Arthur Podge

Arthur Podge

The room was old-fashioned. The décor in assorted shades of caramel, the dado rail supporting a row of painted plates denoting birds of prey, the record player and integral speakers built into a piece of Sixties’ period furniture, the wooden standard lamp topped with a shade of autumnal foliage; the only nod to more modern technology was the digital set-top unit attached to the huge wooden box that was a television. The three piece suite had seen better days as well, but it suited the small rounded man who sat in an armchair near to the gas fire. He was old-fashioned too.

Arthur Podge tapped his foot in time to the music. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass were playing Spanish Flea. The slight smile on his fleshy face showed he was enjoying the tune. It was a mild diversion from the trad jazz music that usually occupied his turntable and, after all, it wouldn’t do to be too stuck in his ways. Any sense of irony in this thought would have been lost on him.

The song reached its end and the stylus arm clicked and returned to its cradle. Arthur sighed and heaved himself out of his chair. He pulled at his grey corduroy trousers where they had wriggled into his groin, and walked towards the window. The evenings were getting a little lighter and it was notable that the inhabitants of Little Benton were taking full advantage of the extra daylight.

He saw Johnny Perry turn the corner by Mrs Whelk’s bungalow. Johnny had calmed down since his arrival in the village two weeks ago. The youth no longer repeatedly kicked his football at Mrs Whelk’s door. The requests to stop had been ignored, but when every kick of the football began to rebound into Johnny’s face, the habit was cured. Arthur noted that the two black eyes were starting to fade.

A shadow flitted across the window, interrupting the evening sun. The door chimes echoed down the hallway. Arthur pulled the edges of his cardigan forward and shuffled to the front door. He looked down at his slippers. Nearly worn out, he would need new ones soon.

In the hallway he saw a figure distorted by the frosted glass panels in his door. Arthur nodded to himself. It was his neighbour, Ellie Mayberg. She’d said she would come when she had an update on her current domestic situation. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Was he suitably dressed for company? A button on his shirt had loosened due to the strain imposed by his belly, so he moved his knitted tie accordingly and tucked it into his pants. His hair was neat enough, premature balding helping in that respect. Yes. He would do. He opened the door. Ellie was smiling.

“Mr Podge, I’ve got some great news. Can I come in?”

“Yes, Miss Mayberg –“

“Ellie, I’ve told you.”

“Ellie. Yes. Come in.”

They moved into the room Arthur had recently vacated. Ellie sat down on the sofa, clearly eager to speak. Arthur eased himself back into his armchair.

“First, that weasel Barry Harwood was found out. His manager came across from Manchester and called me back in to work, told me that Harwood shouldn’t have fired me, and that they want me to replace him. He’s out on his ear.”

“When did this happen?”

“The firm found out about him yesterday, around the time I was in here talking to you. They told me this afternoon. I can hardly believe it.”

Arthur nodded. “That is good news, Ellie.”

“I was so worried. Sorry for being a mess yesterday.”

“I’m pleased it’s worked out for you.”

“It has, hasn’t it? And that’s not all. Paul has been dumped.”

“Paul who used to be your Paul?”

“Yep. And he had the gall to come crawling back to me this morning.”

“And?”

“No one treats me like that. I gave him the knee.”

“Ouch.”

“I just had to come and thank you for listening.” She came to her feet and kissed Arthur on his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Mr Podge. Arthur.”

Arthur reddened. “Thank you. I’m happy things have turned around.” 

Ellie’s smile widened. “They have. I just had to tell you, but I can’t stay. I’m expecting a pizza delivery.” She moved towards the hallway. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

Arthur listened to her leave, reflecting on her words. A pizza delivery. The village was beginning to change. He slowly shook his head, stopping when the telephone rang. He reached towards the side table and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Mr Podgy?”

“Podge.”

“Ah. My name’s Eric. I’m calling from Microsoft support. We are detecting problems on your computer.”

“My computer?” Arthur sighed. Another scam call. He reached into his pocket for his briar pipe and gazed at it whilst the voice on the telephone continued to speak. He didn’t smoke, but it he found it soothing to handle its smooth wooden stem, a habit he had acquired many years ago. He resumed listening to “Eric’s” accented voice.

