Three years gone

March 11 was the third anniversary of the 8.9 magnitude Great East Japan Earthquake that killed almost 16,000 people and devastated whole cities.

Like a number of writers, I wanted to do something to contribute to the aid, even if only in some small way. My publisher Solstice agreed to publish a book of my short stories, and all my royalties would go towards the survivors’ fund. The book of sixteen prize-winning stories was When the Flowers are in Bloom.  It was published on May 4 and gained a modicum of publicity, but the sales never really took off.

 

A mere week later, May 11, Lorca in Spain – not far from where I live – suffered an earthquake. The death and destruction were not on the same scale – nine dead, dozens injured.

I don’t know why the sales of the book have been low. It’s possible that in people’s minds the earthquake nearer to home overshadowed the Japanese event.

The beginning of 2011 was still deep in the recession; perhaps people were watching their pennies and cents.

I don’t think it can be the cost: on the UK Amazon site the paperback is only £3.75; on the Com site the paperback is $5.69 (e-book $3.67).

Perhaps people thought the book was an opportunist exercise and wanted no part of it. Fair enough. (On the back pages four other Solstice books by other authors were promoted, not just my work). This wasn’t the first or only book to come out to gain financial aid for charitable purposes; it won’t be the last, in all probability.

Maybe the sale of books of short stories doesn’t capture the public imagination? That may be true for print books, but sales of e-reader short stories tend to give the lie to that old chestnut.

***

As I stated in the front of the book:
‘This work is dedicated to the people of Japan, of all nationalities. Through their continued fortitude and hard work, may they overcome the horrendous tragedy and destruction thrust upon them by earthquake and tsunami March 11, 2011.

This collection © 2011 Nik Morton.

‘When the flowers are in bloom’ © 2007 published in Torrevieja, Another Look III.
‘The Busker of Torrevieja’ © 2007 published in Torrevieja, Another Look III.
‘Duty Bound’ © 2007 published in The Coastal Press.
‘Grave Concerns’ © 2007 published in The Coastal Press.
‘An Act of Witness’© 2009 published in The Costa TV Times.
‘Codename Gaby’ © 2010 published in the Bookawards website.
‘The Proper thing to do’ © 2010 published in The Costa TV Times.
‘One Day, We’ll Walk Through’ © 2004 published in The Costa Blanca News.
‘Always the innocent’ © 2010 published in The New Coastal Press.
‘Nourish a blind life’ © 2009 published in The New Coastal Press.
‘A Reed Shaken by the Wind’ © 2010 published in The New Coastal Press.
‘I Celebrate Myself’ © 2009 published in The Beat to a Pulp webzine.
‘A Gigantic Leap’ © 2009 published in Midnight Street.
‘The Geordie Flier’ © 2009 published in Costa TV Times
‘Hammer and Honey’ © 2007 published in The Coastal Press
‘The Trilby Hat’ © 2003 published in The Portsmouth Post
 
It’s quite rare for short stories to pick up any kind of review. The following appear to be exceptions:

Nik Morton is a pulp master of extraordinary originality.  – David Cranmer, Editor, Beat to a Pulp

 
An Act of Witness. It has character, action, and that extra dimension which brought a familiar theme up to date, showing what can be done within the limitations of a 1,000 word story. – David Campton, Playwright.
 
Nourish a blind life
I read a lot and like to think that I’m fairly hardened to the human experience. Your story, however, moved me enormously. With a powerful understanding you avoided any mawkish melodrama. The ending, although sad, gave satisfaction knowing the narrator was soon to be free! Thank you.' – Eve Blizzard, dramatist and author, competition judge
 
Codename Gaby
It is a tale of betrayal and extreme courage in the face of overwhelming adversity, written with great insight and sensitivity. The emotional conclusion is well crafted, leaving the reader bruised but relieved, just as it should for such an intense period of wartime history. – Award Organiser’s comments
 
This short story captures suspense, drama and wonderful character depiction. In less than 2,500 words, we know and relate to our heroine, the period and her situation. The story is complete and compelling. It is a remarkable achievement and demonstrates this author’s outstanding writing skills. – Kate Cavendish, Book Awards reviewer
 
Foreword
Reading about the cataclysmic devastation that hit Japan in March, I was greatly moved by the attitude of the survivors. People of all ages went out of their way to help each other. Looting seemed a rare event. There was a determination to overcome this terrible adversity. Lives and towns would be rebuilt, eventually, even if it would take years. The people would endure.

