MCKENNA, THE TENNER MAN. (UPDATE 5/2/2018)

     

MCKENNA, THE TENNER MAN.

(UPDATE 5/2/2018)

                                                                   

It had suddenly happened, what was it?

 Later that day a strange but somehow familiar smell began to waft through the building. At first it was hardly noticeable, but soon it was hard not to sense the musty odour slowly spreading through the old building.

October had started unseasonably warm with temperatures in the high seventies. However, with recent news reports explaining the phenomenon of global warming, and the pleasant feeling of the sun on your back, nobody was complaining.

 However the high temperatures could not be blamed on the unpleasant smell, as past " Indian summers " had not resulted in strange smells percolating through the antediluvian wooden warehouse.

  

The old warehouse had seen better days, especially early in the nineteenth century when logging   was still a major local industry.

The original colonial style building that used to be attached to the warehouse was long gone.  However, the numerous original wooden outbuildings were still in existence, and had been converted to holiday homes. They had subsequently become popular with city residents, who appreciated the cool calm air, which drifted of the lakeside during the incessant heat of high summer.

 It had been the recent heat wave that had attracted visitors to the small hamlet, boosting the population to an unseasonable high of approximately one hundred and fifty souls, from the usual   total of thirty eight permanent residents.

 McKenna, the warehouse caretaker, was tired. It was the end of a long hard day, made more tiresome by the influx of outsiders who traipsed through the building all day, pretending to admire the local architecture and enjoy the local history.

 Out of the corner of McKenna's eye something moved, a sensation of motion that can’t be rationally explained although you instinctively know there was movement.

The caretaker strained his bespectacled eyes searching for the confirmation that his eyes were not playing him tricks, and that it was not yet time to buy an expensive new pair of spectacles, and worse still, visit the opticians where his " I told you so!" daughter worked, having completed   four expensive years at university!

 Nothing moved and the air was still. He turned the key and slowly descended the three wooden steps leading away from the now pitch black edifice behind him, but, what was that smell!!

McKenna moved slowly through the black still of the night, limping and dragging his left foot behind him. The limp was due to a hunting accident when he was a young man, and although in earlier years his disability was hardly noticeable, at the age of sixty-five it now meant a slow and difficult shuffle home. 

The clinging atmosphere began to close in on the stumbling old man as he fumbled towards his cabin.

 A light flickered in the distance, and beginning to tire he strained his eyes in the direction of the light source.

 Staring in to the black abyss McKenna stumbled to a halt.

 A light flashed to the left of the track, or did it!

 He was confused as there was no electric or gas artificial lighting in the immediate direction the light had flashed from, and he had not heard the familiar mechanical rumble of a car or motorcycle.

 His thoughts quickly returned to food, as he was famished after missing lunch. 

    

The rain began to fall as it often did at this time of year, but the old caretaker didn’t notice at first as he continued to fantasise over the chicken broth waiting on the kitchen stove. Food had become very important in his old age as most other pleasures now passed him by.  As the rain fell harder he noticed that his feet were beginning

to get wet as the moisture passed through the paper inserts blocking the holes in his shoes.

Rivulets of water began to run down the ineffective spectacles and dripped on to his Knurled top lip.  His tongue flicked upward so as to collect the sour liquid, then returned to his salivating mouth to search out the gaps between his rotten teeth and blistered gums. Blood started to ooze from the thin skin surrounding the base of the teeth and mixed with the warm rainwater to form a familiar mouthwash. False teeth were a luxury that he could not afford, and he had suffered with dental problems from an early age due to ill-fitting homemade wooden teeth.

McKenna’s feet were now wet through, the paper inserts now disintegrating and working there way between the blistered and bloodied toes.   New shoes were a luxury, but chicken broth was not, and McKenna was almost home. His pace quickened but a sharp pain brought him to a sudden halt. This was a different pain, a pain that he had never experienced before. A sharp, high-pitched noise echoed through his head, reverberating from front to back and side to side. He shook his head and shut his eyes. Bright light appeared to flash across his path and the noise in his head got louder. The old man opened his eyes and noticed that there was movement ahead.  McKenna shut his eyes again and passed out.

Slowly he began to waken, his hands and feet twitching as the blood began to flow to the ragged and swollen digits.  His eyes opened and shut tight in one movement. The bright light was penetrating and threatening to blind him by burning the Retinas at the back of his puffy bloodshot eyes. Tears filled the sorry eyes and trickled down rough blotchy cheeks.  He again tried to prise open the limp folds of skin covering his eyes, and he thought he could see his childhood home.  A small cottage with whitewashed walls and thatched roof. Smoke whisping from the chimney pot and apple trees in the garden. He could hear the sound of lambs gambling in the adjacent field, and the stark cry of crows in the sky and trees surrounding the desolate cottage.  

McKenna’s mouth twitched and sputum dribbled from his torn and dry lips.

The cottage was deep in the country, many miles from the nearest settlement of any size. There was however a small tenement a mile away, hidden from view by the forest and ridge of Hills known as the “ Devils Backbone.  As a child McKenna would often walk through the thick clinging forest and wind his way up the ancient track way towards the summit.  Although not high, the ridge offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside.  The small river winding its way along the escarpment and disappearing in to the impenetrable forest beyond.  The forest contained a large selection of wild animals, of which the most feared was the Timber Wolf.

Black Bears also wondered the wooded acres, and Mountain Lions or Cougars were frequent visitors from the higher Mountains beyond. However, it was the Timber Wolf that had buried its self in the consciousness of the human inhabitants ever since man first set foot in the primeval forest. 

McKenna again opened his eyes and the vision of his childhood home vanished as a sharp jolt brought him to his senses.

 “ What your game then? “  .

The caretaker strained to recognise the nasal tone of the high-pitched voice filling his Waxy partially blocked eardrums.

  “ When will you learn, you stupid old git! “.

McKenna strained and opened his eyes fully, turning his emaciated neck towards the source of the loud uncouth speech ringing in his ears.  At first he was at a loss as to who the tall thin figure was. Slowly he began to recognise the features of Bill Fletcher, and more to the point, the sickly   smell of his foul   fermenting breath. Bill had been a friend of McKenna’s for as long as he could remember, possibly 45 years!

 Bill was now the supervisor at the modern Holiday complex built on the site of the old Warehouse outbuildings. But 45 years ago he was just an unemployed bum, like McKenna, looking for work in the local Logging yards.

 

Bill had grown up in Kent in England, spent a few years in South Africa, and came across to the USA with his parents at the age of 15. Not long after arriving in the USA, both his parents were killed in unexplained circumstances.

 He was staying with a neighbour whilst his parents hitch hiked in to the hill country looking to enjoy a couple of days away from his constant bad behaviour.  After 3 days, and their non-return, Bills neighbour began to worry about their whereabouts, and alerted the local police.   Five days a local farmer found later there corpses beside a road. They had both been strangled, and the skin removed from there necks. Furthermore, their kidneys had been ripped from their torsos and inserted in split stomach of a young Wolf found next to their prone bodies. 

