Broken Case Extension

Both Tristan Sender and Lindsay Ratcliffe have, due to extenuating circumstances, officially granted each other and anyone else out there an extension of one week on this story. We have only just posted our Anniversary story anyway, so that should keep any avid readers who might be out there busy.
The broken case will now be due on Monday 7th of December.
We may also if we are lucky have a couple of extra entrants who have expressed an interest in participating.

Anniversary (Lindsay Ratcliffe)

Moving On

by

Lindsay Ratcliffe

It was Halloween 2009. I was newly single and ready to party dressed as a dark angel in a short black dress, stockings, boots, short black wig, Venetian mask and beautiful black feather wings that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Mardi Gras. I almost didn’t go to the party on account that my ex, Tristan, would be there, but I thought it would be a shame not to go having got the costume together. Plus, I looked damn hot in that outfit, even if I do say so, and there’s no better time to face an ex than when you’re feeling good?

I was on my third or fourth glass of punch, by the time Tristan made an appearance. He came as a scary clown wearing an op’ shop suit and a beautifully morbid, latex half-face mask. We both socialised in opposite ways around the party, avoiding each other for long enough to look like neither of us gave a damn anymore. Then at the inevitable meeting we couldn’t help but flirt with each other.

We were still chatting when the silly party games started. The laughter was raucous and the music got so loud it was hard to hear. I can’t remember which one of us suggested it but Tristan and I left the party and went for a walk.

There was a great vibe on the streets in Coogee. The backpackers were out in full force and there was hardly a reveller without glow-in-the-dark horns, a trident or a scary mask. We headed to the Coogee Bay Hotel, however the entry queue snaked to the end of the street, so we jumped in a cab hoping that it was too early in the season for the backpackers to have discovered the Clovelly Hotel yet.

We were singing, laughing and being annoying like only drunk people can when Tristan suddenly changed his mind about going to the ‘Cloey’.

“I’ve got a better idea! Let’s do something a bit more fitting for Halloween!”

I’d no idea what I was getting myself into but being too merry to care shrugged and agreed.

“Turn left here!”

Tristan directed the cab driver and I wasn’t as familiar with the area I was somewhat confused when he asked the driver to drop us on a quiet residential street.

“What are we doing?”

He opened up his over-sized suit jacket and extracted a bottle of vodka that he’d procured from the party.

“Where’s the perfect place to party on Halloween?”

I looked around and saw we were at the edge of Waverley cemetery.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I was both horrified and excited at the same time, yet I still beat him scaling the wall.

We acted like idiots, hiding behind gravestones then jumping out, scaring the living daylights out of one another. Exhausted and a bit too drunk we sat on the edge of a large memorial looking out at the dark sea, swigging from the bottle.

“I can’t think of a better place that I would rather spend eternity! I love it up here looking out over the ocean!”

He passed me the bottle but didn’t let go when I put my hand to it. He raised the bottle to my lips. I took a swig but I felt his intention change and an uncomfortable feeling crept over me. Suddenly I didn’t want to be alone with Tristan.

“I think I’ve had enough.” I said pulling my arms and legs close into my body.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, just getting a bit cold.”

He removed his jacket and put it over my shoulders.

“Thanks.” I pulled the jacket lapels together to make my chill seem genuine.  “I think we should head back. They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Since when did you care? Not feeling scared are you?”

I shrugged and started to walk away but he pulled me back and lunged in for a clumsy kiss. I pushed him away.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I thought…”

“What part of ‘this is over’ don’t you get?”

“The part where you continue to flirt with me and lead me on!”

I know he was right, but it was not what I wanted. The fight didn’t last long as I said some pretty harsh things and he walked off cursing me. I didn’t much relish being left alone in a cemetery in this silly outfit, but somehow it was better than what might have happened had I not stopped him.

The sea winds lashed around me again and almost took my wig. The jacket flapped around my sides and I genuinely started to feel cold, so I slipped my arms into the jacket properly and thrust my hands into the pockets. The fingers of my right hand wrapped around a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out of the pocket and saw it was an envelope. I presumed it was something of Tristan’s, but I didn’t know any ‘Mrs E Campbell’ nor did I recognise the handwriting so I figured it was something left there by the previous owner. I shuddered but fingered the envelope anyway, considering opening it. The wind whipped up again and the envelope was almost whisked out of my hands. It was enough of a reminder to know that I should be leaving. It wasn’t the auspicious night; just reasoning that being a lone female in a cemetery after dark was probably not a great idea.

