, he stepped up the steps at the entrance to the police station and extended his outstretched hand to the desk sergeant. The sergeant lifted his head and smiled at the Major.

Unknown to the Major, these very acts were being secretly observed by an associate of the Duck Flat Cap Society known only as “Bolt foot Jones”.

Bolt Foot Jones was a regular of the Mitre Public house, and was originally enthused by the Majors care free manor whilst contesting a three way Green Bowls competition, between the Railway Hotel, the Century Hotel and the Mitre public house.  

The sergeant was well acquainted with The Major, and due to his feeble lack of authority and organisational skills, had allowed the Nazi spy to gain unauthorised access to Police files and ledgers. He had even granted the "Major" auxiliary policing powers, that extended to use of police boxes and whistles during the Black Out.   

This unfortunate friendship enabled the Major to make detailed notes detailing secrets from various files and ledgers, and the way the Police station operated, which like all others in the UK was on a war footing. However, Bolt Foot was on the Majors trail and continued to log his movements throughout the early months of 1941. 

Among the documents recently uncovered by the Duck Flat Cap Society was a copy of Bolt Foots log and this is how we know of his counter clandestine activities. The log was, however stored with the personal papers of The Major, which unfortunately indicates that Bolt Foots activities were discovered by the Major. The records continue to be perused and details of the outcome of his discovery will be published in due course.

Further reading of the documentation discovered in the Thurlby Road residence indicates that the Major was also involved with the unsuccessful assassination of Adolf Hitler in 1944 at the Wolfs Lair, in a plot that involved Claus Von Stauffenberg and a certain Von Blumenthal.

 The record books show that the assassination plot was planned by a Major Hans-Jürgen von Blumenthal. The intriguing point being that the recently uncovered documentation indicates that Blumenthal was a known alias of the Major, therefore implicating the same Nazi spy who guided the Luftwaffe to destroy a Wembley Power Station as a main player in an assassination plot of the fuhrer.

Further details of the Duck Flat Cap Societies research will be released in due course. 

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NAZI OUTRAGE AT HOME OF ENGLISH FOOTBALL

NAZI OUTRAGE AT HOME OF ENGLISH FOOTBALL

Recently uncovered documents have revealed the alleged sordid double life of a wartime Nazi spy, living amongst the inhabitants of John Betjamins leafy suburban metro-land.

The north west London  town of Wembley, is famous throughout the world for its status as home of English and world football. The original Wembley Stadium was built in 1923 as part of the British Empire Exhibition, that was built across sprawling parkland to the north of the sleepy village of Wembley.

The land was previously the private estate attached to the local Manor House known as the White House, and as well as the stadium consisted of an array of marvelous pavilions and and building mimicking the architectural style from across the worldwide British Empire.

 During the 1930's the small village grew in to a small town but continued to be a quite retreat from the hustle and bustle of nearby metropolitan London. Easy rail links enabled commuters to live an Elysian life in the leafy avenues of Wembley, with easy access to both the nearby open countryside, and the office in the City.

By the start of the 2nd World War, Wembley was a favourite place of residence for the middle class with its neat semi detached and detached freehold properties, inter mingled with spacious bungalows and well built mansion flats.
These well built properties, together with the parades of well provisioned shops and stores, ensured that the population of Wembley was a mixture of the professional elite upper middle class and the middle of the road artisan who worked hard and prospered in the leafy suburbs of Wembley and its nearby small towns of Kingsbury, Harrow, Kenton, Preston and Sudbury.

However, as the bombs began to fall on the red tiled roofs, if the recently uncovered evidence is to be believed, amongst the well healed and King loving English populace was a heinous Nazi spy, who had ensconced his way in to the local fabric of the town and even managed to create close links to the local police.

Thurlby Road was a short road built at the turn of the last century, located close to the junction of the Ealing Road with Wembley High Road. The red brick Victorian houses lining the road were typical of those built at the end of the Victorian era and the start of the Edwardian age. The houses were stoutly constructed although relatively small compared to the larger villas constructed in more attractive parts of the town.

As the local populace gathered about the wireless awaiting news of the impending attack on their homeland by the Nazi war machine, the resident of the humble Thurlby Road property was seated at his small kitchen table perusing his code book prior to sending encoded messages to Berlin.

This alleged evil Nazi was known to those who knew him as either Alf or the Major, but unknown to them his real name was Herman Von Ruderham, a holder of the Iron Cross and former Reichs Commander of the Wehrmacht.

Having fought in the first world war on the Russian Front he has slipped in to England at the start of the financial crisis known as the Wall Street Crash.

 His code book was a guide to German Grammar, with his German commanders using an identical book for the translation and decipher of the coded message. 

As an elected member of the borough council he had quietly assimilated himself in to the local community and had obtained access to the local police station by way of making acquaintance's with the local Sergeant and a number of constables.