It is this theme, the strength of the human spirit that I have attempted to capture over the years in many of my short stories. Some of these tales may seem sad or traumatic but, despite that, I trust that hope, love, honour and integrity shine through, transcending the blight of evildoers, disability and natural disaster.

 
As writers, we strive to walk in the shoes of our characters. Fiction writers lie in order to grasp the truth. In some small way, I hope these stories reveal truths about the human condition.

Thank you for purchasing this book.’

 

***

The contract for When the Flowers are in Bloom expires on 4 May 2014. It will then be out of print; maybe it will become a collectors’ item, maybe not.

Anyway, this was a final push in the hope of accruing further sales. In May I shall then pass on the royalties, as promised.

5 May 2014 - Sorry, these stories are no longer available in this format.

 

Saturday Story - 'Wrecked!'

WRECKED!

 

Nik Morton

 

photo - Wikipedia commons

 

From his windy vantage-point on the parched leg of land jutting into the Mediterranean, Jack Gilzean slowly pivoted his 10 x 50 binoculars across the horizon beyond the guitar-shaped island of Tabarca.

There they are! He adjusted the focus.

About four miles out, he spotted their motor-boat bobbing on the postcard-blue sea. With unzipped wet suit revealing a black hairy chest, Alan Seymour was leaning over the gunwale, helping his brother Bill inboard.

They were grinning. And now Jack could see why.

Slowly, they heaved on a line and with a rush of spray they bundled a barnacle-encrusted old theodolite onboard . . .

Jack's lean tanned features crinkled in a broad grin. So! That's where their precious wreck's lying! 

Bending over his chart, he plotted the wreck's position. "Well," he mused aloud, turning to his jeep, "the Seymours have just lost their exclusive rights to this wreck!"

He was at the crowded Torrevieja marina as Bill and Alan heaved-to. Through the jumbled masts and rigging, he watched them unload a bulky hessian sack -- doubtless crammed with Second World War relics!  Jack was an expert on that period.  His mouth watered at the thought of all the plunder waiting to be brought to the surface...

Later that evening, Jack crossed the twilit sand towards the Cabo Roig beach barbecue that was in progress. The brazier's charcoal fumes irritated his eyes as he approached Alan Seymour who was lazing against a pile of boxes filled with cans of beer. The camp fires highlighted the distinctive Seymour aquiline nose. Jack also picked out Bill further up the beach, dancing with a shapely bikini-clad blonde.

"Hi, Alan -- bring up anything of interest to the authorities?" Jack enquired pointedly. As far as he could gather, they'd kept the wreck's discovery a secret...

Alan's drink slurped. "What - ­what do you mean?"

Jack sneered. "Don't pretend you haven't found a wartime wreck -- I saw you this afternoon. I also have its position ... Perhaps the Spanish govern­ment officials would be interested in your find?"

Alan lowered his glass. His head cocked sideways. "What are you after?"

"A share of the spoils . . ." Jack shrugged. "Nothing too much, I’m not greedy, you know . . ."

Momentarily, Alan cast an anxious eye at his brother. "Look," he said, gesturing towards Bill, "I can't make that decision -- Bill discovered the ship." He hesitated, bit his lip. "Anyway, I think we're -- ah, here he is!"

Tattooed arm looped around the blonde, Bill sauntered up to them. "Enjoying the party?"

Jack nodded, then switched his cold grey eyes to Alan.

"Bill, I -- could we talk alone a minute?" Alan stammered, edging away towards the shoreline.

"Go dance, pet!" Bill said, slapping the blonde's rump, then followed Alan.

Alone, Jack gulped his beer and watched them talking by the phos­phorescent waterline, arms gesticulat­ing, their raised voices distorted by the faint night breeze.