I looked around, not sure which was the best way out. I became very aware of the dark. There was no street lighting nearby and thick clouds were suffocating any light that the moon might have offered. Panic rose in my chest as all I could see in any direction, which wasn’t very far in the dark, was gravestones, tombs and a headless silhouette of a stone angel. Then I remembered my iPhone. I turned until the sea-wind was blowing into my face so I knew I was facing East, then used the Map and Locate Me function to work out the quickest way out.

The wind whistling through the lines of graves unnerved me. Using my iPhone for illumination I headed south in the direction of the nearest perimeter wall. The wind changed direction and walking headlong into it was hard going. My stomach tightened, as I saw that the nearby trees were not being menaced by the wind in the same way that I was. I tried to calm and centre myself. Not an easy thing to do given the circumstances. Then I felt something brush my cheek and the shriek that tried to escape was strangled by the wind in my throat.

“Leave me alone!” I was almost in tears. I just wanted to go home.

Then I heard a whisper, which was both inside and outside my head at the same time.

“My letter…”

“Tristan I’ll freakin kill you, if I find out that’s you!”

I somehow knew it wasn’t Tristan but I felt better blaming him. I shook my head, seriously regretting having drank so much. Then the noise came at me again, only this time it was stronger and seemed to assault me from all directions at once. Instead of feeling scared, I felt strangely empowered. I figured the problem was not me, but the letter, which in my inebriated mind at that moment, gave me something to bargain with. I held the letter as if I intended to tear it in half.

“Leave me alone or I’ll do it!”

I heard what sounded like a sharp intake of breath and then a localised moan.

“Twelve years! Twelve years I’ve waited!”

In the space two metres in front of me stood a crying man. He was in essence a man but without any mass. I can’t explain how I knew that, except there was no physical energy with his presence. I didn’t feel afraid anymore, just wary.

“Is this yours?” I waved the letter at him.

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it in this old jacket.”

“So! My wife decided to get rid of the last reminders of me?”

“Is this letter to your wife?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ha! It is if you want me to post it!”

He looked right through me and seemed to tug at my soul. I experienced a kind of pain but not one that I could identify within my physical body. Then I felt a wave of sadness and regret surge through me and the man looked away.

“The letter is to Enid, she was my first love.”

“That’s all very nice but I’m cold, starting with an early hangover and stuck in a cemetery on Halloween in an op’ shop jacket. So not wanting to sound funny or anything, but so what?”

“I wrote that letter to Enid when I knew I didn’t have long left. But I died before I could post it. I hoped you could deliver it?”

He came a little closer but I held out my hand to deter him.

“What about your wife? Does she know about Enid?”

“I wasn’t having an affair!”

“Your wife might see things differently! Did you love her?”

“I was married to her for thirty-seven years!”

“Yes, but did you love her?”

“Yes of course, but she didn’t love me, not in the same way as Enid. Enid adored me. She would do anything for me. She was my first love. You never forget that!”

“So your wife doesn’t give you enough attention and now your planning on spending your eternity hankering after some teenage crush?

“It’s not like that!”

“I won’t post it. I don’t think its fair. How would you feel if you discovered your wife pined for someone else for your whole marriage? Even if I did post it what good can it do?”

He wringed his hands together and pleaded,

“I’ve been waiting twelve years for this! It’s meant to be! Otherwise that letter would never have survived. You have to take it to Enid!”

“Nah I disagree! I think this letter was meant to find it’s way back to you to stop you being an idiot for the rest of eternity. You need to move on!”

“Please! You must!”

“How’s Enid going to feel? What if this letter stirs it all up for her again and then she discovers you’re dead? It’s so selfish!”

“It’s just such a waste to have all these feelings and not to share them.”

“How would your have wife felt if she found the letter?”

He hung his head.

“So she did love you?”

I let him talk. It was clear that he was lonely, but I felt that he’d created his own prison, in both life and beyond because of his misplaced affections and romantic ideals.

“Did you ever think that maybe your wife loved you just as much as Enid, maybe even more, she just showed it in a different way?”

He began to describe his wife and some of the nice things she used to do for him. The more he talked about his wife the less I could hear him and the less I could see him until he wasn’t there anymore.

The wind rushed around me, encircled me, whipping my legs and the jacket against my body, the wings on my back threatening to break. I opened my fingers and let the letter go to the elements. It spiralled upwards in its own private vortex then flipped and flapped, like a fish out of water, as the wind carried it away. It didn’t travel too far before the wind vanished and the envelope dropped, as heavy as a stone, just slightly off the path. There were no other sounds or sensations; the air was now still. The envelope rested on a grave. A bouquet of fresh flowers rested against a headstone.

