Joe McDougal goes to War
It was the end of July in 1914, a beautiful sunny morning, and Joe McDougal was up early. This was a special day. He put on his best suit which his mother had bought from a thrift shop, pulled down the sleeves over his frayed shirt cuffs and took one last look at himself in the mirror above the wash basin. His naïve adolescent face above the collarless flannel shirt stared back at him. He splashed water onto his curly red hair to smooth it down and wished he could do something about his teenage acne, but he’d have to do. Today was an important day. He was going into Glasgow to sign up.
When he got downstairs his two younger brothers and three sisters were already sat around the breakfast table and his mother was spooning porridge into their bowls from a large earthenware pot. She looked worried and gave Joe a particularly big dollop. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek as she ruffled Joe’s hair.
“Och! Why d’ye have te do this, son? Ye’r only fifteen. Ye'r too young te fight wi’ grown men”
“Mum, there’ll be one less mouth te feed. Ye know it meks sense”, he said cajolingly. His mother shook her head.
“We can manage. Ye don’t have te do this.” She turned away so that he wouldn’t see her tears. Joe finished his porridge and hugged his mother.
“It’ll be OK,” he said softly, “The war’ll be over in 6 months and I’ll be home agin, you’ll see.”
Things had been difficult for the family since their father’s fatal accident at the shipyard. The meagre wages his mother brought home from teaching at the local school barely covered their food let alone the rent. The boys had done their best to help out selling newspapers on street corners but it wasn’t enough and Joe knew it. As the eldest he’d felt a heavy responsibility since his father died and the money he earned from becoming a soldier would be a great help.
Joe grabbed his cap and was out of the front door before his mother could say another word. He hated to see his mother crying but he knew he had to do this, for his family, for his country and for himself. He walked down the road towards Glasgow town centre with his head held high and a determined stride.
When he reached the Town Hall he stood in line with the other young men before the desk where a Sergeant in khaki battle dress was taking names and details. Joe was a slightly built teenager, and obviously younger than the other men in the queue. He came to the desk and took off his cap.
“Name?” growled the soldier.
“Joe McDougle. “
“Joe McDougle, Sir!” barked the Sergeant.
“Joe McDougle, Sir,” stammered Joe, his confidence beginning to dwindle. He was beginning to wonder if he should have listened to his mother.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the Sergeant more kindly.
“Sixteen and a half, Sir,” lied Joe.
“OK, put your mark here and then go to that desk over there for your uniform.” Joe took the pen and signed in the box next to the number which had been allocated to him. His mother had made sure they could all read and write. It was done. He was now officially in His Majesty’s army.
When he arrived home he was proudly wearing his brand new khaki uniform with its shiny brass buttons. He felt very grownup and couldn’t wait to go to the pick-up point he’d been given to take him down to London the next day.
His siblings crowded around him admiring the uniform asking hundreds of questions about where he would be going and what he would be doing. His brothers wanted to know if he had a gun and what he would do if he had to use it. His sisters told him how handsome he looked and insisted they would write to him every day. His mother stood back, unwilling to be part of all the excitement. He was her first born. How could she let him go at such a tender age to shoot and kill? He looked too small, too slight to be wearing that bulky uniform. But it was too late. He had signed up and that was that.
That night Joe took off his uniform, his flannel undershirt and woollen long-johns and laid them out over the chair for the next morning. He got into the other end of the single bed opposite his brothers and fell asleep dreaming of heroic deeds fighting for freedom and glory; of capturing the enemy and winning medals for his bravery. He would be saving his country and his family from foreign tyranny and once they had won he would be coming home triumphant with shiny medals pinned to his chest. Everyone would pat him on the back and say, ‘Well done, Joe McDougal. You did it. Well done.’
Six months later a telegram came for Joe's mother from his Commanding Officer, ' I regret very much to inform you that your son Pte. Joe McDougal, No. 63732 of this Company was killed in action on the night of the 21st instant. Death was instantaneous and without any suffering.' Joe was just 17 years old.
THE END
Exodus
The place is Planet Zircon, the year 2018. The inter-planetary space laboratory is housed in a glass bubble, light entering from all sides. In the centre a large screen flickers and a tall spindly El Greco- like form is studying it, his elongated thin face full of concern. On the screen a white mass, nothing else. It’s hard to pick out the features of the landscape beneath the blanket of ice and snow but way back in the distance great icicles drip from a massive clock tower climbing out of the starkness. The screen now splits showing the white scene on one side and arid wasteland on the other where a great flat plateau rises up in the background. Once a beautiful city bordered by sandy beaches and a white fringed ocean is now little more than a desert; two sides of the same planet.
Dr Stic shakes his head. ‘Two great capitals devastated by the selfishness and neglect of mankind. I fear there is no longer any hope for them.’ His voice is thin and reedy like his body. He turns to his assistant, a woman in her late 30s in shorts and t-shirt with tight curly hair, although she looks so fresh and young you might be forgiven for thinking she is a teenager. ‘The time is near. We must expect an exodus from Earth in the next few months. The need for survival has become critical. We must prepare. Go and inform the Professor I need him to contact Earth’s inter-planetary station immediately.’
