She stood slightly to one side of the entrance tunnel, just beyond reach of the dragged suitcases and rampant elbows thrusting through the crowds; a safe distance. She gazed at the tracks, a bland and uninterested observer awaiting the arrival of the next train, destination unknown. A smile crept unannounced onto her face, and illuminated it to one which most people would not deny was pretty.
She had noticed the mouse a few minutes earlier, small but perfectly formed. It seemed blissfully happy engrossed in its own drenched, dirty and downright dangerous environment. She smiled. She liked this mouse. She watched it for a few minutes, not one or two minutes, but almost five or six, that’s a long time to watch a mouse. Not for this mouse a glorious wooded glade, sun triumphantly spearing through the leafy canopy to spotlight the leafy ground; nor being held captive within a gilded cage, an indulgent child’s pampered pet treated to ever fattening tooth rotting treats. No, this rash little rodent had decided to reside in Kings Cross, foraging across forever humming, electrified lines of a London tube station. She admired that.
This was a life changing mouse, he didn’t know it, nor did Melissa. If it wasn’t for this mouse she may not have taken that one step forward. She was always so careful to keep back from the edge, tactile paving or aggressive yellow lines reminding her of the threat.
The commuter late for his meeting rushed down the escalator two steps at a time; regular travellers around him marvelled at his athleticism, tourists shook their heads at his arrogance and foolishness. They side stepped quickly to a point of safety as he whistled by, mobile phone at his ear; yet another business meeting on the move.
Melissa felt her hair ruffle as the gasp of the approaching train reached her. She glanced at her mouse hoping he wouldn’t get hurt, slight panic rising as he skipped over the track. She felt herself being jolted forward as someone rushed by; she joined her mouse on the tracks.
Billy
By Craig Hallam
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen death. Everyone was on the edge of dyin’ most of the time, for whatever reason. But it was the first time I’d ever seen someone die of old age, which ain’t so common. Even now. This was before we left New York City, you understand. A long way from here. We was one of a hundred or more Irish families, so there was only two people to call when someone passed; the Priest, then the Undertaker. The Priest had come with our parents on the long ship from Cork and had gotten rickets real bad when he refused to take food that someone else needed. Bet he regretted it for the rest of his bow-legged life. He came a-swayin’ into the shack first, little leather book in hand. He was all stubble, and his dress was stained with gravy and beer at the bib.
It was my Grandpa that died. On the McCarty side, cuz I never met the others. I remember looking up at the table they’d laid him out on, and knowing he wasn’t asleep. He was the wrong colour all over, like corn husks left in the sun. I couldn’t help prayin’ that I’d never grow so old; laid out on someone’s table with the whites of my eyes showin’ and my face slack on the skull like last year’s snakeskin.
When the Priest read his rites, I think I asked if I could speak to him too. Ma said no, he couldn’t hear no more. I asked why he could hear the priest but not me, and got kicked outside for it. To be honest with you, the dyin’ of Grandpa didn’t bother me so much. He’d given me a throttlin’ the day before for treadin’ mud, and I was still pissed at him. That’s how a boy thinks. It wasn’t until it was too late to care that I realised I’d done wrong by him. I thought about prayin’, and figured I shouldn’t bother. God wasn’t gonna blame a kid for being a kid.