Michael Mullen

much loved husband

Died 31 October 1997 aged 63   

Anniversary (Tristan Sender)

Anniversary Present

By

Tristan Sender

The crunch of gravel underfoot on the driveway announced James’s approach to the party. It was a year to the day that he had last been here for the wedding of his first cousin Jane to Sir John Goodham. One-year anniversary parties were a tiresome tradition in his and other upper middle class families.

James had never understood the need for such an event, surely five or ten years would be an appropriate milestone; but who was he to complain, free booze, and fine dining awaited him in the white marquee on the other side of the Cotswold stone mansion he had arrived at.

The thing was, James had slightly more reason to approach this social event with trepidation and he felt a lump in his throat as he knocked on the oak door. It opened and the butler on hire for the day ushered him through the hallway out to the picture perfect scene at the back of the house. James hesitated on the terrace, enjoying the English summers day. He inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass and listened to the chatter of happy birds. His moment didn’t last. 

“James what are you doing loitering up here?” inquired his Aunt Elizabeth, host and mother of the bride. 

“Hello Aunty, I was just admiring your garden.”

“Thankyou, it’s nice to see you, but I must say I’m disappointed to see you decided not to bring a companion.” she lied.

“Well you know…”

“Don’t you think its time you settled down; it’s done wonders for Jane.” 

“Well I am sure I will when the right girl comes along.”

“Wives don’t just appear, you have to pursue them. Look, I think I might have found the perfect girl for you. Anne, she’s a bit younger, very attractive and from a delightful family. Anyway, can’t stop I have to check on the canapés; I’ll introduce you later. Enjoy the party.” She turned to pursue her mission inside.

James hated forced introductions and the behind the scenes meddling in his love life that was endemic in his family. He welcomed the opportunity to escape and descended into the garden to find a drink.

The party was in full flow and waiters dressed in dinner suits carried chilled champagne, whilst sweltering in the afternoon sun. James grabbed his first glass and drank it down quenching his nervous thirst. There was only a brief interlude before he was reaching for another only, to be interrupted by the booming voice of his cousin and brother of the bride, Rupert Van De Berg.  

“Well! Well! The weasel returns to the crime scene. Didn’t think you’d have the stomach to show up.” 

“Fuck off Rupert! I didn’t have a choice, I would have been disowned if hadn’t.”

“If it had been me…”

“Is she coming?”

“Far worse than that my old friend!”

“What could be worse?”

“Have you looked at the table plan?” Rupert laughed.

James turned heading towards the marquee with Rupert in hot pursuit. He scanned the ornately printed plan for his name. 

“Table two I think.” teased Rupert.

A look at the occupants revealed the awful truth; He was seated at the same table as

Cecilia Hamilton.

“No!”

Rupert laughed, sticking his boot in further,

“It gets worse! She’s sat next to you, and there’s no way of changing the name tags, they’re sown into the table cloths!” 

“Fuck!”

“Well if you will go dipping your todger in to any lassie that takes your fancy, you have to be prepared for the consequences.” Rupert goaded. “Anyway I think it should be great entertainment on an otherwise dull evening!”

“You mean you had something to do with this?”

“What can I say? Your Mother asked if I knew of any suitable ladies coming to the party. I obliged, and she was most grateful.”

“You utter wanker!” James shouted storming off.  

Cecilia was a nice lady with good manners and a respectable background. She was not unattractive, but James thought that her style was more appropriate for a fifty year old, than a woman in her late twenties. James knew she was not his type, but his taste was flexible depending on how much he had to drink. This had been the case one year ago. 

The wedding like today had been a tedious affair with only a scattering of single women for the men to fight over. Abandoned on his table without a dance partner he had turned his attentions to Cecilia who was in a similar predicament. As they chatted and he drank, the timid girl in front of him became increasingly attractive. Cecilia’s conservative attire left everything to his imagination, and her prim proper tone became seductive and enticing. James longed to find out what she would be like in bed, imagining a wild and passionate woman waiting to be set free. He had decided at that point to do whatever he could to win Cecilia over.  

Surprisingly it hadn’t taken too much, a few glasses of wine, a bit of charm and she revealed the crush she held for him. Their kissing on the dance floor had gained a round of applause and they soon moved their display somewhere more private. The sex in the pool house had been a clumsy drunken event, but not without its charm on what would have been an otherwise uneventful night. He had woken the next morning held tightly in her embrace, and had prised himself free to escape before he was discovered. Rupert, lover of any scandal, was too clever for this and had burst in just as he was putting his underpants back on. 

Rupert and his friends had been quick to publicise the whole affair, and as was so often the case Cecilia bore the brunt of the shame. Branded a desperate slut she disappeared from their social circle, while James enjoyed the strangely appealing title of ‘bastard.’