A cloud darkens Adalyn’s sunny features and she rakes a hand through soft brown curls. ‘Our Planet Zircon will not support many more Earthlings on this tiny habitable sliver of land. Zircon is large, three times the size of Earth, but four fifths is covered by sea. Zirconians are hospitable beings but in time they will demand priority.’ Walking to the glass wall she presses the flat of her hand against it. The wall immediately recognises her print and slides open allowing her to step out into warm sunshine where the temperature is at its usual 25 degrees, neither too hot nor too cold. Rain always falls at night on Zircon leaving the grass ever thick and lush. Adalyn’s tanned athletic legs take her across a quadrangle surrounded by similar glass bubbles each containing its own branch of space technology. As she walks she thinks how fortunate she is to have been born on this beautiful planet growing up amongst verdant fields, fishing for colourful fish in clear streams and enjoying long walks in countryside filled with delicate white moon-spur and vibrant sun-daisies. Summer and winter are equally clement here. Everyone has sufficient food and because there is no such thing as money there is nothing to fight about. Trust and generosity are key to harmony. It is in fact a Utopia, light years away from planet Earth where greed has already caused global warming to devastate the atmosphere. People have been travelling from Earth for years for holidays but now more and more are deciding to stay, finding life pleasanter than at home. Zirconians welcome them with open arms because they bring skills to the planet much needed by the few million Zirconians already living here. There has been much interplanetary movement in the past 80 years since Zircon first made contact with Earth. Contrary to popular belief Zirconians are friendly creatures and all they wish is to share their advanced technology with those who need it and respect their environment.
Arriving at another dome shaped building smaller than the first one she sees through the glass a great machine lining one wall consisting of rows of colourful drums which tick softly as they rotate. A handsome man with sensitive features and a neatly trimmed moustache sits in an armchair before a screen. He is reading a book about computer science, one hand resting on a keyboard set into the arm of his chair. He looks to be in his late 40s but Adelyn knows he is much older. He is after all her great uncle, born in 1912 in Maida Vale London, older brother of her Granny Finn who sadly passed away last year. At 106 years his smooth complexion and agile limbs belie his great age which he puts down to the wonderful climate and healthy atmosphere of Planet Zircon. Adelyn places her palm on the recognition panel and part of the wall slides back.
Professor Turin looks up his bright intelligent eyes softening when he spots his great niece. ‘This is indeed a pleasant surprise my dear. How can I help you?’ Adelyn stoops and kisses the top of his head. The old man holds a special place in her heart as he and her Granny brought her up after her parents disappeared whilst transferring spaceships when she was just five years old. Things have become a lot safer since those early days of space travel. She tells him what Doctor Stic has said.
Without another word Turin puts his book down and proceeds to key a code into the arm of his chair, then waits for a response. He has been waiting for this order for quite some time having warned his fellow scientists of the dangers of global warming many years before. The machine ticks even louder and a series of mathematical codes appear on the screen. Immediately the drums begin to roll decoding the information. For this is the great philosopher Alan Turin, the man who invented the Bombe, so called because of the relentless ticking sound made by the machine as it intercepted German messages alongside Enigma at Bletchley Park in the first world war. But it now has another purpose.
He remembers the day he was questioned about his lover by an ignorant policeman from Scotland Yard and how he was hounded because of his illicit homosexual practices. Whilst his continuing presence at Bletchley was vital enabling Britain to gather intelligence from the enemy he managed to avoid arrest but he knew it wouldn’t be long before they came to take him away.
Then something happened that changed the course of history. Whilst his machine was decoding a message from a German spy plane another message came through with an unusual encryption. It was obviously not of German origin because the Bombe would have decoded it more quickly, so Turin let the drums roll hoping they would eventually come up with an answer. When the it eventually succeeded Turin felt a once in a lifetime Eureka moment. The message read:
‘Zircon to Earth. Greetings.’
Heart racing with excitement he immediately responded using the same code. ‘Earth to Zircon. Who are you and why are you here?’
‘We have travelled 39 light years and come in peace from Planet Zircon. We wish to talk.’
Days later after much covert discussion between London and Washington Professor Turin along with a few eminent scientists and officials waited in the Arizonian Desert to welcome the Aliens to Earth. No-one spoke. The tension was palpable. No-one knew what to expect. Could they trust these Aliens? What would they look like? How had they managed to travel so far? Their technology was obviously far superior to anything on Earth. The small gathering peered up into the shimmering blue and waited. A lizard skittered between the rocks searching for somewhere to hide away from the blistering sun. Suddenly there was a whooshing sound which rose to a mighty roar nearly blowing them off their feet as an enormous space ship rose over the far rocky caps.They covered their eyes against the swirling sand. Lights flashing the semi sphere hovered above them.Three sturdy legs appeared from within its base and slowly it landed 50 metres away on a rocky plateau. It shook for several minutes before a door slid open revealing a tall skinny figure. He looked out for a few moments then descended followed by three equally scrawny companions.