“…it is something that will not be identified by your virus control software…”

Arthur put the pipe in his mouth, clamping it with his teeth. The mouthpiece was cool on his lips. He breathed out through his nose, listening to the caller. Something was happening in the background – an increasing commotion of voices threatening to overwhelm Eric, who was still intent on informing him of a problem with a non-existent computer. The background voices grew in volume.

“…there’s a problem with the entire network… …something’s burning… …we’ve lost the entire database… …oh no, the sprinklers…”

There was a single tone as the line went dead. Arthur replaced the receiver, took the pipe out of his mouth, smiling as he put it back in his pocket.

He was still smiling as he made his way back to his record player and flipped over the Herb Alpert long-playing disc. Time to listen to this before he made his tea. Perhaps he would try a pizza one of these days.

He didn’t consider himself a superhero. Superheroes deal with international issues, whilst he was content to live in his old-fashioned house in Little Benton.

Arthur Podge. Karma Man.

[This short piece is in memory of my best schoolfriend Chris Simister who sadly passed away towards the end of last year. Chris created a doodle of Arthur Podge when the rest of us were drawing superheroes. I attempted to duplicate the drawing above. RIP Chris.]

Coping

“I don’t know why they publish this sort of stuff,” said Diane, throwing the paperback onto the garden table. “I mean, talk about clichés – ‘it was all a dream’? Do they think we’re stupid?”

“You didn’t like it, then?” said Mark, struggling to keep a straight face as he raised himself up from weeding the borders. “And you paid full price for it, too.”

Diane looked at her husband over the top of her Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses. He could see that she wasn’t amused and waited for a suitably acerbic retort. He didn’t have long to wait.

“You know what? The book may be a cliché, but no more than our marriage. Do you think I have fun living in this house, this oh-so-precise garden, having to cope with your super-nerdy workmates talking about computer programs – I wonder why I put up with it all.”

Mark looked at his wife – the botoxed forehead, the thin lips, the corded neck, the expensive jewellery, the carefully manicured nails on her claw-like fingers – paying particular attention to her expression as he formed a reply.

“Why do you put up with it all?” Mark said, taking off his gardening gloves. “Perhaps it’s because it pays for your lifestyle, your jewels, your cosmetic surgery, your affairs and even the trashy novels you criticise.”

Diane’s mouth dropped open.

“You seem surprised,” said Mark, “I don’t usually have the audacity to reply, do I?”

“You can’t talk to me like that–” began Diane.

“Not usually, no. But today’s different. Today I asked myself why I put up with it all.” He reached into a terracotta planter, shifted some hessian sacking and withdrew a sawn-off shotgun.

Diane visibly shrunk back into the garden lounger as Mark lined up the twin barrels.

“You know, it wasn’t that difficult to come up with an answer.”

Two shots rang out.

Mark closed his eyes and sighed.

There was a beep, and a synthesised voice resonated in his ears. “Simulation forty-six completed.”

He opened his eyes and took in the familiar surroundings of the computer lab, pulling off his de-activated goggles, removing the headphones and the sensor-enhanced gloves.

So. Sure, it was all a dream, but it’s one way of coping. Especially when Diane buys a new book.

[Another "Scrabble Challenge". This time, the ten words to be incorporated were publish, dream, like, paid, saint, fun, house, cope, super, shots.]

Why? I'll Tell You

We’ve been here around half a million years. Well, that’s the theory and I’m not going to argue the toss. That’s when we became a part of human evolution.

My name? You could argue that I don’t have one, but for convenience I suppose you could call me Richard as I effectively share his brain. I’m a part of his genetic make-up, you see. You don’t? Well, don’t feel stupid – it’s an unusual story and… let me explain.

Back in prehistory, you had some ancestors – Homo heidelbergensis, I believe. For want of a better word, we “merged” with a proportion of them. Now don’t try and pin me down on what we were or where we came from – it doesn’t bear too much scrutiny. Bacterium, virus, alien invasion? I doubt we’ll ever know. You’re in the same boat whatever our origin.

The point is, we became part of their mitrochondrial DNA. As millennia passed, evolution split these ancestors into two subspecies. We were part of those that eventually became Homo sapiens. The others became Homo neanderthalensis.