 However, using this screen of respectability, he was quietly recording the comings and goings of the police officers and recording the times and dates in a paper log.

 A paper copy of the log has now been recovered by the Military Intelligence division of the Duck Flay Cap Society, and is reproduced here for your perusal.

 The details of this log would then be transmitted by radio to his handlers in the Berlin high command, and would be invaluable information as and when the proposed invasion of England by the Nazi war machine took place.

 

The Major was also allegedly involved with recruiting Japanese spies from the local community and was greatly concerned that Chinese nationals were not recruited in error, as they were the sworn enemies of the Japanese who were controlling huge areas of China after their military invasion.

Evidence of this recruiting has been uncovered by way of a communication detailing how to differentiated the Japanese race from that of the Chinese. This document has been discovered along with other incriminating documentation, and is also reproduced here as evidence of these heinous crimes against the English nation.
 
Further investigations in to this sordid affair are to be conducted by the Military Intelligence division of the Duck Flat Cap Society, and reports will be posted in due course.

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THE STRANGE CASE OF THE SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

THE STRANGE CASE  OF THE SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

In 1924 a band of courageous roustabouts made their way to the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Park, and initiated a bold plan for their escape from poverty and servitude.

The group of working class scoundrels were all local and had marvelled as the former gracious park lands of the White House,  the Manor House situated in the sumptuous rolling parkland of Wembley Park, had been transformed in to the monstrous stone and reinforced concrete edifice that now stood before and about them.

The local scenery had started its miraculous transformation during the 1850's when the London Metropolitan Railway had thrust is serpentine way directly through the Wembley Park Estate on its bold way from Baker Street in London, to Harrow On the Hill and onward to the bountiful countryside of Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire beyond.

Indeed, as a precursor to the Exhibition now spread across the former open green fields, The Director and principle shareholder of the company responsible for constructing the railroad that dissected the parkland, had made a promise to construct a Tower greater than that constructed by Monsieur Gustaf Eiffel in gay Paris.

 This Tower was indeed started but failed after the first stage due to the marshy sate of the ground under the great four legged structure, and a lack of funding for the project. The Tower being eventually abandoned and known throughout the area as "Watkins Folly" after the name of its proposer.

Returning to our protagonists, all were either in the service of one of the remaining great houses of Wembley Sudbury or Neasden, and were convinced that the only way to escape their tedious existence was to travel to the fabled eastern land of Cathay, otherwise known as China.

The group had had little or no schooling between them and although each could write their name, only David Thrump was able to read, mainly due to collecting and distributing the bibles at the local chapel, and picking out familiar phrases that he heard the vicar or rector preach to his then large flock.

The hapless group had heard from older farm hands that there was a wondrous Chinese Temple within the Exhibition grounds, forged in the fashion of a Hong Kong pagoda . Furthermore, this pagoda was on the banks of a azure lake that had wonderful Junks and other vessels floating and bobbing about its surface.

To the imagination of the man servants and farm hands assembled at the entrance to the British Exhibition, the thought of expatriating one of the fabulous boats and transferring the vessel to the seas for the journey to China was overwhelming.
 A plan was soon put together and that evening they climbed over the perimeter fence and manhandled a large rowing boat, that also had additional foot pedals for assisted propulsion, and lifted it gently in to the adjacent wealstone Brook, that would eventually flow in to the the River Brent, and after many miles emerge in to the tidal Thames and then the awaiting sea beyond.

As the night turned to day out entrepid adveturers were passing the teeming London docks and then the Isle Of Dogs, and by night fall were in the North Sea. The only form of navigation was by the stars and an old copy of "Punch" that had a map of the world within its tattered covers.

Amazingly, although never confirmed, it has been reported throughout the the world, in such divers locations as Lisbon Portugal, Cape Town South Africa, Colombo Sri Lanka and Djakarta Sumatra, that a strange small vessel with naked pink fleshed sailors had made port at the various locations , and that after refilling with water and bread, they would slip back in to the dark seas heading on an eastern trajectory shouting that China cant be far by now !

Further more, tradition on Causeway Bay, Honk Kong, is that a small band of western sailors disembarked after a journey taking some 20 years and proceeded to make a living by waiting on the wealthy mandarins that held back their wealth from the colonial British and felt safe displaying their wealthy amongst the peasant like sunburnt "ghost eyed" "western devils" that had crawled ashore whispering China, China China are we there yet.

These stories have never been proven, but if you go to Hong Kong today , and loiter around the Causeway Bay area, you will often catch a glimpse of a "round eyed" tramps who stare back at your western countenance with a wistful sigh about their mouths, and a quite whistle emitting from their crooked mouths, to the tune of god save the King.....................