‘My name is Captain Grish.’ His voice was shrill. ‘I wish to speak with your Leader?’ A tall middle aged man with receding hair stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Franklin D. Roosevelt, President of the United States. Honoured ta meet ya, Sir. There’s an aircraft standing right over there ready to take ya to the White House.’
And that’s how it all started. Within months the Zirconians had flattened Hitler’s army with advanced laser beams and later took several of the worlds brightest scholars back to Zircon to share their advanced knowledge. Of course Professor Turin was invited to join the party and insisted on taking his sister’s family with him, hence he escaped arrest and Adelyn was born here. For years he has been living very happily with a Zirconian biologist named Link.
As predicted people are beginning to arrive in their droves from Earth to escape the extreme temperatures there. Who knows when it will end. But I advise anyone wishing to escape global warming to be quick and book their seats. Zircon is fast running out of space.
THE END
A Change of Heart
The undernourished boy was in the process of picking the pocket of a smartly dressed man on Oxford Street when he felt an iron clamp on his wrist.
‘Let go you bastard,’ he yelled at the benign looking man in the cashmere coat who looked down at him with a sardonic smile. He struggled but the more he twisted and turned the harder the man gripped his scrawny wrist.
‘Not just yet,’ hissed the man. ‘First I’m going to teach you a lesson young man. Stay quiet or it’ll be worse for you.’ He dragged the frightened boy into a London cab and told the driver to take them to Bakewell Mews.
‘I’m taking him home to give him a good telling off,’ he said to the taxi driver. ‘His mother and I have been worried sick about him.’
Half an hour later the man was sitting opposite the boy who was secured to a kitchen chair with some bandages. The youngster was terrified wondering what this man was going to do to him. He’d heard terrible stories of people being murdered on the streets of London, and that Hannibal Lecter, the infamous cannibal was also on the loose.
‘I won’t hurt you if you are honest with me,’ said the man quietly. ’I can’t abide dishonesty. Now then, what’s your name and who are you working for?’
The boy wasn’t used to being honest. It didn’t pay in his world, but he decided to come clean. It seemed the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances.
‘ ’me name’s Jimmy and e’s a millionaire, mister. Speaks with a funny accent. Sounds like one of them Russians in James Bond. ‘E lives in Kensin’ton. Ah think it’s ‘opwell Gardens. Ah don’t know ‘is name but ‘e drives a silver sports car. Yer know, like the one James Bond drives.’
‘An Aston Martin?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Can ah go now mister?’
‘In a minute,’ The man rose and went to the kitchen drawer. He drew out a long thin knife and tested the edge with his finger whilst looking at the boy with an evil gleam in his eye. The boy’s eyes grew round with fear.
‘Don’ ‘urt me mister. Ah’ve told yer the trufe. Honest I ‘ave.’
The man then went to the cupboard and took out a loaf of crusty bread and some strawberry jam. Jimmy was too skinny to make a good meal, but later, when he’d been fattened up……… mmm maybe.
‘When was your last meal Jimmy?’ he said as he sliced two door steps and smothered them liberally with butter and jam.
‘Sometime yesterday,’ said the boy, slightly mollified.
‘Well eat this and don’t try picking my pocket again. You don’t know who I am. I could be that Hannibal bloke they’re all talking about.’
He untied Jimmy and gave him the bread and jam which the boy devoured eagerly. Then he fished in his pocket and drew out two crisp fifty pound notes.
‘Here. Hand in your notice and come and work for me.’ The boy’s eyes were wide with surprise. No one had ever given him so much money before.
‘Yer mean yer want me to pick pockets fer yer?’ asked Jimmy.
‘No, I want you to find people for me,’ said the man.
‘Yer mean like a private dick?’ Jimmy’s eyes shone with excitement. This job sounded much more interesting than picking pockets, well paid too.
‘Something like that,’ said the man mysteriously. He went to a drawer and took out some cards. ‘I want you to hand these out for me, but not to just anyone. I’m a doctor and I’ve perfected a way of losing weight. I want you to find people who are overweight and give them one of these.’
The boy looked at a card and read slowly:
Dr. Charles Auberon Nibal FRCC
Ground-breaking new Weight Loss Programme.
No tablets, No Exercise, No starvation
Lose weight the easy way
T. 077462368
‘And don’t even think about dumping them. I’ll know if you do and I’ll find you.’ He growled menacingly. ‘Come back a week from today and I’ll pay you according to how many customers you’ve found for me.’
The man opened the front door and grinned as the boy fled down the cobbles without looking back. He looked down at one of the cards in his hand. He hadn’t been able to use his real name of course, but he felt that FRCC after the pseudonym was a clever touch. It stood for Fellow of the Royal College of Cannibalism. No such College of course but people were suckers for a string of letters after a name.