For weeks after the event he had been bombarded by calls from Cecilia, all of which he had ignored. Her messages had continued, growing in intensity and desperation for nearly a month. Then suddenly without warning they had stopped and he heard no more. 

As James moved from one dull conversation to another his mind was preoccupied with one thing, ‘what was he going to say to Cecilia?’ He decided he would just have to man up, and apologise for being such a rotten cad. Ever the coward he soon changed his mind deciding to leave. He was too late and turning to leave James saw his Aunt and mother making a beeline for him with a young lady in tow.

“There you are James, I’ve been looking all over!” puffed his Aunt. “I want to introduce you to Anne Montgomery.”

“Very pleased to meet you!” said James extending his hand. 

“Likewise.” Anne replied coyly.

James felt butterflies leap in his stomach as he looked into her beautiful blue eyes. 

“Anne has just got back from Nigeria with her family; her father was head of the

British diplomatic service in Lagos.” His mother exclaimed.

 “She hardly knows anyone, so your mother and I thought you would be the perfect person to show her the ropes.” 

“I would be delighted, but think I might rather like to keep her to myself.” James half joked.

“I’m sure I will be just fine, but thanks for thinking of me.” Anne blushed.

The ladies match making was interrupted by the clang of a bell announcing dinner.

“Saved by the bell!” James replied. “I hope we get the chance to chat later.”

“Don’t worry James I have sat you together, now escort the young lady to her seat.”

James had not yet seen Cecilia and her chair was still empty when the hors d'œuvres arrived. Whatever the reason, he was grateful.

James introduced Anne to everyone sat round the table, before greedily dominating her conversation. He discovered they had a mutual love of Africa, and was able to talk in depth about his overland trip from London to Cape Town. By the time the main course arrived James had forgotten all about Cecilia, and was well into his charming stride. He made the first move testing the water by laying his hand on hers. Anne smiled leaving her hand under his, so James leaned forwards and kissed her on the lips. She moved back withdrawing her hand quickly from his, and slapped him hard round the face.

“How dare you!” she shouted. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” 

Reeling from the sting and embarrassed by the silence that had descended on the table

James whispered “I am sorry I thought...” 

“Maybe you should stay off the booze.” She interrupted before getting up and storming out.

He made to follow, halted only by the clinking of glasses to signal the start of the speeches. They passed in a blur of congratulations and toasts, but just when he thought they were over, he heard Jane call out from the main table “Where is Cecilia?

James she is sat next to you, what have you done with her?” 

“Haven’t seen her all night!” James replied back at the top of his voice so all the guests could hear.

“How strange she is supposed to be doing a toast” Jane said sounding disappointed.

“Cecilia was most insistent, oh well I suppose we shall just have to live without…”

“Wait sorry,” a voice cried from outside. “I apologise I got caught in traffic, but I am here now.” said Cecilia as she stumbled into the marquee carrying a large brown bag.

Cecilia navigated her way round the tables to the microphone. James noticed she looked different, her long brown hair was now short and red and she wore several piercings. 

“Thankyou for your patience I wouldn’t have missed today for the world.” She began.

“Commitment is something that should never be underestimated, and although Jane and her husband have only been married a year I can see the makings of a life long partnership.”

“Hear! Hear!’ agreed her audience. James sweated, praying she wouldn’t take it further.

“I have not been so lucky in love so I understand how precious this is.”  

‘Please please don’t…’ prayed James frozen to his seat, but Cecilia was on a roll.

“In fact today is actually an anniversary for me in many ways. It was a year ago almost to the day that I met the love of my life. Unfortunately things just didn’t work out.” She continued.

James felt all eyes were on him and out of the corner of his eyes he saw Rupert grinning in anticipation of what she was about to reveal. He felt compelled to shout out for her to stop, but knew he had to allow her this moment of revenge. 

“Now enough about me, please be upstanding in a toast to mutual love, may we all find the happiness these two have.” 

Cecilia then walked away from the microphone towards her seat next to James. As she reached him she kissed him gently on the cheek. 

“I can’t stay, but I thought I would thank you for your support this year. Here is a sign of my appreciation” she calmly said handing him the leather bag she was carrying.

Before he could say anything she turned running out into the night.

He wondered what was inside the bag, hoping it wasn’t a boiled rabbit or a horse’s head. James didn’t delay gratification and clicked open the brass latches peering inside. There lying on the bottom was a little baby boy with a note attached to his tiny foot. He read out loud in horror “Hello I am William your son. Today is the anniversary of my conception and my Mummy thinks she has done most of the work for the past year, so now it’s your turn.” 