“Bill “ whispered McKenna, what are you doing here!. 

“ I found you outside, face down in the mud “ exclaimed Bill. “ I thought you were dead, and for real this time “. 

“ Where am I “ he groaned, “ home “ came the gruff response.

Bill had found McKenna in the roadway outside his house, and dragged him in to the relative comfort of his home. 

McKenna rolled his ahead across his shoulders and looked towards the stove in the corner of the room. The chicken broth was still there, and Bill had had the foresight to light the stove. The broth bubbled and soon McKenna was spooning the steaming liquid in to his blistered mouth and down his thin stringy neck. Bread from the pantry soon found its way to his mouth, and although covered in thick green blue mould, was devoured as if nectar. Bill thought the penicillin in the mould could only improve the frail caretaker’s precarious state of health.

 McKenna’s digestive system did not take long to respond to the sticky fluid and mouldy bread entering his stomach.  A build up of methane gas soon began its slow but steady exit from his sickly body. If McKenna’s underwear had been unexpectedly clean, it was now stained with a pungent residue.  The air was now thick with the revolting exhaust bellowing from his anal orifice.

Bill ran to the nearest window and fumbled with the fastening.

It was stuck.

A swift blow from the heel of his hand soon freed the latch, and the sweet smell of fresh air pervaded the otherwise stale atmosphere in the dank dingy room.

The old mans mind turned to his childhood in Kent, and in particular the many times he explored the dark caves hidden amongst the chalk hills near his home.

 A smell often reminds someone of a particular time and place, and he thought the stench in the room reminded him of the old corpse he once uncovered whilst playing with friends in an old flint quarry.  An old tramp had drunk one to many and passed away in his sleep. He remained undiscovered for many months prior to his rotting flesh being uncovered by the excited schoolboys.

 Bill then realised that the smell in his thin nostrils was not the product of McKenna’s colon, but a smell from somewhere beyond the now open window and enticed him to leave the warmth of the Cabin to investigate.

Suddenly, and with a loud crash, the old  window suddenly slammed shut and juddered in the flaking frame . Bill recoiled and stumbled backwoods, falling in to table where McKenna continued to fill his now bloated gut.

“ What the hell was that! “ shouted Bill.

 A cold blast of air rushed past him and the crackling fire flickered as the glowing flames devoured the icy torrent. 

“I don’t know  “ was the whispered response, “ but it often happens these days,  Sit down and have a drink “.  Bill opened his mouth to respond when something moved in the corner of his eye. His neck swivelled 45 degrees, stretching the skin round his swollen red neck.

Nothing.

But Bill knew there had been something, and he also knew that the screeching sound ringing in his ears was not   a product of his imagination. The eerie sound had now passed, and the pain in his leg, due to fallen backwards in to the table, began to burn in to his consciousness. It was no more than a twist, but enough to hinder his walk back to his flat at the old Quayside.  No more than a bed-sit, it was sufficient for the supervisor’s simple needs.

 Attached to the Holiday complex, the bed-sit was one of the more modern buildings in the town, and Bill realised that his old body was now in need of the modern comfort its interior offered him. He also knew that the windows were double glazed and lockable. No smell or noise would bother his sleep that night.

Bidding good night, he moved towards McKenna’s front door and turned the latch, but it was stuck. Stooping to clutch his strained leg, he soon had both hands on the latch and with a strong tug the door was open. Looking back over his shoulder, it was clear that his companion was drifting back in to oblivion, and he shut the door behind him. 

Although the damaged leg hindered him, Bill was soon at the lakeside and walking along the old waterfront towards his front door. The lake was dark and menacing and a shiver passed down his back as he glanced across the water towards the small island known as   “Indian Eyelet “.  There was nothing on the island now, but in the past a clearing to the south of the island had been a sacred place for the indigenous natives.

Strange thoughts began to filter through Bills tired mind as he stared out across the black sheet of water. The island was just visible and something seemed to move on the rocky shore.

 Suddenly his attention switched to the loud laughter coming from the bar on the other side of the road. It was Friday night and  “The Woodcutter “ had a full house. It was only 9.30 p.m. but with little else to amuse the locals after sundown, the bar was a favourite haunt fore locals and visitors alike. There were other bars, including one on the Highway just out of town, but  “ The Woodcutter “attracted the best crowd on a Friday night.

Bills thoughts turned to Drink and crossed the road and entered the Bar. He ordered a double whiskey on the rocks and stood at the crowded bar. His leg began to twitch, and he indicated to a younger man sitting on a bar stool that he needed to sit his tired body down. The youth ignored him and indicated to his friends that the old man was invading their space. Not wanting trouble, Bill moved across the Bar and settled against the mantelpiece above the cavernous fireplace.  He flicked his eyes towards the heaving counter and noticed that the boisterous young men had already forgotten him as they swigged their bottles of beer. His eyes also noted that a number of the older men were seated around a large table playing cards. His thoughts again changed as he remembered the many times he had played poker with McKenna, especially during the 50’s when both men were much younger. He decided that tomorrow he would suggest to McKenna a hand or two prior to there usual drink in the waterside bar.

The next day dawned with a heavy mist draped across the lake and a light drizzle filled the air, which was considerably cooler than the previous day. Bill looked out his window and rubbed the sleep from his weeping eyes.  He turned his knurled head back towards the bed and the sweat stained bedding that lay on the floor next to the bed the result of another restless night.

His thoughts turned to McKenna as he bent over and placed the yellowing sheets back on his bed. Bill shuffled towards the kitchen and placed the kettle on the stove. A dirty mug with “Fletch” stamped on the side was pulled from a cupboard and a heap of sticky sugar slid in to the mug. Instant coffee and boiling water soon completed the procedure and the sickly sweet brown liquid was soon flowing passed Bills adams apple.  A packet of half smoked cigarettes was grabbed from another draw and soon Bill was drawing on the dry tobacco and coughing up sticky green phlegm, which was soon ejected in to the overflowing sink.

When the coffee was drunk and the tobacco infused, Bill motioned towards the bathroom and splashed his bony face with cold water. A pair of stained long johns were pulled from a string hung above the shower and Bill struggled in to them balancing one foot on the rim of the toilet basin. A checked shirt, corduroy jeans, long socks and dirty scuffed steel capped boots completed Bills wardrobe.

Meanwhile, McKenna had woken from his slumber and had completed his morning programme in a similar manner to Bill. The only difference being a twenty minute visit to the W.C so as to discharge the usual foul smelling offal from his bowels.

McKenna opened his front door and gazed up the road towards Bills apartment. As his eyes squinted through the drizzle he noted that the lake seemed to be gently bubbling pockets of air up to the surface, creating a broken pattern that was interspersed with the needle like indentations caused by the falling rain. 