That evening Hannibal went to the Adelphi Theatre to see Sweeny Todd. He came out feeling in the mood to have some fun so he decided to go to Kensington Gardens where he had a bone to pick with a certain Russian millionaire. He’d never forgotten how he and his little sister had been abused by Russian deserters during the war, and he had no mercy for those who used children in any shape or form.
He hailed a taxi to take him to Hopwell Gardens and then asked the driver to wait for him whilst he walked along the tree lined road looking for the Aston Martin. It was parked outside number 24, a three storey period terrace, fronted by an ornate iron railing. Whoever lived there certainly hadn’t bought it on benefits.
He leaned against the car looking up at the window and waited. The curtains moved slightly and a flabby face looked out. Five minutes later a heavily built man opened the front door and came striding down the path with a vicious looking Rottweiler at his heels.
‘Hey. What you doing? Get away from my car or I set my dog on you,’ he shouted rudely.
Hannibal remained where he was. He couldn’t abide rudeness.
‘I said get away from my car,’ yelled the man more loudly with his hand on the gate latch and the Rottweiler straining on the leash. With a long insolent look Hannibal slowly stood up. He stared at the man for a long moment and then, without a word, he swaggered away down the road to where his cab was waiting.
‘Take me to the nearest Tesco 24 hour store,’ he told the driver, ‘I’ve run out of madeira for my liver pate.’
The following evening he drove himself over to Hopwell Gardens parking way down the road from number 24 and walking the rest of the way. As he stood on the doorstep, his finger on the bell, he smiled as he thought of the satisfaction ahead. Carving up that enormous beast would be a pleasure after he’d been so disrespectful.
The door opened. Like an adder he struck and held a pure white Irish linen napkin soaked in ether against the offending brute’s face. The man crumpled to the floor. Dragging him into the kitchen Hannibal, who had the strength of ten men, lifted him up and spread-eagled him on the granite topped work island. Looking down at his prey, he sucked his lips in anticipation. This really was an ugly specimen, far too coarse and vulgar to inhabit the same space as himself, but his heart and liver would be as tasty as anyone else’s. After cutting out the liver and the heart, he slipped them neatly into a Tupperware box and, tossing the bloodied corpse aside, he grabbed the box and left. Within two minutes he was back in his car driving home to Bakewell Mews, looking forward to culinary delights.
When he arrived he soaked the livers and heart in milk ready for cooking the next morning and went to bed. The following day he boiled them and, once they’d cooled, chopped up the liver finely and mixed it with madeira and spices, then left it in the fridge whilst he stuffed the heart with a mixture of chopped mushrooms and onions, then braised it in the oven. It all smelt so good. Who could he invite to share his feast?
As if in answer his mobile rang.
‘Hello. Doctor Charles Nibal’s residence,’ he said.
‘Doctor Nibal I understand you have devised a new slimming programme,’ came a young female voice.
Hannibal smiled. Jimmy had come up trumps. Success already.
‘That’s right. If you’d like to come around to my rooms I can tell you all about it.’ He gave her the address and waited.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood a pretty buxom blond in a tight low cut summer dress.
‘Hello Doctor Nibal. My name’s Molly Barton,’ said the girl, holding out a delicious plump hand. ‘I’m getting married in a fortnight’s time and I’m really interested in your slimming programme. I’ve tried everything else and you’re my last hope to lose some weight before my big day.’
Hannibal took her hand and gallantly kissed her chubby fingers. ‘A pleasure to meet you my dear,’ His eyes were transfixed on Molly’s ample bosom imagining slicing meat off that delicious chest, and garnishing it with mushrooms and herbs. He savoured the thought of the wonderful banquet ahead and was already planning which recipes he could use; foie de fille followed by slowly roasted bosomo Italienne. Oh yes, he could certainly help her to lose some weight.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. I was just about to have something to eat and I don’t like to eat on my own. I’d be honoured if you’d join me. Then we can talk about how I can help you to lose some weight. Please come in.’ He smiled charmingly and opened the door wider. The girl looked hesitant for a second but the doctor seemed a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of chap, and she really did need to lose some weight so she giggled girlishly and went inside.
Her host invited her to sit down at a table laid with silver cutlery and fine Irish linen napkins. He then served up the liver pate with some crusty bread on Royal Daulton china plates. The pate was smooth and succulent and he shivered with ecstasy as it slithered down his throat. Then he presented her with the stuffed heart accompanied by fresh new potatoes and runner beans harvested from his garden that very morning.
After a companionable meal during which he enchanted her with his scintillating conversation about romantic places he had visited in Italy, he was about to suggest they proceed to the lounge and discuss her weight problem, when the girl suddenly went the same colour as the runner bean left on her plate and asked if she could be excused to go to the bathroom. Seconds later she could be heard retching into the toilet bowl, by which time Hannibal was also feeling ominously queasy. It must have been that heart. It was decidedly off, probably diseased. The man he’d taken it from had looked unsavoury to say the least and he should have known better. If he’d not been so incensed by the Russian’s disrespectful behaviour to both Jimmy and himself he wouldn’t have bothered with him. He rushed to open the window and barely avoided throwing up over a taxi driver who was standing on the cobbles about to ring his doorbell. But he was feeling so ill it never occurred to him to ask what he wanted. As his stomach violently rid itself of its offending contents he was vaguely aware of the front door slamming and looked up to see Molly getting into the taxi, but he was too busy being sick to worry about it. Fearing he might die from blood poisoning he called 999 for an ambulance to come and take him to St Thomas’s Hospital.
