44 Acorn Grove and Other Stories
Steve Howrie
44 Acorn Grove
and other stories
Steve Howrie
44 Acorn Grove and other stories Fiction, Short Stories
Copyright © Steve Howrie 2016
The right of Steve Howrie to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. With the exception of ‘Yesterday’, the characters in these stories are fictional, and any connection with actual people (living or dead), is purely accidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.
Cover design by Steve Howrie.
Contents
Introduction
44 Acorn Grove
Yesterday
Kättja
The Tunnel
The Incomers
The Road to Ruin
Brenda
The University of Roger
Organised Intimidation
Jamie
The Western
Carvolution
Belinda
Other books by Steve Howrie
Introduction
Most of the stories within this collection were written during my time with Bute Writers group, a small writers’ circle based in Rothesay, Scotland. I am indebted to my former colleagues for their feedback, humour and companionship during my time on the beautiful Island of Bute. It was a great privilege to be part of such a lively, creative team, and I would recommend that any aspiring writer join such a group – immediately!
Each of these stories has an unpredictable twist in the tale. Despite the huge popularity of novels today, short stories remain a wonderful way to put across interesting ideas in just a few pages. Indeed, many excellent movies have been based on short stories. I thoroughly enjoyed writing the stories in this anthology, and I hope that you will enjoy reading them. Here’s a line or two about each one.
44 ACORN GROVE. Inspired by one of Ian Rankin’s detective novels, the story includes the writer himself in a cameo role. In fact, this short story won first prize in the Unpublished Writers category one year at the Scottish Association of Writers Annual Conference. Ian was given a copy of the story by a mutual friend and read it – then kindly sent me a postcard commented that he would have preferred me to have killed off one of his rival authors!
YESTERDAY. This is the only completely true –life story in the collection, based on my own young experiences growing up in Leicester, England. I am still in contact with my life-long buddy Gordon Cockroft (mentioned in the story), who is a fellow fiction writer and a drummer - and excellent at both.
KATTJA. One of the fortnightly projects of Bute Writers was to create stories based on one of the seven deadly sins. I came across the Swedish word for lust, and that seemed a perfect title for my story. I hope you enjoy the humour of it.
THE TUNNEL. I remember encountering some very long and dark old railway tunnels when I was young. As a family, we used to go blackberry picking along the railway cuttings in Leicestershire near where we lived – which was great fun. I recall my big sister venturing into one of these tunnels, and it took a great deal of courage to join her – I was a little scared of the long, dark, seemingly endless chasm.
THE INCOMERS. This is based on one of my visits to East Midlands airport in Leicestershire. Some social comment here. We have a large Asian population in Leicester, which I grew up amongst.
THE ROAD TO RUIN. This is based on Bute Writers’ Group on the lovely Isle of Bute in the West of Scotland. I hope it conveys with the very real and wonderful feel of island life. It was great fun to write this - and to then to read it to the members!
BRENDA. I used to holiday quite regularly in the Algarve, Southern Portugal, and this was written there during one of my visits. I remember that I was reading an article about a multi-millionaire at the time, which influenced the storyline.
THE UNIVERSITY OF ROGER. Memories of my university days in Edinburgh inspired this one. A bit silly, and hardly a short story, but I just had to put it in.
ORGANISED INTIMIDATION. Another Bute Writers project. Each meeting, one of the members would choose the title for the next project, and one week the Secretary (a close friend of mine and a down-to-Earth Yorkshireman) chose this one. Thank you for that, Arthur. Some really good stories came out of that particular project.
JAMIE. I’ve always enjoyed reading plays, and I remember studying Shakespeare and Arthur Miller at school. Reading books and plays later led to me writing my own. When I wrote Jamie, I was imagining a stage play, with strong emotions in a family situation – and the inevitable twist at the end.
THE WESTERN. This is probably my favourite in the collection. Again, a twist in the tale – and I particularly like the zany humour in this one. It makes fun of all those unbelievable Westerns I watched when I was a kid (whilst wearing the obligatory cowboy paraphernalia).
CARVOLUTION. I have had a life-long interest in Astronomy and studied Astrophysics at University. This story is a light-hearted look at contemporary scientific theories through the eyes of a journalist. Whilst in many ways we are living in an enlightened age, I strongly feel that we are in still in the Dark Ages as regards our scientific theories. Make your own minds up about this one.
BELINDA. This is the only story in the collection that was written in China, where I currently reside. It is set in the town of Suzhou, Jiangsu Province, and refers to a writers’ group to which I belonged (Suzhou Artists and Writers’ Group). I hope it gives you a feel for at least one aspect of traditional Chinese culture.
Best wishes,
Steve Howrie
Suzhou, China, June 2016
44 Acorn Grove
It was one of those cold, dark nights when you wished you’d stayed at home in front of a warm fire with your feet up, reading a good book. Had I taken that course of action, I surely would not be sitting in this four-by-three metre cell contemplating my fate - accused of the murder of Mr Ian Rankin.
Ian Rankin - now there’s an irony. One of the greatest crime writers of the present age - to be revered in future years along with Agatha Christie and P.D. James. And another irony: who would have believed that not only had I been arrested for the murder of Ian Rankin, but the inspector investigating the case was called ‘Rebus’.