As he took the first couple of steps out of his door a shrill ringing from the telephone caused McKenna to pause and look back to his door. The phone rang again sending the old man forward in a spurt that almost sent him sprawling across the doorstep. A further short ring and the phone was in his trembling hand.

“Hello!“ blurted from the handset followed by “ is that you dad! “.

McKenna’s daughter, Meg, had promised to visit him the last time they spoke, and she was now excitingly telling her dad that she would be in town the coming weekend, and that she would have her new fiancé in tow. The old fellow acknowledged Megs high pitched renderings and slowly placed the receiver back to its resting place. He glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece and took a sharp intake of breath noticing that it was time he should be at Bills.  

McKenna began a slow trudge through the light drizzle towards the misty waters of the lake. The lake seemed to acknowledge his presence by sending a spate of concentric ripples across the cobalt blue surface.

Far below the surface the Pike, Bass and other larger fish began to dash through the weeded channels running along the stone and gravel scattered base of the lake.  Above them the smaller, faster fish began to shoal in increasing numbers, wheeling and diving through the murky depths.  As if the recipients of some hidden message, the fish of the lake were starting to agitate in unison in a rhythmic frenzy. The fish seemingly moving to the beat of the hollow low pitch rumble emanating from below the base of the lake.

In the deepest clefts of the lake the stones and sand began to shift in an eccentric pattern, leaving a crazy paving effect across the marbled gravels.   A spurt of gas erupted from the largest fissure and this in turn forced a stream of foaming water towards the surface of the lake. The flume of water ejected across the surface and launched its self over the Quayside soaking McKenna and the surrounding area.  

McKenna stumbled to a halt, his splattered body turning with his heavy head towards the now foaming waters. His mind flashed back to his first year in the town, when he had last witnessed such a phenomenon. At that time a sailing boat had been caught in the maelstrom and capsized with the loss of all but one on board.

 The sole survivor had spoken of strange happenings as he struggled to stay afloat in the angry waters. He believed that his legs were being pulled at from below the surface as he kicked to keep afloat, and that his mind was full of strange thoughts and images that he could not understand. 

McKenna’s mind quickly switched back to the present and he focused his red itchy eyes on the path ahead of him. He cleared his throat and spat the thick phlegm to the side of the track.  Bill looked at his watch and cursed McKenna for being late again.     

Twenty minutes later the old timers were cursing each other as they ambled together towards the row of wooden shacks adjacent to the lake. They stored their fishing tackle in one of the sheds and they had agreed to spend a few hours spinning for pike prior to lunch in the town’s only diner.  

Their tackle was old fashioned and damaged, but the enthusiasm shown by the old boys made up for the deficiencies of their hard ware. After collecting the tackle, they made the short way over to a slipway where an old wooden boat awaited them. Like the tackle, the boat had seen better days and had been patched up many times. They boarded the vessel with great difficulty as there aged bones creaked as they lifted tired legs and arms in to the boat.

McKenna farted and he knew strait away that he had soiled his long johns. He slid on to his seat and the fêted pants slid across his bum cheeks wedging in his arching crack.  After a few weary strokes of the oars, they cast out in to the dappled water, retrieving their lures at a slow and artificial manner.

Below the boat a strange ghostly shape flashed in and out of the vessels shadow.  

After an hour both were tired and disillusioned at catching nothing. However, they continued to cast deep in to the deep waters of the lake, retrieving there lures in an uneasy fashion as there wrists ached from a combination of arthritis and old age. McKenna’s mind wandered to the coming weekend, and his Daughters impending visit. Meg was sure to moan at the untidy state of his home and remind him that he was to take more care of him self and lay of the booze. She would not be coming alone, and was bringing her fiancé John, who McKenna had not hit it of with when they last met.

Still thinking of the visit by his daughter, McKenna was shaken from his thoughts by Bills shout that he had struck in to something. He turned his aching neck towards Bill just in time to see him tumble out of the boat in to the now calm water. The lake was suddenly awash with spray as Bill struggled to stay afloat as well as holding his rod. Within seconds Bill was submerged and spinning silently through the depths with the air escaping from the corner of his mouth in tinny bubbles.

 As the bubbles rose to the surface McKenna noticed them some twenty feet from the boat and started to panic. Although he could swim, he was in no state to dive in and attempt a rescue. He quickly grabbed the oars and started to steer the boat towards the bubbles. He strained backwards, pulling the old wooden oars with all his strength causing the rusting rowlocks to creak in unison with each pull.

Below the surface, Bill was wondering what was happening as he was no longer straining for breath, and he felt the strength in his body starting to rise with every second. He opened his eyes and stared towards the bottom of the lake and noticed that a bright light was emanating from the lake bed.

 As he moved nearer to the light source he notice movement all about him, but he was unable to make out what the fast moving shimmering shapes were. He knew they were not fish as they were too big, but every time he focused on a shape it disappeared. Finally he was at the bottom of the lake and looking up he could make out the shady shape of the boat being rowed by McKenna. 

McKenna was now totally out of breath having rowed furiously for the last five minutes, his arms were no longer functioning and his fingers were red and blistered. As he sat in the boat thinking that his old friend had surely drowned, the waters broke behind him in an ear shattering crash, making the terrified McKenna swivel his tight stiff neck ninety degrees, towards the source of the noise.

Bill surfaced at speed, exploding across the lake surface creating a mini tidal wave that almost shook McKenna out of the boat.  McKenna stared at Bill with disbelief as he swam towards the still rocking vessel at breakneck speed.

With one casual heave he pulled himself in to the unsteady boat and starting laughing. McKenna coughed up a stick mixture of phlegm and blood as he blurted out a cry of disbelief. Bill shrugged his shoulders and was soon drawing on a roll up taken from a tin in his jacket pocket. Bill motioned towards the oars and grabbed both from there stationary position in the keel, and started to row back to the shore at a rate of knots.  McKenna was speechless as Bill sang at the top of his voice, pulling violently at the splintered oars, and rocking backwards and forwards to the rhythm of an old sea shanty.

Bill had still not said a word as they tied the boat up at the jetty, and collected what remained of their fishing tackle. Bill then turned to McKenna and nodded towards the Woodcutter Inn. 

After storing there tackle in the wooden hut they walked towards the Woodcutter Bill finally spoke to say that there earlier plan to have lunch in the Diner was pants and what they really needed was a proper drink. As they entered the pub, Bill pushed a local lad to one side as he headed for a seat at the bar. The youth turned and stared at Bill muttering under his breath, but before he could take matters further Bill had shoved the startled youngster so hard that he fell across two tables and smashed his face on the floor. He swiftly rose and lunged at Bill, who side stepped him and landed a further crushing blow to the back of his head.