Arriving at the hospital the paramedics bundled him into a wheel chair and wheeled him through to Emergency where doctors took one look at his grey features and sunken eyes and attached him to a stomach pump to rid him of the vile contents of his stomach. Good manners prevented Hannibal from cursing the hospital staff so he submitted to the ignominious treatment with seeming acceptance, all the time vowing that he would get his own back on the plump little nurse administering the treatment.
Two days passed and gradually, with good food and expert nursing care, he improved and was soon allowed to go home with the advice not to eat meat for at least a week to allow his system to recover, which is why he was to be found the next day filling a shopping basket with a variety of vegetables and celery hearts at the local market.
‘Hey Doc!’ came a voice from the other side of the stall.
‘Hello Jimmy,’ said Hannibal. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s mi ma’s fruit and veg stall. Ah’m lookin’ arfter it for ‘er whilst she’s bad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that Jimmy, ‘Have you managed to find any more customers for me?’
‘Ah’ve given out all yer cards. Yer should be gettin’ some calls any time soon.’
‘Good lad. Now can you tell me how much this lot costs please? I want to make a vegetable casserole.’ He handed Jimmy his basket full of veg.
That night he sat down at his table with his vegetarian meal before him. It looked decidedly unappetising and he longed for a nice plump filetto d’uomo with a salsa florentino. But he had to do as the doctors had ordered if he wanted his stomach to settle.
He managed to remain vegetarian till the end of the week and then he thought ‘What’s the point of being a doctor if I can’t advise myself. I reckon I’m ready to eat my customary meal again.’ But when he checked his answer phone there were no calls in response to his advert so he decided to go down to the local butcher and buy a fillet steak from there. It wouldn’t be so good but it would have to suffice until he could hunt for something better.
He walked into the butcher’s shop and looked at all the cuts of beef, pork and lamb on the slab, but far from making him feel hungry the fresh meat made him feel nauseous. The smell of blood and guts was over powering and he had to get out before he was sick. His stomach churned as it remembered the trauma of eating his last liver pate. He stood outside the shop taking in gulps of fresh air before walking shakily away towards the market where he found Jimmy cheerfully holding up two enormous melons.
‘50p fer these two juicy beauties? Yer wouldn’t get a better deal at Stringfellers…. Oh ‘allo again Doc. ‘Can ah tempt yer sir?’
‘I’ll take them Jimmy. Is your mother still sick?’
Jimmy suddenly looked sad and Hannibal thought he saw him wipe away a tear.
‘She’s dyin’ Doc. Ah’m going to ‘ave to eiver sell this stall or carry on working it so ah won’t be able to work fer you no more.’
‘That’s sad Jimmy. I’m sorry.’ He walked away from the stall with the two melons and a thoughtful look on his face.
Whilst cutting up one of the melons that evening and arranging it in a dainty dish with a dash of lemon juice Hannibal got to thinking about Jimmy’s predicament and his own. Why couldn’t the solution to both their problems be the same?
The next day he went to the market again and found Jimmy’s stall.
He waited quietly at the side whilst the boy served a crowd of customers, then he called Jimmy over.
‘Can you close up for half an hour, Jimmy? I have a proposition for you’
Jimmy looked puzzled but he dropped the canvas blind in front of the stall and came around to talk to Hannibal.
‘Come. Let’s go and have a cup of tea over there,’ said Hannibal pointing to a pavement café.
They sat there for half an hour whilst Hannibal talked and Jimmy nodded. Eventually Hannibal said goodbye and went back home whilst Jimmy returned to his stall, an expression of great satisfaction on his face. It was certainly a good day’s work when he’d tried to pick the pocket of his friend Charlie Nibal.
On his return to Bakewell Mews Hannibal heard the pips of his answer phone as he walked through the front door. When he checked his messages there were six eager customers all willing to try out his weight loss programme. He paused for a second then deleted them all. He wouldn’t be needing them anymore
The following day he rose very early, dressed in his oldest clothes and tied a colourful kerchief around his neck for good measure. He’d be needing a cap but he could probably buy one at the charity shop on the way home.
When he arrived the market was just opening and there was an air of bustle as the market traders unpacked their stalls and laid out their wares. Jimmy greeted him warmly.
‘ ‘morning Doc, yer late’ he grinned and held out a grubby hand which had been used to unpack potatoes.
‘Good morning Jimmy. I’ll be earlier tomorrow, I promise,’ laughed Hannibal.