The sun was setting over the hills by the time the Undertaker got there. He must’ve walked from town, and it took him a while, I guess. Or maybe there isn’t much rush to be had in Undertakin’. With the sun at his back, he was just a black shape cut out of the sky. That tall hat cast a long shadow in the dirt so he was walking on darkness the whole way; his little boots kickin’ up puffs of dust. That kind of picture has an effect on a boy, like it or not. He came up to the shack and looked down at me for a minute. Not weighing me. I know how a man weighs another, I’ve been weighed plenty and done plenty of my own. But he wasn’t doing that. He was just lookin’ as if he’d never seen a kid before. His suit was black as his shadow except for his little shoes and trouser cuffs that were specked with road-dust. He went inside, and I couldn’t help followin’ him in. Soon as he was through the door, Ma started to sob real hard. That made me even more afraid of Undertaker than before. The Priest was mumblin’ like a river when the Undertaker stepped up to the table. He had thin old hands, and he ducked one inside his jacket, pulling out this long white tape. Then that Undertaker started measurin’ Grandpa like wood from the yard. The old Priest blew his stack. He was spittin’ and gripin’ about God and blasphemy and giving a soul its due time to leave the flesh and all manner of things. The Undertaker never swayed. He bent over the little Priest like a bow on the string, casting his shadow long, and waited for the old man to finish his shoutin’. Then he went back to measurin’, finished his work and walked out. The Priest waited ‘til he was done.
Had a great respect and fear of Undertakers ever since. But as I always say, those two things is one and the same in my eyes. We slept all night with Grandpa on the table. The table was usually my spot, and so I was even more pissed at him for bein’ there. But soon as the sun was up two young boys was there to pick him up. The pine box looked smaller than it should, but he fit in just fine. I guess the Undertaker knew what he was doin’. The shack’s door was narrow, just a slit where a few planks had worked loose, and the boys bumped Grandpas box more than once on their way out. I kept expectin’ him to shout out, bang on the lid and curse those boys for bein’ clumsy. O’course, he never did. They slid him onto the back of the cart and Grandpa was gone on the back of that wagon before the sun was rightly up.
I guess I’ll be seein’ somethin’ like those boys myself soon. Hope they cart me more careful than they did Grandpa.
We lost Ma in Silver City. She was a worker, never stopped. Bakin’ pies, washin’, scrubbin’. We took so many boarders, that I stopped tryin’ to remember their names at breakfast. But by the time that disease was done, she had nothing left in her. She was young still, but Bill was younger and he didn’t know how to care for her proper. They weren’t married a year before she was gone. He didn’t stick around and I only used the Antrim name when it served me. Don’t blame him. He watched her go just like I did, and if I could have got away right then I would’ve. Ma tried to hide it from me, o’course. But there was no hiding the coughin’ and wretchin’ in the night. Coughed ‘til there was blood on her pillow. Bill would just hold her until her chest hurt so bad he couldn’t anymore. No doctors, no Priest that time. New Mexico had its fair share of Bibles, but not many would come near Consumption, even after death. Guess God doesn’t look after his own more than any other. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.
O’course I mourned Ma for a good while. A boy losing his Ma is never an easy thing. But more than anything, I kept thinkin’ about how she went. And there was nothing good in it. She stayed honest, married and raised, was God fearin’. Hell, she travelled half way across the world to be where she was. And she died bad with blood in her mouth and pain everywhere it can be.
I was really on my own from then. Fourteen. Not that it’s nothing special around here. Lived with the family next door, worked for my keep. But odd jobs are called such for a reason, and times was harder. I got caught a couple of times, mostly with things others had stolen. I soon figured if I was going to get caught, it might as well be for somethin’ I did. I stole food now and again, but only when times were hard, you understand. I’m no thief. Oh sure, I’ve taken things that belonged to others, but only in payment or after the owner couldn’t have use of it no more.
You’ll be wanting to know about Cahill, I guess. What it felt like to kill a man for the first time. He was hackin’ on me hard that day. I can take it better t
han most, and deal out a whole lot more lip than you’d think, but Cahill got rough and that’s when things change. I hit the dirt hard, and with all those folks standing around, there’s only one thing a man can do in that kind of situation. I rolled over, and as his boot came down, I shot him. It was shoot him or be killed in the dirt by a man four times my size. By my reckoning, that pistol just made us even. That’s the end of it. I shot him and would have been done up for it if I hadn’t ran.
Killing never comes easy, and I don’t think any man does it without thinking he has due cause. And everyone I shot between now and then needed to be shot.
Remember them? Of course I remember them. Every damned face. I’d better not forget. They’ll be waiting for me when I get to Hell, and I’ll be damned if they’re gonna get the jump on me.