By now the other occupants of the premises had gathered round the fighting duo and pulled the boy away to safety, as his face was covered in blood and he was clearly unable to fight on as Bill stood over him with his fists clenched and ready to deliver further retribution. Bill turned back to the bar and shouted up two beers and motioned to McKenna to take a seat and drink his cold beer.

“What happened down there”, McKenna blurted out as Bill finished his beer and ordered a further couple of beers with Whiskey chasers. “I don’t know” was the reply. All I know is that as I struggled towards the lake bed a sudden energy came over me and I no longer needed to struggle for breath. I saw a light emanating from the lake bed and a heard a strange buzzing in my ears, and before I knew it t was breaking surface and climbing in to the boat looking at your stupid face.

The owner of the premises was soon at there side and asked Bill to refrain from taking Pensioners rights to far, and try and not beat the living daylights out of his customers. However, he was more astonished that Bill was able to fight in such a fashion at his advanced age, and asked him how he did it. Bill turned to the owner and pointed towards the lake and whispered that the water in the lake was far more potent than the weak ale that he was serving them, and that he felt forty years younger than when he woke up in the morning. The owner gestured to McKenna that Bill was already pissed and moved away to serve a customer.

After a couple more beers the still wet Bill turned to McKenna and stared at him blankly, his eyes blood shot and weeping. “We need to go home and talk. I’m not sure what’s happening but I feel like shit”. They both moved towards the door and passed in to the street leaving the still stunned clientele behind them, as they headed towards the lake and onward to their accommodation and food.

McKenna farted as he turned his head back towards the lake and noticed that the island known as “Indian Eyelet” was very prominent, and seemed to shimmer on the horizon. He turned his head back to Bill and noticed that the new found energy seemed to be spent, as he puffed his way to his door, turned the lock and slammed the door in McKenna’s face. 

McKenna turned his back on the slammed door and trudged towards his own home. His head was full of the recent happenings and the strange events that occurred after Bills tumble in to the lake. Soon he was home and as he turned the door handle the phone starting ringing, and he quickly stumbled through the door and reached for the receiver.

“Hello” blurted the old man, and in response a high pitched squeal emanated from the earpiece, forcing McKenna to violently remove the hand set from his ear. Having recovered his momentum, he placed the phone some six inches from his ear and listened. The high pitch squealing had stopped but now a low hum was making his ear and head vibrate as the  low frequency continued to vibrate in the still dark room. The uncomfortable  noise intensified until it suddenly stopped causing McKenna to throw the hand set to the floor.

Slowly reaching to pick up the phone , his back ached as he bent his old back downwards to the floor. Grabbing the phone and carefully placing it to his ear, it was now silent. McKenna placed the receiver and moved across the sitting room to flick the light switch and the room was soon enveloped in light.

McKenna sat with his head in his hands and started to wonder if he was loosing his sanity. He closed his old dry eyes and pushed his legs out in front off him, and soon he was asleep. 

He was soon dreaming, and found himself as a young man standing outside his childhood home. The idyllic white cottage was partially covered in ivy and smoke was rising from the crooked chimney.

The younger McKenna was standing in the garden beside a huge apple tree, with wind fallen apples about his feet. Dark crows swooped above his head in the grey sky, as frightened sheep huddled in to groups in the adjacent field. Further in the  distance, the steep slopes were shrouded in thick forest, the pine trees stretching far in to the distance, until vanishing as the horizon merged with the sky. 

In his dream he glanced around the garden towards the cottage well, where an old man dressed in strange clothing sat whittling a piece of wood.

Back in his chair, McKenna twitched in his sleep as he dreamt of the strange figure by the well, his subconscious brain remembering something that scared him, but the reason temporary being lost to him.

 In the dream, McKenna moved towards the well with an effortless gait that reminded him of his pre injury youth. Reaching the well, the strangely clothed man put down his knife and the wood he was carving, and turned to face the approaching figure. As the face of the stranger in his dream was revealed to the youthful McKenna, the sleeping old man jumped in his sleep, his old heart racing and his blood pressure reaching near fatal levels.

However, he did not awaken, and in his dream he was staring in to the old and twisted, blood stained face of his long dead brother, John !.

John had died as a twelve year old child when he fell down the very same well that they were now standing next to. However, the tortured face now staring at McKenna was that of an old man, whose creased and weathered face stared tearfully in to his eyes.

It was never established how or why John fell in to the deep well, but when he went missing there parents frantically searched for him in the local fields,woods and river,finally finding him when the young McKenna noticed a shoe by the well. Their father soon discovered the body of his son at the bottom of the flooded pit, and recovered the limp lifeless body, who was then buried in the local graveyard, two miles from the cottage. 

Although never mentioned out loud, the local community had long suspected that McKenna had pushed his brother in to the well, as it was well known that they were not the best of friends. However, there Father had put stop to the rumours by letting it be known that McKenna had been with him at the time of the incident.

All the same, both McKenna and his father new this to be a lie, and his father was never sure of his remaining son’s involvement in the tragedy.

  

McKenna again twitched in his chair as he continued to dream. As he dreamt, the doors of his home began to quietly rattle and the windows started to flow with small rivulets of condensation. The phone which had earlier been thrown to the flow began to emit a slow hum, but McKenna did still not wake from his disturbed sleep.

 In the corner of the room something moved across the damp floor, as simultaneously the air in the room began to reek with the smell of crushed almonds and stale parmesan cheese.   

 Two hours passed as McKenna lay lifeless in his now sodden wet living room. His nose twitched with the strange smell pervaded his flaying nostrils. The condensation was now
pouring off the windows and collecting in large pools of mildew and microbe infested water, before spreading across the floor and turning the carpet in to a sodden mess.

The damp had penetrated McKenna’s socks and they were now hanging off his spindly legs hanging in a spongy mess about his ankles. The thin skin around his lower legs was red and puffy and lesions were forming on his shins.

To add to the soaking misery that had overcome the old man as he sat in his old hard armchair, McKenna has also wet himself, and the warm urine had overcome the defences of his already soiled and matted underwear, and was running down his legs to mingle with the already sodden socks creating a putrid mess about his sore aching feet.

Every so often a shadow would move from a corner of the room, as if a rat or mouse had suddenly scampered in to room and quickly turned to hide in a dark corner. However, these shadows were far larger than even the greatest Black or Brown Rat, and in deed no member of the Rattus Norvegicus family had ever reached such a size, even hanging around down in the sewer gorging on peaches and impersonating an ugly princess of the streets.

The shadow moved silently and without interruption. However there was not just one shadow but numerous dark shapes flitting around in every corner and recess of the damp stinking room. Soon the room was almost one continuous moving shadow encircling the prostate body slumped asleep on the chair.

McKenna suddenly twitched and opened his eyes.