He was going to enjoy this. Such a change from hunting down human livers and hearts. After all, it was fashionable to be a vegetarian.
What an adventure this would be. His own fruit and veg stall. He could spend his days taking lessons from Jimmy on how to chaff the public and his evenings trying out exciting new vegetarian recipes. Maybe he could even open his own vegie restaurant. The sky was the limit.
‘Now,’ he shouted, ‘who will buy these two juicy melons. You wouldn’t get a better deal at Stringfellows’
Jimmy laughed, ’A bit posh, Charlie, but yer learnin’ ‘
THE END
The undernourished boy was in the process of picking the pocket of a smartly dressed man on Oxford Street when he felt an iron clamp on his wrist.
‘Let go you bastard,’ he yelled at the benign looking man in the cashmere coat who looked down at him with a sardonic smile. He struggled but the more he twisted and turned the harder the man gripped his scrawny wrist.
‘Not just yet,’ hissed the man. ‘First I’m going to teach you a lesson young man. Stay quiet or it’ll be worse for you.’ He dragged the frightened boy into a London cab and told the driver to take them to Bakewell Mews.
‘I’m taking him home to give him a good telling off,’ he said to the taxi driver. ‘His mother and I have been worried sick about him.’
Half an hour later the man was sitting opposite the boy who was secured to a kitchen chair with some bandages. The youngster was terrified wondering what this man was going to do to him. He’d heard terrible stories of people being murdered on the streets of London, and that Hannibal Lecter, the infamous cannibal was also on the loose.
‘I won’t hurt you if you are honest with me,’ said the man quietly. ’I can’t abide dishonesty. Now then, what’s your name and who are you working for?’
The boy wasn’t used to being honest. It didn’t pay in his world, but he decided to come clean. It seemed the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances.
‘ ’me name’s Jimmy and e’s a millionaire, mister. Speaks with a funny accent. Sounds like one of them Russians in James Bond. ‘E lives in Kensin’ton. Ah think it’s ‘opwell Gardens. Ah don’t know ‘is name but ‘e drives a silver sports car. Yer know, like the one James Bond drives.’
‘An Aston Martin?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Can ah go now mister?’
‘In a minute,’ The man rose and went to the kitchen drawer. He drew out a long thin knife and tested the edge with his finger whilst looking at the boy with an evil gleam in his eye. The boy’s eyes grew round with fear.
‘Don’ ‘urt me mister. Ah’ve told yer the trufe. Honest I ‘ave.’
The man then went to the cupboard and took out a loaf of crusty bread and some strawberry jam. Jimmy was too skinny to make a good meal, but later, when he’d been fattened up……… mmm maybe.
‘When was your last meal Jimmy?’ he said as he sliced two door steps and smothered them liberally with butter and jam.
‘Sometime yesterday,’ said the boy, slightly mollified.
‘Well eat this and don’t try picking my pocket again. You don’t know who I am. I could be that Hannibal bloke they’re all talking about.’
He untied Jimmy and gave him the bread and jam which the boy devoured eagerly. Then he fished in his pocket and drew out two crisp fifty pound notes.
‘Here. Hand in your notice and come and work for me.’ The boy’s eyes were wide with surprise. No one had ever given him so much money before.
‘Yer mean yer want me to pick pockets fer yer?’ asked Jimmy.
‘No, I want you to find people for me,’ said the man.
‘Yer mean like a private dick?’ Jimmy’s eyes shone with excitement. This job sounded much more interesting than picking pockets, well paid too.
‘Something like that,’ said the man mysteriously. He went to a drawer and took out some cards. ‘I want you to hand these out for me, but not to just anyone. I’m a doctor and I’ve perfected a way of losing weight. I want you to find people who are overweight and give them one of these.’
The boy looked at a card and read slowly:
Dr. Charles Auberon Nibal FRCC
Ground-breaking new Weight Loss Programme.
No tablets, No Exercise, No starvation
Lose weight the easy way
T. 077462368
‘And don’t even think about dumping them. I’ll know if you do and I’ll find you.’ He growled menacingly. ‘Come back a week from today and I’ll pay you according to how many customers you’ve found for me.’
The man opened the front door and grinned as the boy fled down the cobbles without looking back. He looked down at one of the cards in his hand. He hadn’t been able to use his real name of course, but he felt that FRCC after the pseudonym was a clever touch. It stood for Fellow of the Royal College of Cannibalism. No such College of course but people were suckers for a string of letters after a name.
That evening Hannibal went to the Adelphi Theatre to see Sweeny Todd. He came out feeling in the mood to have some fun so he decided to go to Kensington Gardens where he had a bone to pick with a certain Russian millionaire. He’d never forgotten how he and his little sister had been abused by Russian deserters during the war, and he had no mercy for those who used children in any shape or form.
He hailed a taxi to take him to Hopwell Gardens and then asked the driver to wait for him whilst he walked along the tree lined road looking for the Aston Martin. It was parked outside number 24, a three storey period terrace, fronted by an ornate iron railing. Whoever lived there certainly hadn’t bought it on benefits.
