Oggbashan Stew Pt. 01

Hazel picked up the penknife and cut almost through the tape holding him to the tree. She dropped the open penknife in front of him.

"There. You should be able to free yourself when I've gone. If you don't, some of my friends will be along soon. I can't answer for what they might do to you. It wouldn't be pleasant, so when you are free, go away quickly and don't come back - ever. Understand?"

He nodded.

Hazel put her earphones back in and continued running. She didn't report the encounter to reception but told the rest of us over breakfast. Of course we had to go to the tree to see if he was still there. He wasn't. The duct tape was still stuck to the tree and there was duct tape and string on the ground.

"Shame," Emily said, "we could have enjoyed playing with a would-be rapist."

We were busy the rest of the day and tired by the evening meal. We drank too much in the bar. After all, we are Rugby players. Maybe it was the drink but we decided to go on a rapist hunt just after dusk.

Hazel was doubtful. She thought he would have been frightened off by his experience at her hands. We persuaded Melanie, our smallest scrum half, to be the decoy. She would jog around the trim trail wearing a tight sweater and a skater's skirt over her shorts. The rest of us would be around the Trim Track in pairs, except Hazel who would be about fifty yards behind Melanie.

Despite being prepared, Melanie was startled when she was grabbed from behind in a bear hug. She yelled "Hazel" as she threw herself backwards.

But this attacker was not of slim build, nor like Hazel's description. He was much heavier and taller but dressed identically. Even when Hazel arrived the two of them were having difficulty restraining him until four more of us tackled him. With six strong women working together he was soon hogtied with his own rope, and his balaclava was wrenched off.

"It's not the same one," Hazel protested.

"I know," Melanie replied. "This one could have been a real problem."

The rest of us arrived. Emily was dragging the man who had attacked Hazel in the morning.

"He was watching," Emily explained.

"Has he still got some duct tape?" Hazel asked.

Emily shook him roughly. He looked terrified.

"Have you?" she asked. He nodded.

"Pass it over, Emily." Hazel asked. "We want some quiet while we do as we have planned."

Hazel slapped duct tape over the larger man's mouth and on the man being held by Emily.

"Melanie? Could you get both keys for the small gym, and bring back the stretcher?" Hazel asked.

Melanie and another two set off. They returned within five minutes with the wheeled stretcher, designed for use on rough ground. The larger man, still hogtied, was lifted on to it and tied securely. Emily dragged along her victim.

Story 008

Bill

It started with an unpaid bill. The brown envelope on my mat on Thursday evening was the first confirmation that something was seriously wrong with my sister's affairs.

It was from the local council asking for payment of local taxes three months in arrears. Why should that be?

A year ago my employers offered me a temporary contract in London with the inducement that it would be good for my longer-term career prospects. What really helped was the offer of a company flat near the West End. I accepted but I didn't want to sell my house because after the year I would be returning.

Emma is my younger sister by several years. It seemed sensible to me to offer her the use of my house while I was away. It would be more convenient for her work, would be better than leaving the house empty, and would help her to save for a deposit for a house or flat of her own. All I wanted was that she should pay the bills for the house. Now this brown envelope told me that she wasn't paying this bill. Was it the only unpaid one? I didn't want to have to pay the bills for the company flat and my house.

I wrote a cheque for the amount owing and sealed the envelope. I decided to ring Emma at her work tomorrow. I knew that she had a live-in boyfriend. I hadn't been impressed the few times I had met him. If the conversation might be painful, I would rather speak to Emma alone. I walked to the post box and dropped the letter in.

I didn't sleep well that night. I love my little sister and if she was in trouble I would have expected her to tell me, not find out from an unpaid bill. I thought that the trouble must be really serious or she would have mentioned it in our phone calls and emails. I woke early and packed a bag, just in case. If Emma was in trouble I was going back to sort it out.

I rang her shortly after nine am. She was surprised that I had rung her at work. I mentioned the unpaid bill and she burst into tears. She was almost incomprehensible.

"That does it!" I said through her sobs. "I'm coming to you this afternoon. Is the spare room empty?"

"Yes, Caroline..." Emma replied faintly, "but the house is in a mess..."

"Where's Ron?" I had remembered the slob's name.

"At home."

"Why?"

"He's not working."

"How long has that been?"

"Months..."

That was the obvious explanation of Emma's money problems. Ron at home not working, the house in a mess, and he was living off her earnings. The sooner I confronted him, the better.

"Be careful with Ron," Emma said.

"Why should I be careful with Ron?" I asked.

"He gets angry very easily..."

"Does he? So do I."

"You don't understand, Caroline. He gets very angry..."

"Has he been hitting you?"

No answer except more sobbing. Obviously he had.