McKenna squealed in horror as standing in front of him was his long dead brother. In a state of severe shock McKenna pushed his old and withered arms down on to the arm rests of his chair so as to lever his body on to his feet. The first attempt failed as his sodden feet and ankles collapsed under his body weight. He again strained against the arm rests and this time successfully levered his aching body to his feet. There in front of him was his deceased brother, no older then the tender age that he had fallen, or been pushed, down the well all those years earlier.

A trickle of urine ran down the old mans leg as he lurched forward in an attempt to embrace his sibling. However, this attempt failed as he grasped at the figure some three feet in front of him. Regaining his composure he took a couple of stumbling steps towards his target and throwing himself forward landed face first on the damp carpet. As he lay in a crumpled mass of urine, sweat and stinking mildew, his ears strained to a faint cry emanating from behind him. Pushing one hand in front of the other, the old man struggled to turn his prostrate head towards the faint speech. His boil covered neck creaked as the thin skin twisted and cracked with the movement of his head.

 Once he had managed to turn and face his deceased brother, he recoiled with horror to note that the room was completely empty, and that there no sign of the source of the faint speech. His head ached with pain as he strained his swollen and blood shot eyes around his living room.

Not a sound and not a movement.

 He slowly pushed his tired body to a standing position, and slowly trudged towards the locked door.  Opening the door he stared up and down the street hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother. Alas, there was no one in sight, and trying to reflect on the recent happenings, turned back in to his premises locking and bolting the door behind him.  Feeling sad and bewildered, McKenna went strait to his bed and without undressing threw his body on to the soled sheets, and within five minutes was again asleep.

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Unknown to McKenna, located approximately fifty feet below his home was a labyrinth of dark tunnels excavated centuries earlier by Irish monks who had settled in the area after crossing the Atlantic in their hand crafted vessels years before Columbus’s supposed discovery of the new world !.  These tunnels were used by the monks to evade the local native Indians who had objected to there presence, and had set about exterminating them by raiding their settlements and murdering all they could capture with the tomahawk or arrow.    The monks who had arrived on the coast of the new world were fleeing from persecution in Ireland and had been joined by fellow Welsh monks who were suffering from the same predicament.

After one particularly fierce attack by the natives, a strong albino monk who was known simply by the Greek letter “Theta” had discovered an entrance to a small cave that appeared to lead in to a series of other caverns. Theta quickly advised the other Monks of his discovery. And soon they were excavating the lose soil in the cave to try and get to the other caverns. They quickly noticed that the soil was easy to remove, but was still of a solid consistency that would be ideal for tunneling. Thus, over a number of months an elaborate series of tunnels were excavated by the surviving brethren.

Before long, the network of tunnels was of sufficient scale for the monks to evade their attackers on a regular basis, and prevent their numbers from decreasing. After a period if three years a major chamber had been excavated so that religious festivals and ceremonies could be held underground away from the prying eyes of the savages above.  

As the years past, the community of subterranean monks continued to flourish with no further contact with the old world.

However, occasional visits to the surface were accompanied by savage encounters with the native indigenous people, who were relentless in their continued attacks upon the pious Irish and Welsh monks.

As back in their homelands, the religious community was under relentless and continued attack, which led over time to a gradual change in the DNA and Mitochondrial DNA of the unsettled Monks.

Due to the unconventional nature of their existence, the Monks had altered their vows of celibacy, so as to enable the community to grow. In this respect, regular raiding parties were released to the surface so as to capture and enslave local Indian woman as breeding stock.

The resulting mixture of blood, chromosomes and DNA, together with the evolutionary changes enforced upon them by their subterranean life style, resulted in a new sub classification of Homo Sapiens, which in effect was a throwback to the muscular structure and brain size of the long extinct Neanderthal’s that roamed Europe and the near east before and during the ice age.

After many centuries, the religious community residing beneath the sleepy town and lake, had morphed in to oversize Neanderthal like zealots, whose only reason for existence was to raid the surface for new breeding stock, and worship at their monolithic shrine, located at the centre of their community, in the huge open space hewn from the rocks and soil centuries earlier. 

The monolithic shrine was constructed of a huge hollowed out granite megalith, covered with layers of gold, silver and filled with mercury.

The construction of this object of worship had been undertaken by the original subterranean residents after consulting documents that an Irish monk had obtained on a visit to Egypt and Babylon whilst seeking religious enlightenment and secretes of the ancients.

As a result of the elements used in its construction, it was soon noticed that the monument had strange powers that can now be described as electro magnetic.

Objects would move without touch if close to the edifice, and changes to the surface of the lake were often noticed by those traveling or swimming in the deep cobalt waters.

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Meanwhile, McKenna, lay in his bed and suddenly awoke to the sound of an approaching car and a loud radio disturbing the peace of the tranquil setting by the shore of the lake.

McKenna strained his eyes, staring out the grubby window, and immediately noticed that his daughter had arrived with her boyfriend and a couple of old college friends.  He strained his mind and started to remember her earlier proclamation that she was to visit her father so that she and her friends could go fishing on the lake.

At that moment he glanced towards the cold waters and noticed a strange shimmer emanating from the dark deep waters, particularly resonant adjacent to the shore of the island in the near distance.    

His thoughts twisted to the recent strange events whilst he was fishing on the lake and a strong feeling of terror spread through the soft grey matter residing in his cracked cranium as he thought of his daughter venturing out on to the watery expanse before him.

He grabbed an old pair of binoculars laying on the bed side table and was soon grimacing as he stared at the island. As if he knew what to expect, he noticed movement amongst the bushes surrounding the bank, although he was unable to make out the nature of the things moving, he was sure that they were malevolent, and a cold sweat run down the nape of his neck accompanied by a sickly dribble slipping from the corner of his dry and chapped mouth.

McKenna placed the binoculars on the coffee table and wiped the sweat from his neck. His concentration was immediately broken by a large thud on his door as his daughter and friends gathered outside his house.

The old man slowly moved to the door and after with drawing the bolt and slipping the catch, gentle pulled the wooden door open, enabling the youthful ensemble to enter his home. 

His athletic daughter Meg, hugged her father and placed a kiss upon his puffy red cheeks. Her friends shook hands with the slightly embarrassed old timer, as he gestured for them to be seated.

The tall and muscular boyfriend started to ask the usual inane questions when facing an uncomfortable situation, and blabbered on about the journey to the hamlet and how he was looking forward to getting to grips with the local pike and bass.

At this suggestion McKenna stood up abruptly and shakily pushed out his weak arm to grasp the hand of his daughter’s suitor.

Grabbing his large hand McKenna gripped it with all his strength as he forcefully retorted that they were not to venture on to the lake at any cost. Quickly gesticulating towards the lake and screeching that the lake was alive and that it wished to consume those who were foolish enough to break its dark mesmerising waters.

Meg stared at her father in disbelief, as she remembered the many happy days spent during her youth fishing and generally messing about in a boat, on the familiar waters of the lake. She placed her arms around her father shoulders and asked why he was so upset by their plans to relax on the lake.