He leaned against the car looking up at the window and waited. The curtains moved slightly and a flabby face looked out. Five minutes later a heavily built man opened the front door and came striding down the path with a vicious looking Rottweiler at his heels.
‘Hey. What you doing? Get away from my car or I set my dog on you,’ he shouted rudely.
Hannibal remained where he was. He couldn’t abide rudeness.
‘I said get away from my car,’ yelled the man more loudly with his hand on the gate latch and the Rottweiler straining on the leash. With a long insolent look Hannibal slowly stood up. He stared at the man for a long moment and then, without a word, he swaggered away down the road to where his cab was waiting.
‘Take me to the nearest Tesco 24 hour store,’ he told the driver, ‘I’ve run out of madeira for my liver pate.’
The following evening he drove himself over to Hopwell Gardens parking way down the road from number 24 and walking the rest of the way. As he stood on the doorstep, his finger on the bell, he smiled as he thought of the satisfaction ahead. Carving up that enormous beast would be a pleasure after he’d been so disrespectful.
The door opened. Like an adder he struck and held a pure white Irish linen napkin soaked in ether against the offending brute’s face. The man crumpled to the floor. Dragging him into the kitchen Hannibal, who had the strength of ten men, lifted him up and spread-eagled him on the granite topped work island. Looking down at his prey, he sucked his lips in anticipation. This really was an ugly specimen, far too coarse and vulgar to inhabit the same space as himself, but his heart and liver would be as tasty as anyone else’s. After cutting out the liver and the heart, he slipped them neatly into a Tupperware box and, tossing the bloodied corpse aside, he grabbed the box and left. Within two minutes he was back in his car driving home to Bakewell Mews, looking forward to culinary delights.
When he arrived he soaked the livers and heart in milk ready for cooking the next morning and went to bed. The following day he boiled them and, once they’d cooled, chopped up the liver finely and mixed it with madeira and spices, then left it in the fridge whilst he stuffed the heart with a mixture of chopped mushrooms and onions, then braised it in the oven. It all smelt so good. Who could he invite to share his feast?
As if in answer his mobile rang.
‘Hello. Doctor Charles Nibal’s residence,’ he said.
‘Doctor Nibal I understand you have devised a new slimming programme,’ came a young female voice.
Hannibal smiled. Jimmy had come up trumps. Success already.
‘That’s right. If you’d like to come around to my rooms I can tell you all about it.’ He gave her the address and waited.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood a pretty buxom blond in a tight low cut summer dress.
‘Hello Doctor Nibal. My name’s Molly Barton,’ said the girl, holding out a delicious plump hand. ‘I’m getting married in a fortnight’s time and I’m really interested in your slimming programme. I’ve tried everything else and you’re my last hope to lose some weight before my big day.’
Hannibal took her hand and gallantly kissed her chubby fingers. ‘A pleasure to meet you my dear,’ His eyes were transfixed on Molly’s ample bosom imagining slicing meat off that delicious chest, and garnishing it with mushrooms and herbs. He savoured the thought of the wonderful banquet ahead and was already planning which recipes he could use; foie de fille followed by slowly roasted bosomo Italienne. Oh yes, he could certainly help her to lose some weight.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. I was just about to have something to eat and I don’t like to eat on my own. I’d be honoured if you’d join me. Then we can talk about how I can help you to lose some weight. Please come in.’ He smiled charmingly and opened the door wider. The girl looked hesitant for a second but the doctor seemed a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of chap, and she really did need to lose some weight so she giggled girlishly and went inside.
Her host invited her to sit down at a table laid with silver cutlery and fine Irish linen napkins. He then served up the liver pate with some crusty bread on Royal Daulton china plates. The pate was smooth and succulent and he shivered with ecstasy as it slithered down his throat. Then he presented her with the stuffed heart accompanied by fresh new potatoes and runner beans harvested from his garden that very morning.
After a companionable meal during which he enchanted her with his scintillating conversation about romantic places he had visited in Italy, he was about to suggest they proceed to the lounge and discuss her weight problem, when the girl suddenly went the same colour as the runner bean left on her plate and asked if she could be excused to go to the bathroom. Seconds later she could be heard retching into the toilet bowl, by which time Hannibal was also feeling ominously queasy. It must have been that heart. It was decidedly off, probably diseased. The man he’d taken it from had looked unsavoury to say the least and he should have known better. If he’d not been so incensed by the Russian’s disrespectful behaviour to both Jimmy and himself he wouldn’t have bothered with him. He rushed to open the window and barely avoided throwing up over a taxi driver who was standing on the cobbles about to ring his doorbell. But he was feeling so ill it never occurred to him to ask what he wanted. As his stomach violently rid itself of its offending contents he was vaguely aware of the front door slamming and looked up to see Molly getting into the taxi, but he was too busy being sick to worry about it. Fearing he might die from blood poisoning he called 999 for an ambulance to come and take him to St Thomas’s Hospital.