Cahill will be first in line, but I’d be happy to shoot that bastard again. Morton and Baker will be next, dragging that stinking traitor McCloskey behind no doubt. Brady and Waite should walk on by. We’re even now, and if anything I should be pissed at them for the bullet caught in my thigh. That hurt like a sum’bitch, I’ll tell you. Being shot’s no way to go. But as it goes, the amount of bullets I’ve had thrown at me and the few that’ve hit, I’ve been lucky. I’d rather swing than die shot. A good long drop and a short stop and you’re out quicker than you came in. Never knew a man who took a bullet quiet. I can’t be having with my last words bein’ a beg.
You can stop me, you know. For every word you say, I’ll have two score to add. I never usually apologise for it, but I know your time’s precious and mine’s short.
Fine then, Buckshot was next to go. That bastard put up one hell of a fight. He took on the Regulators, including yours truly, killed Dick stone cold and wounded five more of us. Had to shoot him square in the lungs to slow the bastard down. After that, I seemed to lose pals at every damned turn. More pals than foes, leastways. Every captain the Regulators had got himself killed real quick. That’s why I always stood back when they asked who was next. Poor Frank was braver than he was smart, and took it next along with Ab. Both good boys.
Around the time we took Segovia for his part in Dick’s death, it seemed to me that I was spendin’ a whole lot of my time avengin’ other folks. Most of the deaths to my name are there cause they killed a pal of mine. Or tried to shoot me in the back, like Grant. Not you nor your educated readers can tell me there’s nothing more righteous than punishing the wicked. Hell, it’s God’s work. I don’t think I killed anyone that He wouldn’t agree needed smitin’.
My pals. Hell, yes. Family is what they were. None of us had no other. And I watched just about all of them die one way or another. Even Tom, and I don’t mind tellin’ you that cuts me up the most.
Enemies? Hell, no. Me and Garrett, we’re old buddies. In no way do I feel sore about this whole thing. He caught me fair, square and gentleman-like. Look where I am now. Pat brought me all the way to Las Vegas for our last buddy trip. No, me and the sheriff, we’re bigger pals than anyone who came before. You go ask him. And tell him he still owes me for that redhead whore in Waco. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be hanged without bein’ paid.
Y’see, this whole thing comes down to one simple thing. Pat’s more of a crook than I could ever be, but I’m more famous and he never could take that.
I got two days before I’m off to Santa Fe. You think they’d let me out for a walk or somethin’. Never been to Las Vegas before and doubt I ever will again.
Nah, they don’t bug me. I’ve been in manacles a few times and never had much bother with them. To be fair, I’m only a small man anyways and don’t mind sayin’ it. And these were made on the average so they won’t ever go too tight.
Escape? Yeah, I think of escape every day. For the last year all I’ve done is escape. I’ve been sieged in barns, burnt out of houses, me and Tom even got away after the Dolan trial. We just rode out of town like anyone else with no-one payin’ us nevermind. But none of those were as good as the first. Right up the prison chimney. I was fifteen, even smaller then than I am now. They never saw that comin’. Until I was out and on the roof, I never saw it coming neither. You could say that was the start of an addiction. Like some men have beer and opium and Indian Grass. I love bein’ in tight spots and I love gettin’ out of ‘em even more. Just a shame I got nowhere to escape to this time. I got few friends left and most are further away than is possible to reach. If I’m gettin’ out of this one, I’ll be gettin’ out on my own.
Sure, sure. It’s been good talkin’ to you. Hey, send me a copy when it’s done? I’ll be in Santa Fe by then, trialled and waiting for the final jig. I’d hate to miss it. And hey, on your way out, don’t forget to tell Garrett ‘bout that debt.