"I'll be there about two o'clock. Don't tell Ron I'm coming. Don't!" I emphasised.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Emma is my little sister. Apart from being younger, she's a head shorter than I am and lightweight. I'm no lightweight despite my frequent sessions in the gym. One of the courses my employers had sent me on was self-defence for women, because I often have to visit customers in their own homes. I have never had trouble with any customer, but I had fought off two attempted muggings, one of the risks of walking around parts of London in the late evening. Sometimes I had sparring matches at the gym and I could give a good account of myself. If Ron tried anything with me, he'd soon find that the big sister isn't a pushover...

After a short consultation with my secretary I was able to leave the office in plenty of time. She has my mobile number just in case but there was nothing urgent and I had enough credit with the company to go missing for days if I wanted to.

It was an odd feeling, climbing out of the taxi after the drive through the familiar streets. I had last been here six months ago. The front garden was untidy. It hadn't been.

I walked up to the door, put my suitcase down and wondered whether to ring the doorbell. I ought to but I wanted to see Ron as he is, not as he would be as soon as he saw me. I pulled the familiar key out of my purse and slid it in the lock. It turned easily. I opened the door and walked in.

The noise hit me first. A football match was on at high volume in the living room. The smell came next; stale sweat, dirty washing, tobacco and a hint of some cannabis.

I nearly tripped over the piles of dirty washing along the hall. I put my case down and shut the front door quietly.

Story 009

Bit Part

I came back to my senses slowly. My head was throbbing. I had pressure all over my body as if I was wearing a tightly-laced corset from neck to ankles. I opened my eyes and winced at the light. It wasn't a bright light. A dim bulb was far away but any light hurt. I tried to lift a hand to shield my eyes. I couldn't. My hands and arms were immobile bent around under the bench. I tried to say something. I felt the ball-gag. I could lift my head slightly. The pain banged in my head and I felt sore at the neck. I peered along my body. I was helplessly wrapped inside layer after layer of transparent plastic film. Under the plastic I was naked. My breasts were flattened. Heavy straps held my body to a long bench.

My feet were bent over the end of the bench and tied to the outside of its supports. Another tie pulled my knees apart. Cool damp air told me that my pussy was exposed, naked and vulnerable.

'What happened? How? Where am I?' I thought, before 'Who did this to me?'

I tried to scream as I thought 'What will happen to me?'

For once my finances were in good shape. Until now my main income had been as a jobbing actress, playing minor roles on TV, taking supporting roles in touring and occasional West End productions, doing innumerable commercials. I'd told my agent 'If the pay's OK, don't ask. I'll do it.'

I prided myself on my versatility, my range of accents and characters. The public were barely aware of my existence. My name on a theatre poster would not bring the crowds. That had just changed. I had recorded a short run in a popular nationwide soap as the mature femme fatale from his past who distracts the faithful husband from his boring wife. This was 'his' first ever indiscretion and had attracted tabloid journalists. I had even appeared on the front page of one of the tabloids this week.

My part had been written and played like Joan Collins as a 'Dynasty' bitch. I had loved it. The permanent cast had encouraged me to overact outrageously. We had to re-record several scenes because we couldn't stop laughing. As with most popular soaps, everything was in stark contrast. I, as Amanda, was the bitch with no redeeming qualities. He was my victim. She was the long-suffering wife who would forgive him.

I had recorded the episodes several months ago but only now were they being shown. The cheque for that role had cleared my small overdraft and left a healthy balance. Then the bombshell dropped. When not acting I write detective stories for women's magazines and a few detective novels. The rights to the magazine stories had been sold to a TV company to make a series. The amount I was paid was staggering and I had fees to come from repeats. There might also be merchandising fees as well.

For the first time in my life I had money. I wasn't rich but I could buy a small house and still live frugally even if I never wrote another line or accepted another role. I hugged to myself the thought that no one except my literary agent and the tax man knew that the working actress and the now successful author were the same person. My stage name and my nom-de-plume were different and my own name was not connected to either.

I was singing happily to myself as I drove into the small village. I had been away for a long weekend visiting my cousins. I had no appointments until next Monday so I was taking a leisurely route back to my rented bedsit in Southwark. I had stayed overnight in a farmhouse bed and breakfast a hundred miles behind me. Now I needed a break from driving, a cup of coffee and to think where to stop for lunch.

I parked in the village centre where the road widened. There was a coffee and antique shop. The prices looked reasonable. I had to remind myself that I could afford unreasonable prices if I wanted to.

There were only two middle-aged customers, sitting in the bay window. Both looked at me as if they recognised me. He looked at me as if I was a Playboy centrefold. I wish. She looked at me as if I was the devil incarnate. I suppose I should get used to that sort of reaction. Amanda was the nation's current villainess. For a few weeks I would be famous or infamous.