He opened another can just as the brothers returned.

Bill's rugged face appeared cloudy, black brows lowered.  "Your scheme’s meaningless now, Gilzean . . . You see, we're reporting the wreck tomorrow -- it's too dan­gerous . . ." He grinned. "Tough, eh?"

"But --" They left him with mouth gaping and joined the hubbub of voices and music.

Staring after them, Jack grimaced and kicked up sand angrily. Damn! They're probably scared of a few unstable explosives!

Never found a valuable wreck in my life, he thought, and when a chance comes, I'm stymied! Unless... He grinned, thoughtfully stroking his dimpled chin.

*

Jack parked his jeep and rushed up the hospital steps, heart hammering fearfully.

"They're both on the critical list, sir . . ." the doctor explained in English outside the ward. "They'll be unconscious about twenty-four hours . . ."

"Thanks, doc."

So his meddling with their car hadn't killed them, after all. With any luck, they'd pull through.

            I only wanted to delay them, make sure they didn't report the wreck yet.  Still, they wouldn't be doing any talking today, not to anyone.  Time for one dive...

Grinning under the cloudless sunny sky, he flung his diving gear into the back of the jeep and motored to the jetty. Once there, he leapt aboard his old MFV and steered for the wreck's co-ordinates.

About twenty minutes later he con­firmed the position and cut the engine and anchored. Impatiently strapping on his two twelve-litre aluminium cylinders and ten-pound weight-belt, he smiled thinly. At last, an almost unspoiled wreck!

He tested the makeshift winch and pulley he'd set-up amidships. Should hoist a few items with that!

Slowly he lowered himself back­wards into the warm waters. The viz was good.

Equalising his ears at about twenty feet, he could just make out the wreck's framework below. It seemed split in half.

Odd, nobody noticing it before. Then he remembered the profusion of rocky sea-beds around here.  Without an accurate fix or sheer good luck like the Seymours had, it would never be found.

Legs pumping, eager hands guiding him over the barnacle-covered guardrail, he snaked across the bows. Her name looked like, Graf Skagerrak.  German.

Ropes and hawsers littered the canted deck. A lifeboat hung lopsidedly in its davits. Fish lazed in the well-deck's shadows till his passage disturbed them.

He switched on his torch. Barnacles glistened. Fish darted away.  Weeds billowed gracefully, shadows cavorted.

Up in the wheel-house he uncovered a ship's compass beneath the remains of a corpse -- all bone, silvery white.

He'd come back later for the compass and that pair of binoculars draped round the skeleton.

            Jack finned down the companion-way, into the hulk's depths. Light lanced through numerous holes in the hull.

Emerging from the rent open stokehold, he finned over to the after section. Here he came across a closed cargo hatch. As he braced himself against the coaming, he heaved open the rusted hatch, its creaking sound carrying underwater.

There was no release of pressure from inside: Bill or someone else must have opened it earlier.

It was a spacious hold. Huge packing-cases were piled at the end.

He swam over.

The clamorous clang startled him. 

He swirled round in a flurry of bubbles.

The hatch had slammed shut, probably with the swift current hereabouts.

He shrugged.  Wedge it open later.  He headed for the crates.  Some were smashed open, revealing carboys nesting in straw. A number of these were cracked.  Although he couldn't tell what was inside, tiny bubbles issued from the cracks.

Then his light discovered the German writing stencilled on the crates. 

Tabun – Anorgarna GmbH, Dyhernfurth.

Wartime nerve-agent...

His heart raced as he wheeled for the exit-hatch above. But it wouldn't budge...

***

Previously published as ‘The Wreck Hunter’ by Platen Syder, 1973, in Parade; revised as ‘Wrecked!’ and published in The Coastal Press, 2005. Copyright Nik Morton 2011.

If you’d like to read more of my published (and prize-winning) short stories, please refer to When the Flowers are in Bloom (Solstice Publishing), 2011. This anthology might become a collector’s item as it will be out of print as from May, 2014.

Another collection, Spanish Eye, features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, and is available as an e-book and paperback. Published by Crooked Cat.