"RASTA" HURLEY IN FAILED BAJAN COUP D'ETAT

"RASTA" HURLEY IN FAILED BAJAN COUP D'ETAT

Former military adviser to the Duck Flat Cap Society, Rasta Hurley, has stunned the Caribbean by allegedly attempting a putsch, and overthrow of the Bajan government.


The Coup D'etat had been planned by the ageing lothario, so as to enable the recently betrothed "Hard man" to establish an Empire and court, for the self styled Rasta and wife to be, to rule over with a rod of steel and ganja.

A remarkable change has betaken Rasta Hurley of late, with a marked change in attitude towards  the laid back Caribbean attitude and a rekindled love of Ganja.


It is a well known fact that as well as life saving triple bypass surgery Rasta Hurley also underwent a Penile Extension when he was recently under the surgeons knife. 
This increased vigour has had an unsurprising effect on the ageing ex military hard man, and i was of no surprise to the Imbibing sub committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society, that he has cemented his passion for ebony flesh by recently becoming betrothed to his ex home help and future wife.

However, as an unexplained side effect of this increase in his lust, he has also been bewitched with a longing to take control of his environment and to establish a homeland for himself and his partner.

This has directly led to his recent failed Coup D'etat in the Caribbean. The unsuccessful attempt to rest power from the Bajan authorities was thwarted due to his utter lack of planning and  man power. The putsch was to be initiated by a viral attack on the governments computer services and net works so that communications were stalled, thus allowing Basher Hurley and his small band of  revolutionaries to storm the government building and take control. 

However, the rebellion was timed to start during a wedding feast that he was attending and due to copious amounts of alcohol and ganja, and a fist fight against a six foot six limbo dancer, Rasta Hurley completely missed the proposed assault and retired to the bed of his mistress for a short passionate clinch with his pillow and hours of deep sleep.   

The Duck Flat Cap society have recently been advised by its acting president and chairman, Driver Chard of El Hadj Duif, that he had been approached to accompany Rast Hurley on his military expedition, but that he turned him aside due to his dislike of Rum Punch and the fact that he could not use his London Transport free bus pass on the island.  

Rasta Hurley , has denied all knowledge of the failed Coup D'etat, but has been subpoenaed by the DFCS  to attend a commission that will investigate the sailiant facts and decide whether the former military adviser to the society may retain his membership and rank.

Further details will be published in due course. 

THE RETICENCE OF EVIL

THE RETICENCE OF EVIL

The room was quite and still. 

The bed in the corner of the room was empty although not made up. The cotton sheets were soiled with blood and urine, and with the rooms windows bolted shut, the air in the room was dank and acrid. The stale air leaving the unlucky occupant of the stinking pigsty wanting to retch.

As the door swung open the encroaching occupant pulled his handkerchief to his mouth attempting to stifle the puke and phlegm flowing from his mouth, nose and throat. 

He surveyed the scene making a mental note of the objects in the room and the total lack of any home comforts. The floor of the cell like space was uncovered, with the floor boards stained with urine and body fluids.

He pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and started to take photographs with it camera application. As he focused the light sensitive lens across the room he suddenly felt a cold rush of air against his neck, and simultaneously fell forward as if kicked forcefully in the back of his legs. As he fell forward he swivelled his neck to grab a glimpse of wispy figure twisting and turning away from his line of sight.

 As he concentrated on focusing his fading vision of the assailant that had knocked him to the floor, he felt a stinging and crushing pain to his spine as a dead weight drilled in to his back. His head smashed on to the stained floor boards as his failing lungs exhaled a spume of blood and carbon dioxide.

 The floor directly below his prostate body cracked as the old wooden flooring cracked through the force being applied by the vicious assailant assaulting the prone figure, who was now unconscious and surrounded by his own sweat, phlegm and blood. His bowels had also failed and a putrid mess spread from the bulging crease in the rear of his beige slacks.   



Hours passed passed and day had turned to night as the aching and stinking body recovered consciousness. Pulling his blood and shit stained body to his feet, he lifted his head and tried to focus his bloodstained eyes on the cracked mirror on the far wall.

As Pepe strained to recognise his own countenance, the door swung open and a large overweight woman, aged about sixty five yelled at the stumbling figure

"I've told you before about not cleaning your room you little shit. Now start cleaning yourself up and change those sheets you stinking little fucker. And stop taking photos to show your friends that i don't clean the room you lying little prat".   

The startled figure stood shivering in the centre of the room, his bladder releasing an orange trickle of piss down his bloodied leg

"Yes mum" came Pepe's tearful reply and he motioned for his mother to leave the room. 

 As she shut the door he tried to mouth a further sentence to his mother but the words fell silent as he thought to himself 

"have I been a good boy, Mum? or have I been bad again ?".............................