Arriving at the hospital the paramedics bundled him into a wheel chair and wheeled him through to Emergency where doctors took one look at his grey features and sunken eyes and attached him to a stomach pump to rid him of the vile contents of his stomach. Good manners prevented Hannibal from cursing the hospital staff so he submitted to the ignominious treatment with seeming acceptance, all the time vowing that he would get his own back on the plump little nurse administering the treatment.
Two days passed and gradually, with good food and expert nursing care, he improved and was soon allowed to go home with the advice not to eat meat for at least a week to allow his system to recover, which is why he was to be found the next day filling a shopping basket with a variety of vegetables and celery hearts at the local market.
‘Hey Doc!’ came a voice from the other side of the stall.
‘Hello Jimmy,’ said Hannibal. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s mi ma’s fruit and veg stall. Ah’m lookin’ arfter it for ‘er whilst she’s bad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that Jimmy, ‘Have you managed to find any more customers for me?’
‘Ah’ve given out all yer cards. Yer should be gettin’ some calls any time soon.’
‘Good lad. Now can you tell me how much this lot costs please? I want to make a vegetable casserole.’ He handed Jimmy his basket full of veg.
That night he sat down at his table with his vegetarian meal before him. It looked decidedly unappetising and he longed for a nice plump filetto d’uomo with a salsa florentino. But he had to do as the doctors had ordered if he wanted his stomach to settle.
He managed to remain vegetarian till the end of the week and then he thought ‘What’s the point of being a doctor if I can’t advise myself. I reckon I’m ready to eat my customary meal again.’ But when he checked his answer phone there were no calls in response to his advert so he decided to go down to the local butcher and buy a fillet steak from there. It wouldn’t be so good but it would have to suffice until he could hunt for something better.
He walked into the butcher’s shop and looked at all the cuts of beef, pork and lamb on the slab, but far from making him feel hungry the fresh meat made him feel nauseous. The smell of blood and guts was over powering and he had to get out before he was sick. His stomach churned as it remembered the trauma of eating his last liver pate. He stood outside the shop taking in gulps of fresh air before walking shakily away towards the market where he found Jimmy cheerfully holding up two enormous melons.
‘50p fer these two juicy beauties? Yer wouldn’t get a better deal at Stringfellers…. Oh ‘allo again Doc. ‘Can ah tempt yer sir?’
‘I’ll take them Jimmy. Is your mother still sick?’
Jimmy suddenly looked sad and Hannibal thought he saw him wipe away a tear.
‘She’s dyin’ Doc. Ah’m going to ‘ave to eiver sell this stall or carry on working it so ah won’t be able to work fer you no more.’
‘That’s sad Jimmy. I’m sorry.’ He walked away from the stall with the two melons and a thoughtful look on his face.
Whilst cutting up one of the melons that evening and arranging it in a dainty dish with a dash of lemon juice Hannibal got to thinking about Jimmy’s predicament and his own. Why couldn’t the solution to both their problems be the same?
The next day he went to the market again and found Jimmy’s stall.
He waited quietly at the side whilst the boy served a crowd of customers, then he called Jimmy over.
‘Can you close up for half an hour, Jimmy? I have a proposition for you’
Jimmy looked puzzled but he dropped the canvas blind in front of the stall and came around to talk to Hannibal.
‘Come. Let’s go and have a cup of tea over there,’ said Hannibal pointing to a pavement café.
They sat there for half an hour whilst Hannibal talked and Jimmy nodded. Eventually Hannibal said goodbye and went back home whilst Jimmy returned to his stall, an expression of great satisfaction on his face. It was certainly a good day’s work when he’d tried to pick the pocket of his friend Charlie Nibal.
On his return to Bakewell Mews Hannibal heard the pips of his answer phone as he walked through the front door. When he checked his messages there were six eager customers all willing to try out his weight loss programme. He paused for a second then deleted them all. He wouldn’t be needing them anymore
The following day he rose very early, dressed in his oldest clothes and tied a colourful kerchief around his neck for good measure. He’d be needing a cap but he could probably buy one at the charity shop on the way home.
When he arrived the market was just opening and there was an air of bustle as the market traders unpacked their stalls and laid out their wares. Jimmy greeted him warmly.
‘ ‘morning Doc, yer late’ he grinned and held out a grubby hand which had been used to unpack potatoes.
‘Good morning Jimmy. I’ll be earlier tomorrow, I promise,’ laughed Hannibal.
He was going to enjoy this. Such a change from hunting down human livers and hearts. After all, it was fashionable to be a vegetarian.
What an adventure this would be. His own fruit and veg stall. He could spend his days taking lessons from Jimmy on how to chaff the public and his evenings trying out exciting new vegetarian recipes. Maybe he could even open his own vegie restaurant. The sky was the limit.
‘Now,’ he shouted, ‘who will buy these two juicy melons. You wouldn’t get a better deal at Stringfellows’
Jimmy laughed, ’A bit posh, Charlie, but yer learnin’ ‘
THE END