 

 

Saturday Story - 'Remorseless Time'

REMORSELESS TIME

Nik Morton

 

‘Why do you go back?’ the very thin and pallid temporal engineer asked, the last in a long litany of familiar questions. One of these days, he might get a different answer from me. But not this time.

            ‘I want to suffer contrition,’ I said, as usual, ‘but can’t.’

            Sitting opposite, the NB judge leaned back and sighed. ‘You can’t change the past, Mr Thurston.’ The judiciary had dispensed with wigs fifty years ago. He looked like a kindly uncle rather than a hanging judge. Not that they hung anybody in New Britain. In a way, indoctrination was much worse. Death was final. Indoctrination seemed like a living death to free spirits like Donna, Tim and me.

‘You know the law, Mr Thurston. You have to live with what you have done. Be suitably contrite and then we can all move on.’

            ‘I need to go back, your honour,’ I insisted, ‘it’s my just punishment, after all.’

            ‘Very well, then.’ He cleared his throat and rubber-stamped the authorisation. It may be the twenty-second century, but some in authority still relished the old-fashioned methods. He handed the authority to my attractive probation officer sitting beside me.

‘Stuart, you’re booked for Tuesday week,’ she said with an insipid smile. ‘At 2.55am.’

            I turned back to the judge. ‘Thank you, your honour.’

            His face twisted in a half-hearted scowl. ‘On your return, I trust you will show more remorse.’ He didn’t care, I could tell. As long as he got paid handsomely with a protected pension fifteen years earlier than the taxpayers who financed his position, he didn’t need to care.

            I nodded and said, ‘I will definitely try to show remorse, your honour, next time.’ But I doubt it, I thought, but didn’t say.

 *

Behaviour control started last century with the street corner cameras and the legions of government funded organisations sustaining the monolith of intrusive government. Individuality was frowned upon for thirty years until the Tinkering Triumvirate, as we called it, kicked in - drugs were introduced into cigarettes and alcohol and subliminal messages were sent out through television, primarily during those boring unscripted reality shows and the plethora of soaps.

All of a sudden, individuality stood out and was deemed dangerous.

            By this time Donna, my brother Tim and I and thousands like us, who preferred reading to watching drivel on TV, had cottoned on to what was happening and went teetotal and underground. Literally.

            We’d been quite successful, disrupting the transport of drugs to the water-treatment plants and a few carefully sited explosions shunted several television channels off-air for days at a time.

These so-called public disorder interruptions threw up quite a number of people who suffered withdrawal symptoms which were characterised by discovering the invasive real world. Some committed suicide, others rushed to find an alternative fix, while many joined our rebellious ranks.

 

Wikipedia commons

 *

We rebels were free to think and free to love. Unfortunately, on the very morning that our underground outpost was under attack from government troops, I found my wife Donna in bed with my brother Tim. A red mist descended over me and the next thing I knew, they were both dead at my feet. The smoking revolver was on the floor.

            I was devastated and sank to my knees, which is how the government troops found me.

            I was arrested and charged with rebellion against the state as well as the lesser offences of murdering Tim and Donna. I pleaded guilty, as my good counsel advised.

While we’d been fighting our little skirmishes against the government brain-washing system, they’d moved on.

Wrongdoers were adjured to visit their past crimes – literally – and repent of their sins. Yes, the religious bigots had taken the reins, ousting the accountants who’d made a mess of things.

            When the boffins had discovered time travel, the state was in a position to commandeer the plans. Clearly, certain strata of society were protected against NB indoctrination – the scientists and the ruling elite. As engineering was moribund in the country, no private businesses could afford the time machine’s funding.

Time-travellers were incapable of interacting with the past or its people; they were merely observers. The theory goes, if you see what you did often enough, you’ll be contrite and ask for forgiveness. Only the state can forgive.

            This time, though, the judge had permitted me to arrive at the scene five minutes early. I’d pleaded that if I understood what was being said before I entered the bedroom, I might be better placed to comprehend what happened.

So I arrived at the bedroom door, dressed as I had been on the day. The lights were out. I slipped into the shadows to the left of the door.