Anniversary (Gertrude and Alice 2009 Short Story Competition)

Unfortunately neither Lindsay or I won the Gertrude and Alice Short Story Competition. Lindsay is however sure that we come close. I will post the stories now, and hope you enjoy them.

The Broken Case

With our stories on the topic 'Anniversary' entered into the competition on Friday we are ready for a new subject. The story production line is relentless and stops for no man or woman. The subject for this fortnight, kindly supplied by Lindsay, is 'The Broken Case'. The due date is Monday 30th November and the only rule is that your story must be 2000 words or more.
I hope if anyone out there is reading these stories that they are providing you with a source of amusement, and perhaps even inspiration to join in and write a story.
If you do wish to write a story please let me know in the comments field below the latest post. Please include your email address and full name. I will then send you my email so you can forward me your story.
(Please note due to competition rules our 'Anniversary' stories cannot be published on the blog until the 27th of November)

Anniversary (Gertrude and Alice 2009 Short Story Competition)

The short story this fortnight must include the concept 'Anniversary' either literally or metaphorically.

This is also a special story in that we will be entering them into the Gertrude and Alice 2009 short story competition. The story for this competition must be no longer than 2000 words. We also have a little longer than usual as entries must be in by the 13th of November.

The prize is $1000, with 6 consolation prizes of $150.

For full details please go to their website at www.gertrudeandalice.com.au/ and click on notice board.

The next topic will start on Monday 16th November.

Good Luck!

The Poisoned Tree (Tristan Sender)

The Poisoned Tree

by Tristan Sender

The rain fell heavily washing away the earth to reveal a history of secrets.

Trafford felt a rush of tiny tingles passing through his body from his feet to his head. He understood more about himself now than ever before. Today was the first time in years that he had felt at peace with himself.

A month ago he had been sat in the economy class seat of a Cathay Pacific Boeing 747-400 on a journey from his old world to this new one. He had been full of trepidation and anxiety, calmed only by several large gin and tonics. Trafford had never left the United Kingdom; he had never really left England, except for a couple of short canoeing trips across the border into Wales.

Sydney was to be a new start for him, a place where no one knew him, or his past. He could begin again and become the person he wanted to be, and most of all forget who he had become.

Trafford had spent the first two weeks living in a backpacker’s hostel in King Cross. He had hated the lack of privacy and the constant noise of drunken Irish and English voices echoing through the dorm. He had spent most of this time visiting the various suburbs around Sydney in search of a more permanent residence. He had quite a bit of money saved, and intended to live alone for as long as he could afford.

It was sheer luck that he stumbled upon the place that was to become his new abode. Trafford had quickly realised that renting a house through a real estate agent was a competitive business. He could never compete with the barrage of people at every viewing each armed with a resume of top jobs and references to match. He had just been to a particularly busy open house in the once working class turned trendy, now posh, suburb of Balmain, and had decided to give up and find a pub. Trafford had been walking down a leafy street lined with Victorian houses on one side and an elevated view of the harbor and city on the other when he caught a glimpse of a huge old oak tree towering up above one of the slate roofs. He was at once mesmerised by the trees grand stature. Its thick branches swayed slowly in the wind and its dark green leaves seemed to hiss at him as they fluttered in the cool breeze. He must have looked strange standing in the middle of the road staring up over the roof of the old house. So strange the owner soon came out and tried to talk to Trafford.

“Can I help you?” enquired the owner. He was an old man with flashes of grey hair and bronze coloured spectacles.

When Trafford didn’t reply and just continued to stare as if in a dream that could not be broken the old man again inquired in a much louder voice “Are you OK?”

Trafford still continued to stare, not a muscle flinched, not an eyelid blinked.

Julius the owner began to worry and debated whether he should approach this strange looking man in the street, perhaps he had just escaped from a local institute, maybe he should call the police. Before he made up his mind the man in the street closed his eyes and plummeted backwards into the road hitting his head hard on the tarmac. Julius immediately ran to his aid, and as he reached the fallen body, the man opened his eyes and uttered “What happened?” Julius explained how he had been standing in the middle of the road for at least half an hour just staring up over his roof. Trafford remembered and replied “I was admiring your oak tree and then the next thing I knew I was down here.”

“How strange, maybe its dehydration, it can creep up on you and make you do the oddest things. Look why don’t you come inside for a bit and I will make you a nice cup of tea and take a look at that bump on your head.”