Anyway, if only I’d stayed at home - if only the phone hadn’t rung that night...
“Good evening, 334 6512, Caine speaking.” Formal I know, but that’s the way I answer the phone - ever since my days in the Civil Service.
“You’ve got to help me...” The voice was gravelly and faint.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Forty-four, Acorn Grove... come quickly... but please, no police...”
The voice trailed off and the line went dead. What was this all about? Why was he calling me - and what did he mean by ‘No Police’? I was intrigued. Then I experienced a rush of adrenaline as I thought of the excitement of being involved in something so strange, yet so compelling. I just had to go - I couldn’t ignore this desperate cry for help. And despite the fact that a thought crossed my mind that I really should tell someone else about the telephone conversation, my enthusiasm to answer the call outweighed any common sense. And so I went off to forty-four Acorn Grove - alone.
The streets of Edinburgh were strangely quiet that Sunday evening. Cold, dark and empty. I would have expected to have seen at least one or two drunks, or a member of the homeless brigade, but there were none, not a soul in fact.
Acorn Grove was
n’t far from my apartment, and I reached number forty-four in just over five minutes, walking at a brisk pace. Then as I pushed open the unlocked outer door, I had this feeling of foreboding - a nauseating apprehension in the pit of my stomach. But having been set on this track, it was too late to warn me to turn back - which is what I should have done, in retrospect. I know most of us think we have free will in life, but I don’t think that’s really the case. Once we choose a course of action, that’s pretty much it – until another chance to get onto another track.
Inside, the smell was a strange mixture of mothballs and furniture polish, with a whiff of gunpowder. God, I sounded like someone on one of those Food & Drink programmes. How I wished I was tasting a rich, red Shiraz instead of the dank hallway of the tenement. In front of me, at the end of a dark passageway, a set of stone steps led upwards. I ascended the staircase, trying to be as quiet as possible. Sweat began to trickle from my temples with each careful step as I peered into the gloom - apprehensive at what I might find on the next level.
It was then that I wished I’d never played cricket - or at least, not been so damn good at it. As I stepped onto the first floor landing, a young man rushed out of a room, throwing a dark object towards me. For one second, I was standing in the slips of my old school cricket team as the batsman inadvertently edged the ball. ‘Catch it!’ my team-mates would cry. And that’s why I caught the gun.
I’d never held a pistol before. It was quite heavy - black metal with a walnut handle. The man who’d thrown it had disappeared down a rear staircase, and I started to go after him; but as I passed an open door into the next room, I saw a body on the floor - face down. I immediately forgot about the man and went to help whoever was lying there. I put the gun in my overcoat pocket and gently shook his arm, whispering, “Are you alright?” A stupid thing to ask really - but that’s what you say, isn’t it? There was no response, so I pulled him around until I could see his face. “Oh god!” I recoiled at the sight of a hole right through his head - and a pool of blood. My mind started to race - thoughts coming twenty to the dozen. Should I call an ambulance, phone a friend - or perhaps just run away and pretend I’d never been there?
I stepped closer to look at the body. It was a man in his mid-forties in a brown coat and university scarf. He looked familiar - like someone I’d seen on television or in a magazine. Was this Ian whatsisname - the one who wrote all those crime novels?
Just then I heard the familiar wail of a police siren. I’ve never really liked that sound - it always makes me feel guilty, as if I’ve done something terribly wrong and they’re coming to get me. And that’s when I remembered the gun - the one resting in my overcoat pocket.
“Oh god!” I groaned - I’d been set up. Whoever had phoned me that evening wanted a patsy; and there I was - standing over the victim with what I guessed must be the murder weapon, with my finger prints all over it. I had to get them off - or get rid of the gun - or just get away before the police arrived. I needed time to think - but there was only time to panic. And that’s exactly what I did. Looking out of a window for a way out, I estimated that it wasn’t too far to jump. But when I tried to open the window, it wouldn’t budge a millimetre, let alone an inch.
Damn these sash windows! Then I discovered it was locked. I fumbled quickly to free the catch, and with a creaking sound the window eventually opened wide enough for me to exit. But it was too late.
“Stop right there.” With one leg out of the window, I turned to see three policemen facing me - one in plain clothes. The other two were in uniform, with weapons clearly visible. It was the plain-clothed one who was talking.
“Bring your leg back inside the window - nice and easy now - and keep your hands where I can see them.” I did what the man instructed, with my hands high in the air - just like in the movies.
As soon as I was clear of the window, the uniformed officers grabbed me, forcing me to the floor. A quick search revealed the gun in my overcoat pocket.
“I know what it looks like, but I can explain...”
“I’m sure you can,” said the plain-clothed man - who I later learned was Inspector Rebus. “And you can do that down at the station. Take him away sergeant.”
*
So this was how I managed to get myself in this four-by-three metre cell. I’ve signed a statement, of course, but I don’t think anybody believes it. After sixteen hours of interrogation, I would have signed just about anything - but not a statement of murder. I still don’t know who set me up for this - but I’ve a feeling it’s someone I met in Prison two years ago. Oh yes, I’ve done a bit of time in the past - mostly petty crime, drugs of one sort or another - but nothing serious.