He raised his head so that his eyes were level with her heavily made up own, and whilst staring wildly in to her eyes, shouted that things had changed and that the devil himself now resided either in or under the waters.

The assembled youths looked in to each others eyes and secretly gestured that the old boy was either loosing his marbles or intoxicated.      

Just as the atmosphere in the room was becoming unbearable a thump and crash from the direction of the hallway indicated that Bill Fletcher was at the door.

Bill was also worried about McKenna, and was also puzzled by the recent events that the two old friends had encountered over the last few days. Meg hastened to the door letting Bill in to the house, hoping that his entrance would clear the unsettling atmosphere and allow everyone to relax.    

Bill entered the room and pulled McKenna to one side.  

Asking what the young interlopers were doing in his house, Bill soon indicated that they needed to leave the premises and talk privately. Shrugging his shoulders McKenna pulled an old jacket from behind the door and gestured to leave. Saying his goodbyes to his daughter and her friends he again stressed that the lake was off bounds and they were not to venture near its waters.  

The old timers were soon in deep discussion as they ambled along the lake side path. After half a mile, they came to an abrupt halt as they faced each other whilst engaged in a heated argument. Within seconds they were wrestling on the ground and minutes later were both waist deep in the waters of the lake. As they struggled to disadvantage each other in their struggle for supremacy, neither noticed the  strange contours and patterns forming on the waters surface.

As Mckenna pushed his fingers in to the eyes of his erstwhile friend , he felt a hand grab his left leg for an ever so brief moment, and then felt a strong sensation that his right leg was being entwined by a strong but flexible agent. He pulled his fingers from Bill's blooded eyes and pushed his arms and hands beneath the water, towards whatever was encroaching on his personal space.

Bill pulled his head back and whilst screaming obscenities at McKenna noticed that the waters about them were in turmoil. He sniffed the air and noticed a familiar but strange odour that immediately reminded him of the old warehouse where McKenna was the caretaker.


Whilst the old men were tumbling about the waters of the lake, Meg and here friends were pushing of from the landing stage adjacent to McKenna's premises, with their moderately sized boat loaded with a full array of fishing and camping gear. Crates of bottled beer and an assortment of cold snacks and easy to cook ready meals were also stored aboard. 

Meg turned to her boyfriend Mike, and asked if they were doing the right thing. Mike quickly replied that her father was unhinged and that the sooner they crossed the lake and disembarked at the island, the sooner they would begin to enjoy themselves.  

McKenna, who had ceased his struggle with Bill, was also noticing the strong aroma and whilst reaching down to establish whether his legs were free from any encumbrance, stumbled over to become completely immersed in the lakes cobalt waters. Just before his head sank below the surface of the cold lake, his tired, bloodshot and streaming eyes noticed three quick flashes of light emanating from the banks of the distant island.

He also had the sensation of movement along the banks of the island in the split seconds between the flashes, and his thoughts immediately turned to the occasion earlier in the summer, when he knew something moved by the warehouse, but was unable to actually see or detect an object.

 However, then, as now, the sensation that there was something palpable and malevolent was so strong that  his backbone shook with an ice cold chill as he sank below the waters. 

As McKenna sank below the waters, Meg and her companions disembarked from their small vessel and laboriously transferred their camping gear and fishing tackle to a base camp that had quickly been established ashore.

Meg’s fiancé, John, had quickly established leadership of the small group and was enthusiastically supervising the erection of the tents and pointing to where various seats and bundles of goods were to be positioned. Their progress was suddenly interrupted by a loud thud as a medium sized rock fell to the ground amongst them.  There was no high ground next to them and the only origination could have been from someone throwing the projectile towards them in a deliberate manner.

Meg stared at John and motioned to the others to keep quiet and remain motionless. After a couple of seconds John moved towards the rock and picked it up to examine it. It was approximately the size of a bowling ball, and appeared to have been fashioned from quartz, or feldspar. It was obvious that this was a manufactured entity, and that it must have been heaved at them by a very powerful entity due to its weight, and the velocity that it had been hurled towards them.

Meg’s thoughts quickly turned to the warning that her father had given her and began to wish that she had heeded his insistence that they stay away from the lake and Island.

Indian Eyelet had always been mysterious to Meg, and she remembered many occasions in her childhood when she thought that something or someone was trying to catch her attention as she played alone on the lake shore.

Meanwhile back in the cold waters of the lake, Bill dived below the surface in search of McKenna. Bill soon noticed an increased vigour as he swept his way towards the string of small bubbles hopefully emanating from McKenna’s desperate struggles as he was dragged in to the depths of the lake. As Bills decent quickened due to his increased strength, he noticed that a series of light sources that appeared to flicker in a deliberate order, not unlike landing lights at an airport or airstrip.

 Bill followed the ever increasing lights, there intensity increasing as he moved closure to their source, and was soon at the base of a steep underwater cliff. His hands searched the vertical wall for a clue as to where McKenna may have gone, and was relieved to notice a series of indentations that enabled him to pull his now increasingly powerful body through a previously unseen gap in the rock face.

On the surface, the waters were now perfectly still and a crescent moon was glowing in the cloud free evening sky as the remaining daylight quickly faded. Meg and her companions had decided that the “rock incident” was a one off, and had continued to make their base camp in preparation for a nights drinking and fishing. After cracking open a few tins of beer, John needed to take a leak and marched away from the lake shore so that he could urinate in peace. Having wandered what he considered a safe distance from the encampment, he stood readying himself facing a clump of old brushwood and Pine trees.

As he pulled down his zipper, momentarily putting himself in a vulnerable position, a pair of giant ape like hairy hands emerged from the undergrowth and yanked him in to the undergrowth.  Without a sound John had vanished and as his prone body was being carried towards a hidden cave entrance, Meg and the others giggled to themselves as they sipped wine and beer around the crackling and snapping fire at their lakeside encampment.

Bill Fletcher was now pulling his old body from the cold waters concealed within a deep rock chamber that he had entered through the secrete entrance in the underwater rock face. He quickly noticed a figure sitting huddled against the caves wall, and on investigation was pleased to see that it was McKenna. McKenna was looking very pale and week, and unlike Bill, did not seem to receive a burst of energy when immersed in the cobalt waters of the lake.   McKenna tried to speak, but a bloated tongue prevented any speech from exuding from his feeble mouth. His split lips were purple and his eyes bloodshot and dilated.

On the Island, John was now semi conscious and was aware that he was being manipulated by a number of huge Neanderthal like figures clothed in monastic habits and chanting in an incomprehensible dialogue of old Latin, tainted with Celtic and Anglo Saxon undertones.  He was also only too aware that he was completely naked and being violated by a markedly smaller, and possibly effeminate entity who was milking his member for semen and its inherent DNA.    

DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN BID TO BUY ROYAL MAIL

DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN BID TO BUY ROYAL MAIL

In an outrageous attempt to improve the societies revenue's, acting Chairman and President, Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff, has sanctioned the purchase of the "Royal Mail" from the Government and Crown.

At a full meeting of the "Imbibing, Procrastinating and Take-Over" subcommittee, the members of the Duck Flat Cap Society voted in favour of the acting chairman's proposition, that had been seconded by northern rabble-rouser and agitator "Dave the Teach".

Driver Chard insists that the societies nationwide network of members totalling some 200 , will be sufficient to carry out the service that currently employs approximately 176,000 workers.

Driver Chard stated that the bulk of the technical operations can be overseen by "Meerkat Malc" due to his expertise on operating the latest  smart phones, and his current unemployed status.


He will be assisted by Driver Chard who has himself become prolific in the use of technology since his adoption of an I Pad.
Ex karaoke and pub singer  "Ray the Dust" will be in charge of transport and delivery, and will be assisted by his diminutive part time refuge collection colleague "Pepe le Puke".

These arrangements are on the proviso that  that they both loose at least four stone in weight, so that their waist measurement is reduced to a minimum 38 inches, so as to accommodate the reduced size of the mail vans cabs. Their humungous waist and lard arsed behinds being used to the corporation Dust Carts that they occasionally operate.

 There is some concern within the governing body of the society that this last requirement will be unachievable, and to this extent, the diminutive and waif like "Little legs Parks", has been put on stand by to head up this operation, if the aged and  behemoth duo are unable to shed the required pounds and inches.

Post Offices and cash handling are to be placed under the control of "Green keeper Bazzer", who will be assisted in this function by "Dave Duck", who will also be in charge of redesigning the nations post offices so that they include bar facilities, bar tables , bar stools, beer mats and sports TV as a minimum requirement.

A garden with seating for a minimum 100 customers will also be a requirement , but will not be invoked for the first year of ownership.

Garden umbrellas will be an optional extra , to be considered during wet weather or a heatwave. Pool, billiard and snooker tables will added in due course.


The provision of toilets will be optional, although colostomy bag wearers and those with colitis and similar ailments will not be allowed on the premises, with the exception of  committee member"Meerkat Malc".



Finally, the Post Master will be renamed "Guvnor or Landlord" with immediate effect.



Northern radical "Dave the Teach, will be put in charge of re-educating the Post Offices remaining staff after the proposed take over, and will establish a school of Postal Excellence and etiquette in an outbuilding of the Duck In the Pond.


So as to assist the new Post office in its daily operations after the acquisition by the Duck Flat Cap Society, delivery times will be extended to 10 days and the cost of an individual first and second class stamp will be increased to a minimum £3.50, and  index linked to the cost of a pint of premium lager.


When questioned by the "Ideas and Bullshit" subcommittee,  that the operation is bound to fail and that with only  200 staff  the operation is doomed to failure, Driver Chard stated that if the societies members were unable to provide the required service, they would subcontract the workload to the "Royal Mail"!.

 When advised that the Royal Mail would not exist after the acquisition of the business by the Duck Flat Cap Society, Driver chard went purple with rage , removing his clothing to reveal his Fulham F.C away kit, a 1952 rattle and program, and whilst foaming at the mouth, requested three pints of best bitter, pork scratchings and a scotch egg. 

After "Basher Hurley", ex military hard man and sexologist, and acting D.F.C.S medic, administered mouth to mouth resuscitation together with Heinrich manoeuvre, the Charmain was sedated with a brandy and placed in his usual chair at the societies top table.

A further debate regarding the proposed purchase of the Royal Mail is tabled for 17th July 2020, and further details will be delivered by first class post in due course. 

MAJOR THURLBY AND WEMBLEY AT WAR - THE COLLECTIVE WORKS

MAJOR THURLBY AND WEMBLEY AT WAR - THE COLLECTIVE WORKS


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 metroland.

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 park land 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 marvellous pavilions and and building mimicking the architectual style from across the 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.


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 heads 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 off 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.

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 street to wards 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 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 and the Mitre.  

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

The close friendship enabled The Major to make detailed notes of the operation of the Police Station, 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.

  

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 Woodys 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 milk suppliers and purveyor of dairy products, Express Dairies, and an early Mayor of Wembley.

The property was built in the grounds of the far more historic Crabs House which was 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 road to Sudbury, and still retained a number of the sweeping green acres that had previously surrounded this stately home.

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

The house had however, recently been under the control of the local urban district council, and had become somewhat dilapidated, although was still inhabitable.

Major Thurlby turned in to 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 next to 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 stairs and preceded to climb them two stairs at a time.  On reaching the first floor he entered the first 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 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 fist 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 which he strode through with a swish of his trailing coat and 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 at them with his red rimmed cold old eyes, now filled with tears. 

He spread the photographs across his legs and let out a small laugh as he picked up the picture of himself and a young Hitler youth  boy scout, stark naked and in a compromising position, in front of a roaring fire roasting their nuts and sausages.

 Next t 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 crisp note, crumpled it in his soft pink hands and threw it in the dying embers of the open hearth. The bureau together with its open box of tricks sitting upon its unpolished surface,and the tearful Von Chardz throwing a shallow shadow across the silent room.

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, so as 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 AND THE RED FACED DOCTOR

Doctor Doyle sat at the bar on his usual stool, a stool that had been specially strengthened to take his enormous weight, and shortened by four inches, so that his miniature legs could reach the floor.

He was seated at the end of the snug bar, with his broad back positioned so that he filled the right angle between the bar and wall. He slowly lifted his balding head and visually scanned the bar. His eyes darted about the smoke filled room searching out his prey.

At first he missed the grey mackintosh clothed Major seated in the window bay, but quickly recognised his nemeses after a further review of those present. Major Thurlby was clutching a pint of best bitter and smoking a non filtered cigarette with his hat sat upon his head at a jaunty angle.

Dr Doyle turned his head as a dart thumped in to the cork dart board but quickly turned back to the Major.

 Major Thurlby reached in to his coat pocket and retrieved a small red coloured notebook and proceeded to read the contents.

 Dr Doyle could see from his seated position that the script was written in a foreign language, and quickly deduced that it was German. This was seemingly confirmed by his realisation that the cover of the notebook was adorned with a stylised Prussian Eagle.  

The overweight Doctor turned towards his pint and slowly drained the glass. A set of wire rimmed spectacles adorned his bulbous and ruddy nose, and were attached to a chain that circumnavigated his elephantine neck.  His pudgy middle finger pushed the spectacles back of the tip of his nose and beckoned to the barman to pour him a further pint of ale.

With his fresh pint of best bitter in his hand, the grotesquely obese Doctor Doyle slid of his seat and motioned towards the Major who was still seated with his comical hat set upon his head reading his notebook. The Doctor coughed as he approached the Major and was quickly acknowledged with an outstretched hand.