Julius brewed a pot of tea and the two men got chatting. Trafford explained he had recently come over from the U.K to start a new life, and that he was out looking for a place to rent. The old man told him how he had also moved over with his wife from the U.K forty years ago. They had lived together all this time in the same house until she died four years ago. He told Trafford about the history of the neighborhood and its rise from a poor working class suburb to its current fashionable status. He talked at length about the colourful local characters that had lived and died on the Balmain peninsula. They got on so well that before they knew it several hours had passed. Eventually Trafford got up to make a move and head back to his soulless noisy dorm room existence. “Thank you so much for your hospitality; I am really sorry for my strange behavior earlier”

“Oh please don’t worry the heat can do strange things when you aren’t used to it.” Julius proclaimed. “Anyway I have really enjoyed your company”

“Me too, you are the first friendly face I have seen in weeks”

“Before you go would you like to take a proper look at the tree you were so fascinated with earlier?”

“I would love too and I promise not to go all strange on you again.”

“It is quite a site! In fact its one of the oldest Trees in the neighborhood; it was here long before this house was built”

Julius gestured Trafford towards the door that led out the back of the house. The garden was small charming and perfectly formed. Julius clearly took great pride in his little oasis. There was an abundance of plant life and smells to match. The sweet odor of jasmine mixed with frangipani hung in the late afternoon air, Trafford breathed it in enjoying the matching visual festival of colour. At the centre was the large oak tree which stretched up far above the houses. Its trunk was thick and dark, the bark had deep thick gorges that flowed up into the green foliage. Trafford placed his hand on the cool wood and ran his palms over its calluses. As he began to hug the thick trunk a flock of red, green and blue parakeets descended onto the branches above chatting loudly to each other. He looked up to see the birds perched on the end of every branch like a colorful blossom. The sound of their chatting became louder and louder and Trafford began to feel dizzy. He felt almost intoxicated by the colour, noise and strong sickly scent of blooming flowers. As he continued to gaze up, the tree began to spin, faster and faster, the colour of the birds, leaves and tree blended into a circular rainbow. He could just hear Julius shouting in the background but he couldn’t make out what he was saying, and his voice soon faded to nothing.

Trafford awoke with a jolt; he was lying in bed covered tightly by a perfectly folded sheet and woolen blanket. It brought back memories of nights spent at his grandparents, long since passed. He unfastened himself from the well tucked bedding and got out of bed. He opened the blinds to reveal a perfect view of the harbor and city. He was still in Julius’s house; he must have passed out and been put to bed. He felt embarrassed and was dreading having to confront his host. His clothes had been folded and placed carefully on a chair at the end of the bed. He dressed quickly, opened the bedroom door and headed downstairs to face the music.

The narrow stairs creaked under his weight as he sheepishly descended into the living area. The small cluttered room was empty and cold, he moved through to the front room which was equally devoid of his host. Lastly he checked the kitchen to find under a set of keys a piece of paper with his name on it. The handwriting looked somehow familiar as he read the note aloud.

Dear Trafford,

I hope you slept comfortably. I enjoyed your company and conversation yesterday. I have unfortunately been called away on some errands but should be back shortly. Please make yourself at home, and feel free to stay here with me as long as you like. I have left you a set of keys so that you may come and go as you please.

Best wishes,

Julius

Trafford was relieved to hear there was no mention of any strange behavior, and pleased that he had found somewhere different from the backpackers to stay. He made himself some tea and toast before heading back to Kings Cross to collect his gear and settle his bill.

He returned several hours and a few beers later to an empty house. Julius had not come home, so he had the whole place to himself. With a bit of rummaging he managed to rustle himself up a tuna sandwich and a glass of sweet sherry, which he carried up to the first floor balcony so he could enjoy the sunset views.

He had barely finished his sandwich before he descended into a deep sleep. Some hours later he awoke in bed choking for air, he was being strangled. He fought for his life tearing at the thick limbs that encircled his neck. He soon realised that it was not arms but branches of a tree that he was fighting. The oak tree was trying to kill him. He did not have time to reason why or how, it would only be a few moments before he passed out. He flayed his arms out to the side of him in search of a weapon, anything he could hit back with. His right arm brushed against the metal base of the deco lamp on the table to the side. He summoned all the energy he had left in his weakening body, grabbed hold of the lamp and brought it crashing down on the attacking branches. The lamp smashed sending tiny shards of green glass across his body. The tree hissed and released its grip for a second. He span and shook managing to release himself from its deathly grip. Leaping from the bed he shot out the door down the stairs, through the lounge and dining area into the quiet night. He ran naked, except for his white underpants, down the middle of the street, until eventually he came to a park. There he rested on a on a park bench and took his first real breath. As the oxygen filled his lungs and made its way back to his starved brain he took stock of what had happened and where he was. The park was quiet except for the rustle of branches and whistle of the grass in the wind. He felt cold and his teeth began to chatter. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could make out a white figure lying in grass.