We developed a shared consciousness over time. Perhaps that gave us Sappies an advantage over the Neanderthals: social interaction, coping with changes in environment, having the edges over them in logic and instinct… Or it could simply have been a genetic resistance to disease.

Anyway, sorry to drone on. You’ll want an answer to your original question.

We become passive as a result of alcohol. And that’s why you think you’re witty when you’ve had a pint.

Another "Scrabble Challenge" exercise. This one was to include the words toss, brain, stupid, story, bear, boat, edges, drone, witty, pint

The Dentist

“Fling your coat over there, love,” said Cathy North, “Back of the armchair, that’s right. Now come and give your mum a hug.”

DC Sean North edged past the glass-topped coffee table, avoiding stubbing his toe on the ornate eagle-clawed feet, and wrapped his arms around his mother. He broke away and sat on the sofa, smiling as he did so. He always felt comfortable here, having spent his teen years in its unchanging surroundings. 

“I was in the area and couldn’t leave without calling in,” said Sean.

“Are you involved with the doings down the road? At number twenty-six?”

“For now, yes, but probably not for much longer.”

“What’s it all about?”

Sean hesitated. “You know I shouldn’t talk to you about it, mum.”

“I thought we didn’t have secrets from each other?”

“Well…,” he began, “if it goes no further – and I mean that. Not even dad…”

“You know your father. If it’s not about snooker, the old goat isn’t interested. But you have my word. Whatever you tell me will be strictly between us.”

If Sean had been honest with himself he would have admitted that’s one of the reasons he had called in. Talking things through with his mother always seemed to clarify his thoughts. And events were moving quickly.

“Okay mum, so long as that’s clear.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a murder.”

“Oh my God. Who? Not Diane?”

“You know her?”

“Not well. I sometimes see her in the corner shop. What happened?”

“They’re still working on the exact cause of death. But they’ve found enough to – and again, I have to stress that this is confidential – found enough to suggest that she’s the latest victim in a series of killings.”

“A serial killer?”

“Yeah. And that’s why they’re bringing in the big guns. One gun is the Serious Crimes Analysis Section from the National Crime Agency. They deal with behavioural analysis and have been involved with the previous killings.”

“What makes them think it’s a serial killer?”

“It’s to do with the teeth. Each victim has had their front two teeth removed – post mortem – and had them replaced with those belonging to the previous victim. Stuck in with super glue.”

“Oh Sean…”

“I know. They’re calling the killer ‘the Dentist’, but are keeping it hush-hush. The Press would undoubtedly pay for this sort of information and you know the greed of some people.”

“Shouldn’t people know?”

“Not my decision. As I say, I’m not likely to be working on this much longer. Scenes Of Crime Officers are moving out, but they’re keeping the house sealed for now. I have to go back to the station to give a final briefing, so I should make tracks.”

Sean stood and moved over to the window, looking towards his car.

“Oh, typical. Someone’s boxed me in.”

“White van?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be picking up Denis next door. You won’t have to wait long.”

“Right.” He looked back at his mother. “You say you didn’t know Diane Morris that well?”

“No, love. She didn’t leave her house much. Borderline agoraphobic. I once saw her come home in a taxi after she’d had to go to the town centre. She was in a terrible state.”

Sean frowned. “So it’s not likely she’d travel to London?”

“Oh God, no.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why she had a new Oyster card?”

The Dentist was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time: fling, eagle, goat, _un, dentist, greed, tracks, boxed, wait, oyster.

The Collector

Moogie quietly closed the oak panelled doors behind him. He stood in the gloom, watching the eager flames dance in the fireplace at the far side of the drawing room. This provided the only light, throwing a high-backed leather chair into silhouette.

Not only was the room larger than his entire flat, the paintings on the walls were probably more expensive than his entire building. He reflected how easy it had been to gain entry into Edwin Morely’s home.

A cultured voice startled him. “Ah, it’s the other one. Which one are you, Butch or Sundance?” A somewhat feminine laugh followed. “Come forward where I can see you.”