Their hands met for the briefest of moment in a sweaty embrace as the corpulent Doctor sat down next to the Major.  “Your business Sir?” retorted Major Thurlby as he scanned the red faced Doctor seated beside him. “You know what I want….” was his quite but forceful retort. “Give me the note book now, and all will be ok – do you fully understand me?”

Major Thurlby sat back in his seat and stared at the overheated Doctor. “Ahh….. I see you are Doctor Doyle then”

 “I expected a fitter and younger man, but if it is you, let us do business”.

“The Book, let me see it” demanded the Doctor, as he held out his hand motioning towards the red notebook in the Majors left hand.

Major Thurlby tossed the small book across the table to the gasping outstretched hands of the Doctor, who swiftly opened the cover and began to read the pages.

He initially struggled to read the text, but soon became accustomed top the Germanic script scrawled upon the lined pages. It soon became apparent that the vast majority of the script described the addresses of various properties within a couple of miles radius from Wembley. The addresses were divided in to localised groups of four and were a mixture of commercial and residential properties.

Major Thurlby lifted his glass and drained the container with a flourish, indicating to the Doctor that a refill was required.

The ruddy faced Doctor shouted across to the bartender and asked for two more of the same. This was met with a hiss and snarl by the elderly gentleman behind the bar and a shrug of his crumpled shoulders.  However, the pints were pulled and delivered to the table where the notebook was being scrupulously studied by the corpulent Doctor Doyle.

Thurlby threw his shoulders back and asked Doyle why he wished to help the Reich, and how long he had detested the British. The Majors handlers in Berlin had only briefly appraised Major Thurlby of the background and nature of his treacherous contact, and his thirst for further details was getting the better of him.

Dr Doyle put down the scarlet notebook and stuffed his left hand in to his jacket pocket and removed a three inch piece of shrapnel. “This is the reason” he exclaimed, throwing the ragged metal on to the table. “This was removed from my knee in Dublin” he continued to shout at the Germanic interloper.

He went on to explain that his family was from Dublin, Ireland, and that the British “Black and Tan” had killed various friends and members of his family during the Easter uprising. During and after this event, Doctor Doyle had fought for the Free Irish and was present when a large bomb exploded near the General Post Office in Dublin, and that the shrapnel in his knee was a direct result of that blast.

“That’s why I hate those bastards” he relied with his eyes full of tears and his purple face almost exploding with rage.

He settled back and took a long gulp from his glass and placed his hands behind his neck as he surveyed the pub looking to see if his outburst had been witnessed by fellow imbibers. He quickly satisfied himself that all was ok, as the only other person currently within earshot was mad Pa Bumfold, who was as drunk as a bohemian parrot and would not remember being in the pub, let alone what the Doctor had retorted.

The Doctor rose to his feet and placed the notebook in his pocket and moved slowly back to the Bar.

The Major followed him and enquired as to his payment for the information that he had bestowed upon the Doctor. The Doctor laughed and poked his finger towards the Major. “You” he whispered, “first tell me who or what enabled you to establish such a detailed list of properties”.

The Major stepped back a pace, and explained that the night sergeant at Wembley Police station was a  third generation expatriate from Heidelberg, and had been supplying the Major with useful information, including details for the successful recent bombing of the Stonebridge Power station. 

With this a bundle of white five pound notes were exchanged and the Major swiftly left the premises, hurriedly walking back towards Sudbury and the harrow road.

The Doctor waited until he was a hundred yards down the road and motioned to the barman to pass him the phone. He picked up the hand set and asked the operator for Acorn 4444 and waited for the rhythmic hum of the ringing tone after the operator had made the connection.

The phone rang for three rings and was answered by a deep voiced man who enquired “is it done”. The Doctor quickly intimated the affirmative and retorted in a whisper “we have him Sir, we have finally got the German bastard” and gently replaced the receiver with a huge red smile about his round face.

He pulled out the Red Book from his pocked and scribbled some notes in the margins and proceeded to leave the Mitre, glancing behind to wish the barman well, before striding out in to the dark cool air and turning right towards the “Carlton Lodge” and further mystery.  

 

“PEPE LE PUKE” AND “MICKY GOOD BOY INCE” IN ASYLUM FARCE

“PEPE LE PUKE” AND “MICKY GOOD BOY INCE” IN ASYLUM FARCE

Peripheral members of the Duck Flat Cap Society, Pepe Le Puke and Micky Good Boy Ince, have astounded members of the “Sanctuary, Asylum and Procrastination” sub committee by requesting sanctuary within the debating rooms of the society.

Their request is believed to be in response to threatened legal action instigated by the management of a Benidorm Hotel recently frequented by the dynamic duo whilst on a recent fact finding trip for the society.

It is alleged that Pepe Le Puke attempted to visually molest a chambermaid whilst he lay naked on his bed reading a copy of “Refuge and Dustcart Weekly”. This action was facilitated by Good Boy Ince attempting to photograph the incident with his mobile phone. The photo was not taken due to Good Boy Ince having to adjust the manual zoom to view Pepe Le Pukes equipment, thus allowing the startled chambermaid to make good here exit from the festering den of iniquity.

Pepe Le Pukes original defence that he had hung a "Do not disturb" notice about his appendage has been dismissed by all parties as it is acknowledged that he has insufficient length for the notice to be securely secured to his manhood.

Further action was not taken at the time, due to the chambermaid breaking in to a fit of giggles when remembering Pepe Le Pukes shriveled appendage.

However, days later under hypnosis and electromagnetic cranial therapy, she declared her wish for the local police to press multiple charges of harassment, exhibitionism, nudity with intent to defraud, fraudulent indecency and visual molestation, against the overweight "fun boy two".

Acting chairman and president of the Duck Flat Cap Society, Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff has declared his distaste of the sordid and comical claims made against the corpulent duo, and as with other recent miscreants, has suspended their membership until their innocence can be proven or Asylum granted.

A hearing before the “Sanctuary, Asylum and Procrastination” sub committee has been arranged for 21.00 hours on Friday 5^th July and failed karaoke singer and part time refuse collector “Ray the Dust” has agreed to legally represent the duo at the hearing.

 Ray the Dust will be assisted by “Dave the Teach” and Little Legs Parks at the proceedings, who will stand in for the Dust when his endemic narcolepsy sets in and he falls asleep whilst debating the “fun boy two’s” innocence.

 

“Dave Duck” and “Games keeper Barry” will be acting on behalf of the prosecution, pressing to annul any asylum request, having allegedly received a wedge of euros from an associate of Benidorm’s notorious “Sticky Vicky”, who allegedly has a long running feud with the defence councils “Ray the Dust”. 

Driver Chard has retained the services of solicitors “Barron, Bullard and Brown” and Barristers “Loaf, Buff and Yard” in case the council for the defence, led by Ray the Dust, is unsuccessful and the asylum request goes to the court of appeal.   

Further details of the asylum request will be detailed in due course.