He decided to approach the person and see if maybe they could help him. He couldn’t really go back to the house, and he didn’t want to wander around the streets in nothing but his underpants. This person might be his only way out of the situation he found himself in. As he got closer he could see that in the grass laying face down was a tall woman with long red hair wearing a flowing white cotton dress. He didn’t want to scare her, so he quietly asked “excuse me miss please don’t be alarmed but I really need some help.” The woman didn’t stir or move. He tried again but louder. Still no movement and it dawned on him that maybe the woman was in more trouble than him. He reached down and gently touched her. He could hear strained breathing and a low deep desperate murmur coming from her lungs. He quickly turned her body over and as he did he felt a thick warm sensation; he looked down to see his hands covered in blood. The front of her dress was soaked dark red and her neck was purple and bruised. She looked at him through frightened eyes and began to scream, a piercing terrified call for help.

He awoke again in bed. He was covered in a cold thick sweat and was shivering. It had all been a dream. It was nearly midday when he rose and went downstairs. His first reaction was to head outside to check on the tree just to make sure, but he decided to take a shower and clean up first. He felt much better and made himself a cup of tea before heading outside to the garden. The tree was still standing majestically in its place as if nothing had happened. The only strange thing was a large scattering of green leaves had fallen forming a carpet underneath. He found a broom and swept them up before finishing his tea in the early afternoon sun.

He wondered what had happened to Julius, as he had been gone for some time now. He was relieved on heading inside to find another note fixed under a heavy silver bracelet by the sink. He opened it and read it aloud:

Dear Trafford,

Sorry I missed you but you were fast asleep when I returned home last night and I didn’t have the heart to wake you this morning. Please help yourself to anything you need, and we will talk again when I am back.

Best wishes,

Julius

Trafford felt a warm glow inside. It was so rare to meet someone so nice and welcoming. He decided to head out and do some shopping for the house. He thought when he got back he would make a nice meal to thank Julius for his kindness.

His specialty was roasts; he had learnt his grandmother’s secret recipe for slow roasted pork shoulder in cider and decided this would be a good choice. He spent a good few hours shopping for ingredients in the local stores. He bought a couple of expensive bottles of wine, a red and a white, as he didn’t know what Julius favored, and headed home in anticipation of a nice evening.

It was around five thirty by the time he got the meat on for its three hour stint in the oven. He found some wood in the small outside toilet turned storage room and made about starting a fire in the open Victorian fireplace in the lounge. He cracked open the red poured a glass and sat in the soft armchair to wait for Julius. He must have dozed off for he awoke to the high pitched sound of the fire alarm above his head. He leapt up and ran into the kitchen to reveal the burnt cinders of his dinner in the oven. It was nearly two in the morning and Julius had still not returned, so he cleaned up the mess and headed to bed.

That night he once again dreamed a strange dream. He was back in the park and this time he was dressed but not in his clothes. He was wearing tweed trousers and a matching blazer similar to the ones he had seen in the wardrobe in which he had placed the contents of his backpack the day before. He was sat on the same bench and could make out a figure dressed in black lying face down in the grass. As he approached he could see that she had long dark hair and was wearing a flowing cotton dress. He asked quietly “Are you OK, can I help?” There was no sound. He knelt down and could hear the woman quietly crying into the grass. He touched her and felt the now familiar feeling of warm fresh blood on her body. As he turned her over she cowered hiding her beaten face from his. He stood over her and tried to speak, but she looked at him terrified and screamed a long gurgling cry for help.

He woke up in bed. This time he was not sweating and he knew it had just been a dream. He headed downstairs to see if Julius had returned. There was no one home, he was still alone. As he headed into the kitchen to start his morning tea making ritual he noticed another note held in place by a gold ankle chain. He opened the hand written note and read it aloud.

Dear Trafford

Sorry I missed you again but I didn’t get back until very early this morning. I hope you didn’t go to any effort to make me dinner. I did attempt to wake you before I left but you wouldn’t stir. I will try to come back earlier tonight so we can catch up properly. I feel we have a lot more to discuss. Have a nice day, and please make yourself at home.

Best wishes,

Julius

P.S Please be careful when cooking not to burn the house down

Trafford did wonder what a man nearly in his seventies could be doing out so late every night, but guessed it was none of his business.

He headed into the garden to enjoy his tea in the sun, and everything outside was the same except for another even thicker carpet of leaves below the tree.