            Donna was saying, ‘I’m his wife, I shouldn’t be doing this!’

            ‘Hey, I feel like hell, too. But you fancy me and I fancy you. So let’s do it.’

            She shook her head and then she saw me in the shadows and gasped. ‘Tim, it’s Stuart, he’s here!’ Her eyes screwed up tight.

            True to her words, I watched myself arrive at that moment at the bedroom door and discover them in bed together.

            Like all the other times, my face drained of colour and I simply stared. Not once had I seen myself move from the doorway, not once had I seen myself kill the two people I’d loved most in the world.

            At that same instant, the sirens sounded. ‘Government troops have infiltrated the bunker!’ The tannoy announcement echoed in the room.

Tim swore and fumbled under the pillow, pulling out the revolver.

I could see it in Donna’s eyes, she thought Tim was going to shoot me when I knew he was probably just getting ready to fight off government intruders.

            The gun went off accidentally and Donna fell back. Shocked and appalled, Tim flung the weapon away and it went off again, the bullet hitting him in the chest. The revolver landed at my feet.

I keep going back, but it’s always the same. How can I show contrition? I didn’t kill them; it was an accident. But the judge would never believe me.

So I keep going back – just to see them.

 

Both images of surveillance camera - Wikipedia commons

***

Previously published in Telling Tales #4 – Winter, 2009.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2009, 2014

 

If you’d like to read more of my short stories, many prize-winners, please check out When the Flowers Are in Bloom – Amazon.com e-book here and Amazon.co.uk e-book here – paperbacks are also available.

Or try my Leon Cazador collection, 22 cases of a half-English, half-Spanish private eye, Spanish Eye from Crooked Cat Publishing - Amazon.com e-book here and Amazon.co.uk e-book here – paperbacks are also available.

 

Saturday Story - 'What is suspense?'

‘WHAT IS SUSPENSE?’

Nik Morton

 

‘In conclusion, then, the suspense novel can be about any subject but it must hold the reader in an ever tightening grip. You must tantalise the readers, allowing them to watch with growing unease as the characters unwittingly plod towards their doom. It’s show, don’t tell; but don’t show too much. If you show too much, it becomes horror.’

This fitting conclusion to his talk echoed in his mind now as Grant Adams let his lips curve in a self-satisfied smile while he left the community hall and walked to his Rover in the municipal car-park. Because he was a keen observer, he noticed there were five other cars parked here; all of them with registration plates older than his. Some way behind him, two women hurried down the steps to one of the cars; perhaps they had another appointment or a husband to appease.

As he triggered the remote to unlock his car, he moved to the boot and dumped his holdall on top of the first-aid box. He swung in behind the driving wheel and wondered if his audience had appreciated how much good writing time he had expended on preparing the drivel he spoon-fed them tonight. The Crimewriting Fraternity’s paltry fee hardly covered the cost of the electricity that fed his computer. Still, he’d managed to sell and sign twenty-three paperbacks and four hardbacks to boost his coffers. Every little helped.

He switched on the engine and a Fiat Punto pulled out in front of him. That person must have left pretty sharpish, he thought.

Grant drove past the unmanned raised barrier and followed the Fiat. He reflected that if he was honest with himself, he should feel grateful to them for inviting him. All week he had been mired in one impasse after another in his latest suspense novel; it looked as though he would have to bin the lot of it and start again.

It started to rain. His silent windscreen wipers kept his visibility clear. He noticed that the Fiat ahead had slowed down and was braking frequently, more than the conditions warranted. Bloody hell, the driver’s probably drunk! He decided to overtake – carefully.

The road ahead was familiar and the straight stretch afforded him plenty of time to overtake. He checked his mirror, nothing was coming, then indicated and accelerated smoothly, experiencing a slight pleasure at the power of the vehicle at his command.

In the blink of an eye he was level with the Fiat. He glanced at the driver – a woman, he recognised her, probably in the audience – and smiled a little condescendingly as he revved past and moved back into the right side of the road. He put his foot down and burned up the road.

Surprisingly, the Fiat kept pace. Typical! She was one of those drivers who dawdled and kept holding you back and suddenly when they were overtaken they found that their car had a go-faster pedal.