Unfortunately, they’re bound to search my apartment and look for clues, and that’s when they might find the bodies - the ones in the garden. As I said, I’ve never held a pistol before - but I am quite handy with an axe.
* * *
Yesterday
A suburb of the City of Leicester, England, 1964. The Beatles have burst onto the World Stage, and Deirdre Barker has walked into my life. I’m completely and utterly in love with the music of John, Paul, George and Ringo - and I’m totally besotted with Deirdre. But as yet, neither the Beatles nor Deirdre knows the depths of my feelings.
Then the secret’s out. To my closest school friends, I confess my love for the elf-like skinny one with the soft brown eyes and the voice like brown sugar. No, not Paul McCartney - Deirdre Barker. I believe that my ten-year old peers will never divulge such a secret to all and sundry. Wrong! The secret spreads round the classroom like scarlet fever, and before the day’s out even our teacher knows. How embarrassing! And worse still, Deirdre knows too.
But the good news is that my feelings are reciprocated. Deirdre actually likes me! The Beatles sing: ‘She Loves You, yeah, yeah, yeah.’
Deirdre and I exchange more than just knowing glances and smiles. I crumble at the sound of her voice as she greets me in the cloakroom with her trademark sexy, ‘Morning.’ I begin to have erotic dreams about her, even though I’ve yet to discover what erotic means. The Beatles sing: ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’
It’s 1965, and I’m ten years old – and I’ve begun to mature. I discover that my best friend, Gordon Cockroft, fancies classmate Jane Nourish. The four of us arrange a clandestine rendezvous at the local park, where the girls lie down submissively on the grass and ask us to kiss them. Wow! Gordon asks me why I’ve brought my football with me. I have to explain that I’ve told my parents I’ve gone to play football - they’d kill me if they knew the truth. The girl’s aren’t the only ones lying.
‘Help!’ the movie comes out, and John Lennon tells me, ‘You’re Gonna Lose that Girl.’ He’s spot on: Deirdre passes her eleven plus and wings off to Wyggeston Girls’ Grammar School, whilst I (an eleven-plus borderline failure), get shunted off to Lancaster Boys’ Secondary Modern School. Even though her house is only four hundred yards from mine, we lose contact. We’re living in two different universes now.
The next three years are a nightmare as I undergo the transformation from child to adolescent. It’s not a pretty sight. Lancaster Boys is Hell on Earth. Not even the Beatles can save me now, though I’m comforted by a ‘Little Help from My Friends.’
Then one day in early February, as I’m looking out of my window contemplating my pathetic little life, Deirdre rides past my house on her Moulton bike. My legs turn to jelly and my heart beats faster than a Ringo drum roll. I’m captivated. The skinny elf has turned into a gorgeous creature, and Paul McCartney screams into my ear, ‘Got to Get You into My Life.’ Two Valentine’s cards later, we’re holding hands in the same park where we played as kids four years earlier. And once more, I’m completely and utterly in love.
But the Deirdre I rediscover at fourteen is now an alien creature to me. Mountains have grown where once was flat terrain… and what’s that on her face? Makeup, a friend tells me. She really is from outer space. The little girl I knew is
now a young lady, and I have no experience of dealing with young ladies.
She talks about things at school like Latin. She tries to explain it, but I say it just sounds like a foreign language to me. Our two universes impinge, coalesce and merge. We embrace passionately in the streets, loving the contact and loving each other. And yet we are from two different worlds.
Deirdre is an only child; I have a younger brother and older sister. Her parents are liberal and understanding; mine are authoritarian and rigid. She rides a bike and stays out until ten; I have to travel with my feet firmly on the ground and return home by eight. I swallow the humiliation of being walked home by my bike-riding, worldly-wise goddess, exasperated by my choice of parents. I really want to give them an end of term report: ‘Could do better - much better.’
For English Literature, Deirdre studies A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and it just so happens that a film of the play is showing at a cinema in Leicester. Deirdre asks me to go with her - on a real date! Although this means staying out until after 8 pm, my parents, surprisingly, agree - but only on the condition that my father drives us there and back. It isn’t ideal, but it’s that or nothing; so the lift it is.
Deirdre has her hair done specially in curls and looks like a princess - a fact which I (foolishly) never compliment her on. In the cinema, we sit in fluffy red seats and hold hands, and I awkwardly put my arm around her. We feel and look like a proper couple, albeit a rather young one.
The film ends, and my father’s waiting to take us back. It’s well after ten and he wants to take me straight home after dropping Deirdre at her house. But she asks me in for a drink, and I persuade dad to leave us - saying I won’t be long (yeah). He says something about ten minutes, but I’m not really listening: I’m in love.
She pours two glasses of Coca-Cola, and puts on the Beatles Abbey Road. George Harrison sings ‘Something,’ a song I think he must have written about Deirdre, and she impulsively grabs my hand and drags me upstairs to show me her secret possessions: old photographs and the pony tail that she’d kept from Primary school. I can’t believe that she’d actually kept her old hair! It only confirmed that she was indeed an alien being.