Every night that week Trafford would get home make dinner, and every night Julius did not return. The dreams continued. Each was the same except for a few things. The clothes he wore always changed, and the girls were always different. He became more confident within each one and by the end of the week they were becoming quite matter of fact. Everyday he would get up and find a new note from Julius under a different piece of jewelry. He had also become quite worried about the huge Oak tree as it was shedding more and more leaves as each night passed. Even the chatting birds had long since abandoned the great tree for a livelier meeting place.

After nearly two weeks alone Trafford had made the decision to leave the next day. The dreams whilst matter of fact, were bothering him, and they didn’t seem normal. He had thought perhaps a change of scenery might do him some good. That night he packed his bag and prepared to move on. He went to bed around eleven o’clock and lay in bed waiting for another strange dream. It never happened, he slept a long deep dreamless night and awoke surprised, happy and refreshed. He got up and headed downstairs to see what Julius had written today. There was no note so he headed outside to say good buy to the sick tree, only to find there were no more leaves furnishing its thick branches; just a skeleton of dead wood filled the sky above him. It was as if something or someone had slowly poisoned the tree dragging the life from this mighty beast. He cried deeply and genuinely for the loss of this great old man.

Trafford headed inside and got ready to leave. He sat down and scribbled out a note for Julius and then read it out to himself.

Dear Julius,

I have decided to move on up the coast and see a bit of Australia. It is a shame that we have not been able to catch up again, but it has been nice living in your house all the same. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality; staying here has been the real highlight of my trip.

I t am also sorry to inform you that it looks like something or someone has poisoned your oak tree. I do hope this doesn’t sadden you too deeply. I only wish there was something I could have done to save it.

If I am ever in town again I will be sure to drop in and visit.

Forever in your debt,

Trafford

With that he placed the note in the kitchen by the sink under a bottle of champagne he had bought to say thank you, and headed to the front door for the last time. Before he could open it and step outside he heard a loud crash of thunder and the sky lit up with electricity. The black clouds opened up and a heavy downpour began. Trafford wasn’t a very prepared traveler and didn’t have any type of protection against such a rainstorm, so he decided to wait a bit until it stopped.

He sat in the soft chair and waited and waited but the rain never ceased. After a few hours he got bored and decided to open the champagne he had bought as a gift. He thought the old man probably wouldn’t drink it anyway. He poured it into a mug and toasted to new pastures and adventures.

Trafford was woken, mug still in hand by a loud clap of thunder, and realised it was already past midnight. He would have to stay one more night, so he headed up the now well trodden creaky stairs to his soft bed, lay down and was asleep in seconds.

Trafford was pulled suddenly from his deep slumber. The crack of breaking wood and collapsing roof deafened him. Plaster fell off the ceiling above and showered him with bricks as the roof came clean off. The wind tore in and the rain soaked him, as the huge oak tree ripped through the house like it was paper. Its final fall missed him by inches taking the wall away on the opposite side of the room. He jumped up and ran downstairs. The front door was blocked but he managed to climb out the kitchen window into the relative safety of the garden.

The dead tree had been torn clean up by its roots revealing a huge chasm in the earth around it. As he looked into the huge hole he saw something that sent shivers up his spine. Lying there was the bloated muddy disfigured body of a man. He could still make out grey wisps of hair and a pair of bronze spectacles attached to what was once Julius’s face. He screamed in horror but this time he did not wake up. As he looked in at the awful site he noticed Julius was not alone but part of a mangle of rotting dead body parts.

Trafford reeled back in shock and disbelief. He stood transfixed not knowing what to do next. Only the sound of sirens from the emergency services in the distance, and the noise of neighbors getting up broke him from his trance.

He ran and hurled himself over the six foot high fence at the back of the garden, into the muddy ally behind. From here he sprinted into the wet night. He felt he had been running for hours before he came to rest in a park. There in the middle was the bench from his dreams. Trafford sat and rested taking in what he had just witnessed. He looked over towards where he had found the women each night in his sleep and saw nothing. As he approached he noticed the grass was flattened as if someone had recently laid there. He knelt down and felt the compacted green space, it felt familiar and almost comforting. Then his mind flicked back to Julius and the dead people beneath the tree and he began to panic.

How could it be possible, the body he had seen looked as if it had been there for weeks, but Julius had been leaving him notes up until a night ago? He fumbled in his pockets looking for proof and pulled out the wedge of letters that Julius had written to him. They were real, so it couldn’t be true. He read through them one by one, until finally he came to the thank you letter he had written to Julius. He must have put it in his pocket accidently when he opened the champagne. As he read his words he noticed there was something strange about it, something similar to the other letters. Then in a moment of calm realisation it dawned on him, the handwriting on his and Julius’s letters was identical, and it was unmistakably his.