Well, he wasn’t playing her game. He’d only had a largish glass of red wine all night but he wasn’t going to get caught speeding. He kept to the limit.

 
Twenty minutes later he pulled up outside his mews flat. Well, it was two knocked into one, really. A wide pavement in front of the bow window afforded sufficient space for him to park without causing an obstruction. It helped that he was friendly with several councillors and the Chief Inspector of the police. It was strangely gratifying to have your writing talent acknowledged by the powerful nonentities. The occasional acknowledgement at the back of a book helped, of course, whether they contributed or not.
 
The rain had stopped about two minutes earlier. He got out and locked the Rover. Some sixth sense urged him to glance down the road and he could have sworn he saw the Fiat Punto parked against the kerb about a hundred yards further down, in front of W H Smiths; on a yellow line. The headlights were off and it was just using sidelights, like two eyes watching. The engine was idling and sounded in good condition. An odd shiver traced his spine and he shook it off. Too imaginative, by half, he that was his trouble – or blessing, as a suspense writer. There were plenty of Puntos about. Besides, he hadn’t cut her up or anything. It had been a straightforward overtaking manoeuvre.
 
Unlocking the front door, he stepped over the threshold and his ears detected that the Fiat’s engine noise had stopped. Before closing the door behind him, he couldn’t resist popping his head out to take another look.
 
The driver – it was a woman, he could see that by the way she walked, even though she wore trousers – was heading towards him. He shut the door and leaned against it. Coincidence. She’s probably calling on somebody nearby.
 
Peeling off his jacket, he hung it in the hall, switched on the lounge lights and went to the drinks cabinet. A decent Rioja beckoned. The Group’s red wine had been palatable enough, but his taste buds needed something more up-market.
 
He poured a generous measure. He believed that he had deserved it.
 
Grant took a sip to tantalise his palate and at that moment the doorbell rang.
 
‘Who the hell is that?’ he wondered aloud and lowered his drink.
 
The oblong glass panel in the front door gave him no clues. The shape could be anybody’s.

Inserting the safety chain, he opened the door.

 
‘Hello, Daddy,’ the woman from the Fiat said. ‘I’m Phoebe.’
 
‘Pardon?’
 
‘You’re my father. Didn’t Mummy tell you?’
 
After an embarrassing lengthy silence, he noticed that the resemblance was there, once he studied her. ‘My God! You’re – you’re Jackie’s daughter?’
 
She nodded. ‘Yes. And yours.’
 
He felt sure his heart had plummeted to his shoes. Good God, that was thirty years ago, at least. He remembered it vaguely, a silly writing retreat romance. Jackie wrote awful poetry and mystical fantasy so deep you could drown in it. So she’d become pregnant. But she hadn’t bothered to tell him.
 
He supposed he owed the girl a chat. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. Shutting the door, he unlatched the chain and opened it wide. ‘You‘d better come in.’
 
‘No, I’m happy enough here.’ And she pulled out a revolver from her mackintosh pocket.
 
He gaped. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
 
‘No. It’s real too, not a fake.’
 
‘You can’t be serious. Until tonight, I didn’t know you existed!’
 
‘This has nothing to do with you being my father. I just don’t like your books.’ She fired twice.
 
As he clutched the door handle and sank to his knees, he noticed that the pain wasn’t so great, even as the red stain spread from the mortal holes his chest. Just like in my books, he thought. Damn the girl – everybody’s a critic these days.
 

Previously published in Costa TV Times, 2009. Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

 

If you liked this short story, please consider reading my published short story collections: They are When the Flowers are in Bloom (Solstice Publishing) and

Spanish Eye (Crooked Cat Publishing)

 

 

Saturday Story - 'The Reckoning'

THE RECKONING

 by Nik Morton

 

 

Across the fields, on the other side of Naseby village, the fires of the Royalist camp glowed in the dusk. They were roistering and carousing, Matthew thought, while the soldiers around him watched and prayed. Tomorrow, he would ride out with Cromwell’s cavalry, perhaps to slaughter his own cousin, Richard Brampton.