Tentatively, Moogie walked towards the fireplace and, circling the chair he saw, seated there, the owner of the voice. It was an elderly man, his face resembling a deflated balloon, his purple lips drawn back in parody of a smile. He lifted a liver spotted hand and pointed to a small display case beside him on an occasional table.

“I’m a collector,” he said, “as you probably know.” He dropped his hand so that it rested once more on the chair arm. “Your friend knew this, and he paid me a visit too.

“You no doubt thought it was easy to get in here. He did. Well, my security team are well hidden. They will have followed you in.” He gazed at Moogie with unexpectedly clear eyes. “When I was younger, if I wanted to trap an insect I used a jam jar. It could get in, but it would torture itself trying to get out.”

Moogie stared at the old man. “I’m only here to find my friend.”

The smile reappeared. “Ah. He’s no longer here. Well, most of him.”

Moogie slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “What do you mean?”

With obvious effort, Edwin Morely sat forward in his chair. “I told you, I’m a collector. Come see.”

Moogie leaned forward to look into the display case. Pinned there, like a butterfly collection, were a set of what appeared to be dried figs. Two were not dried.

Morely’s smile grew wider. “What do you people say, ‘pin back your lug holes’?”

Moogie didn’t really think it through. He just knew it was time to exact revenge. From his pocket, his hand shot out, holding a combat knife. He plunged it into Morely’s throat.

The old man sank back in the chair, pink froth on his lips. The smile was no longer there.

The Collector was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time, gloom, home b_tch, liver, insect, torture, exact, knife, pink, smile.

Waiting for the Man

The gull was back, tearing at the greasy takeaway carton. The incident that had left two bodies crumpled in the alleyway had only been a minor inconvenience to the bird. Truth to tell, it had only been a minor inconvenience to Cain Hartman.

When Mason had told him that the target’s security detail had all undergone something called the Tactical Combat Training System, Hartman had revised his plan. Granted, with his unarmed combat skills he could overcome TCTS techniques, but he was not one to be driven by ego. Besides, bullets to the head were quicker.

Before acting, Hartman had waited until the shorter of the two guards had given the all clear and shut off his phone. Timing was everything. The target was due to arrive any minute.

William Cochrane. A ruthless man with a love of power and a desire to control that was almost a fever. His death would be a gesture of hope to those who had been tortured and sent to jail without trial. His pain would not be prolonged, but it would be a sort of karma, nonetheless.

Hartman could appreciate the difference his actions would make. But he was not an idealist – it was just another job. His escape route was set; the sniper rifle was snuggled into his shoulder.

He heard a car engine and saw the piano-black BMW turn the corner at the end of the street.

Soon. The rifle stock would jar his shoulder and it would all be over.

Waiting for the Man was the result of another Creative Writing exercise, whereby you had to write something including ten "random" Scrabble words, In this case the words were: gull, granted, t_ts, ego, love, fever, gesture, jail, jar and karma.

Liposuction

The following was a writing exercise - a lipogram whereby the letter E is not used anywhere within the narrative. Perhaps this suggested the title of the piece...

Liposuction

Many folk talk about my habit of walking along woodland paths at night. Many say I am out of my mind, saying it is not as if colours will burst out from local flora. A fraction thinks my motivation for this unusual habit has a lot to do with my partiality for shadows. Dark and black. As black as soot in a – black soot bin. Possibly.

I’m also fond of sounds coming from nocturnal animals – owls hooting and so forth, sounds making my arms’ skin so rough that it is similar to that of citrus fruit rind. I find that particularly satisfying. No doubt you think this is slightly odd.  

Truthfully, I go to find victims. My companions and I join up to look for food. To sink our fangs into vagrants, though pickings don’t approach what you would call rich.

Throughout world history, you won’t find many of us about.

Now, Dracula and his ilk may suck blood from a victim’s throat, but my cohorts don’t go for that. I am part of a dying kind. Our compulsion is to suck fat. A stout guy’s stomach would do, but I must admit draining a plump girl’s thigh is gratifying. Why not a buttock with its additional fat, you may ask? It’s an alluring thought but I avoid that path. I don’t want folk to think I’m corrupt. 

A possibility is that, months from now, I will start up a liposuction clinic. My chums and I could work at such a clinic and finish our nightly woodland walks. Mmm, tasty.