The infamous William H. Bonney was never in higher spirits than throughout his interview. Much of the outlaw’s stories are disputed by the eminent Sheriff Garrett of Lincoln County. Since the end of this interview, the criminal has been transferred to Santa Fe County Court to stand trial for the murder of Sheriff Brady. The trial went ill for Bonney when he was found guilty and sentenced to hang by Judge Warren Bristol of the aforementioned court.
However, in a rousing turn of events, Bonney made a desperate attempt to escape his holdings. Reports say that he slipped free of his manacles, clubbing one deputy to death with them, and then firing on and killing a second. Bonney was last seen on horseback, leaving Santa Fe and heading south. Witnesses say that he was singing and appeared in no real rush to be away.
As you read this, Billy the Kid is at large in the New Mexico area.
(James Lassiter, Las Vegas Gazette)
ICE
By Jacqueline Hodgson-Blackburn
Beautiful yet cruel
As Japanese Samurai
Snow felled
Folds of still white.
Now ice sharp cones
Point ever downwards
Clinging fast,
Brittle as Narnia’s ice queen.
Or, stretched clear as glass,
It makes us wait
On darkened roads
Abreast, car by car.
Stock still
We’re waiting for
The heave and wheeze
Of icy shards
To clasp us fast to some other place
Once new
Where delight travelled sharp and sweet
A chastened wonder.
A sharp cut of rind
To take us home.
Night journey
By Andy Stratton
Once upon a recent time, there were two
children, rocked within the magical
embrace of a metal humming box,
as lights swam past in the night.
Within the hammock of warmth, they watched
the tick tick flashing firelight, the swish swish
sweeping line, spreading a small wave
of water across the glass behind.
Grey lit banks of weed leaned
in towards them, whispering, ‘come play
with us in the deep’, and the girl slipped
beneath the surface and slowly sank.
The boy watched the fire dials,
the slow sweep of the man’s arm,
the nodding woman, smiling
in poseidon’s arms.
Birthday Surprise
By Pete Denton
It was a noise that stirred Jane from her night’s sleep, but what kept her awake was the aroma of freshly ground coffee drifting into the room. She loved that first cup of the day. It was her husband’s job to stick the coffee machine on, especially as it was her birthday and the surprise needed to be organised. The banners and balloons would announce her age to the world: the big five-O.
She stretched her arms above her head and then propped herself up. She ruffled her long dark hair away from her face and took a deep breath. She heard another noise that made her look towards the door. It sounded like he was moving furniture around. Jane gave an excited giggle as
she climbed out of bed and slipped on a long white-satin robe.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing down there, Ben,’ she said. ‘But it sounds exciting.’
They did everything together, Jane and Ben. They’d never spent a night apart in nearly thirty years of marriage. They seemed to be in each other’s pockets from morning to night; except for the morning of the birthday surprise. It had become a ritual. Their ritual and one she cherished. She would get some coffee and burst into the living room to celebrations and presents.
Jane stepped out onto the landing and listened as she moved down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom step as the board creaked. She could hear some muffled sounds coming from the front room. Then she heard another voice. It was definitely male and younger, though she couldn’t hear what was being said. Maybe Daniel had arrived to help with the decorations. She hadn’t seen her son for months as he travelled around Asia. He must have returned for her. She wanted to rush into the room there and then, but traditions must be followed. She needed to get her drink and allow them time to finish. If they didn’t appear she’d burst in for her surprise.
After a few minutes, she’d poured her coffee and stood in the hallway, smiling. Jane wondered whether Ben had outdone last year’s Prom tickets as she pushed open the door. The curtains were drawn and the lamp in the far corner switched on, she could see some paint on the walls; red or brown.
She heard the footsteps behind her.
She felt the pain across the back of her head and saw her blood spray across the birthday banners and balloons. As she fell to the floor Jane saw her husband sat in the chair across the room. His grey hair matted with his blood, eyes wide open, unblinking. She felt the point of a blade pressing against her skin. His breath was warm across her neck as the knife ripped into her back. She felt it the first two times as the life pooled out of her onto the carpet. Ben was already dead and she was about to follow. They did everything together.