            It promised to be Sir Thomas Fairfax’s first major engagement as general of the New Model Army. A thoughtful, judicious and humane man, Fairfax was greatly liked by his own troops and civilians alike. Matthew had also seen Cromwell – ‘the plain russet-coated captain that knows what he fights for and loves what he knows.’ The presence of both men inspired him.

            The battle was not his first, but Matthew dreaded it - perhaps because he felt instinctively it would be decisive.

*

It was decisive. And terrifying. Rupert’s cavalry defeated the Parliamentary left and charged off the battlefield in pursuit.

            Matthew knew that so long as the Royalist pike-men kept their nerve and tight formations, it was almost impossible for cavalry to penetrate the ranks of pike-heads and lay about them with swords. Nevertheless, Cromwell led the charge against these tough infantrymen.

            Hearing the heavy breathing of the horse, feeling its flanks rub against his thighs, Matthew still believed he could detect his own heart pounding in a mixture of fear and excitement.

            Sweaty clothes chafed at his flesh and his helmet wobbled on his head; he was a big powerful man who had difficulty finding a uniform that fit. Matthew’s calf-hide gloved hands tightly gripped the reins as he rode towards death.

            In front of the pike-men and under cover of the protruding spikes, the Royalist musketeers fired steadily. Puffs of smoke discoloured the air. Behind their ranks soldiers swore, jeered and cheered. With each rank taking it in turn to fire while the others reloaded, the musketeers poured repeated volleys into Cromwell’s horsemen.

            Matthew felt musket balls split the air near his face and on two occasions heard the awful dull thud of a ball hitting his saddle leather.

Within minutes, the battlefield was wreathed in smoke and resounded with the shouts and cries of the wounded and the dying.

            If the gunpowder and shot in the musketeer bandoliers held out, then the cavalry would be decimated. Recklessly, Matthew leaned down and heaved up the corpse of a comrade and set the man in front of him, dead legs astride the horse, acting as a shield. Then Matthew charged, at the last second swerving his horse and tipping the dead man on top of three pikes and two musketeers beneath them.

            Matthew swerved his horse round again and trampled the Royalists underneath, sword scything left and right.

A musketeer used his weapon to club the head of Matthew’s horse. The poor animal lost its footing and Matthew toppled.

            But his foolhardy strategy had created a breach and through this Fairfax’s cavalry charged, firing pistols and carbines.

            By sunset the King had deserted the battlefield and there was a trail of bodies all the way to Leicester.

            Matthew searched them all. Unless Richard was one of those whose features had been obliterated by horse’s hooves, axe or pike, he was not among the dead. Oddly, that comforted him a little.

            Bloodied, tired, aching in every muscle, his head still ringing with the clash of weapons, Matthew rode among the thousands of captured Royalists, seeking out Richard Brampton.

*

Night fell. Astride his horse, Matthew carried a flickering torch to light his way.

            Suddenly, out of the shadows stepped Richard Brampton, his fine brocade clothing in tatters. “You seek me, dear cousin?”

            Matthew charged, feinted then sliced down, shattering Richard’s rapier.

            Richard’s mouth worked, but no words came. He backed into a tree trunk.

            Dismounting, Matthew strode over.

            “She wanted us to, Matthew - I swear!”

            Matthew removed a parchment sheet from inside his battered blood-smeared breastplate. “She fled after you and your friend Ralph ravished her! She has written me from a convent and confessed all!”

            Swiftly, Matthew’s sword completely severed Richard’s right hand.

Richard screamed in shock and pain.

            “I only spare you for your father’s sake since he took Elizabeth and me in as orphans.” Fiercely, he thrust his torch at the stump: it hissed as the blood-flow was staunched.

            “My hand!” Richard whimpered.

            God, forgive me, Matthew thought. Turning away, he snarled over his shoulder, “Think yourself fortunate I only cut off your hand and not what hath offended my sister Elizabeth!”

***

A very short story.

Previously published in 2011 in The New Coastal Press. Copyright 2014, Nik Morton

 

A collection of my prize-winning short stories can be found in

When the Flowers are in Bloom here or here