The proprietor, standing behind his counter, also seemed to recognise me. The odd thing is that I thought I knew him too. His face showed the slick tautness of plastic surgery. His ears were ragged. I assumed he had been through a fire. Perhaps he was a retired fireman? Despite the repaired injuries he had a presence and an aura of the matinee idol. Unlike his customers his recognition, if that is what it was, was more an acknowledgement than their obvious staring.

As I ordered my coffee the woman virtually dragged her husband out of the shop. I could see her upbraiding him in the street. His head was bowed. She was glaring at me through the shop window as she berated him. What had he done? Until I entered the shop they seemed a normal couple at peace with each other. Had he expressed some crude desire for me? It seemed unlikely. He didn't seem to be that sort of man.

I turned to the proprietor.

"What was that about?" I asked.

"That is Mrs Farrier. She is jealous of any woman her husband looks at and even the ones he hasn't noticed. She is so unsure of herself..."

"And my entrance caused that?"

"Yes, Joan. It did. Any attractive woman would start one of Mrs. Farrier's tirade, but to see 'Amanda' in the flesh will really get her going. I feel sorry for him. The rest of his day will be hell."

"I'm sorry."

"It is not your fault. This week you are famously evil. You frightened Mrs Farrier. She probably thinks you have come here just to get her husband."

"Is she mad?"

"Not really. Stupidly jealous for no reason and no madder than many fans who think actors ARE the people they portray."

Something that he had said niggled at me, like a piece of food stuck in my teeth. What was it? I tried to dismiss it as we talked about the village. I asked him to join me for a coffee as we chatted. He was an entertaining raconteur and by the time I left his shop I was determined to see some of the village before driving on.

I went around the church and climbed the castle mound. From the top I could see the neat fields stretching away interspersed with copses and occasional glimpses of the small river. In the dappled sunlight it seemed idyllic. I sat on a convenient bench and wondered how this scene could be in the same country as the littered noisy streets of Southwark.

I walked along the village's main street and stopped at the Estate Agent's window. The house prices seemed very cheap compared with Central London. Why not? Almost anywhere was cheaper than London.

There was a cottage for less than I'd have to pay to buy my Southwark bedsit. I decided to indulge my curiosity. I opened the door and walked in. A young man looked up from his desk. I felt old enough to be his mother.

I told him that I wasn't yet a serious buyer but just interested in the possibility of moving out of London. He showed me details of a range of properties. I could afford almost any of them except the manor houses with extensive paddocks. He suggested that if I had time I should actually look at some of the empty properties to get a feel for the local prices. His mother would be available at 2 p.m. Would that do?

I agreed. I walked back to the coffee and antique shop. I thanked the proprietor for his recommended sights and asked for a suitable place to have lunch. He was diffident. I pressed him.

"I'm sorry to say that the only place locally that I can recommend is... here."

"No pubs, no restaurants?" I asked.

"Not unless you want to drive at least ten miles each way and that one needs to be booked a week in advance."

"Oh." I said. "What can you offer me?"

"Baked potatoes with fillings, a couple of pasta dishes, or a fry-up."

"What pasta?"

"A frozen lasanga or my own special Spaghetti Bolognaise."

"What is special about your Spaghetti?"

I wasn't convinced.

"The sauce. The spaghetti I cook to order. The sauce I make daily. Each day is slightly different depending on the available ingredients. Today's will be good."

"OK. For some reason I trust you. Spaghetti it is."

It was almost as if he was entertaining me at home. A few people came and went for coffee but mine was the only meal he cooked. No. He cooked a portion for himself and put it on a plate in the microwave.

Story 010

Brothers

"Brothers!" Anne said as she ended the call.

"Brothers?" I queried. "You've only got one."

"I know. It's my brother and yours I'm pissed off about." Anne said.

"What's Mick done now?" I asked.

"Can I have another cup of tea first, Sandy?"

"Of course."

We were in the kitchen of our shared flat. We had just unpacked the weekend's shopping when Anne had a call on her mobile. She didn't say much to the caller. She spent most of her time listening. Her responses were short - 'I'm sorry'; 'You're sure?' and she ended with 'Thanks for telling me'.

I poured another cup of tea and put it in front of Anne.

"Well?" I asked.

"That was Ellen. She rang to tell me she's ditched Ralph. This time she thinks it's permanent."

"Why? Ralph's nice..."

"Nice! That's his problem. He's too polite, reserved and doesn't take offence. I thought Ellen was great for him. She's a strong person who doesn't take crap from anyone. Ralph loves her but she runs him - or did."

"So? What caused the change and the ending?"

"Your brother Mick, Sandy. They were at a party last night. Mick was drunk..."

"Again?" I sighed.

"Again, Sandy. Mick's an arsehole when he's had too many. He grabbed Ellen's tits."

"And?"

"I know. Mick grabs any prominent tits when he's drunk, even mine. But it was Ralph's reaction that pissed off Ellen. Ellen thumped Mick. But Ralph calmed her down, persuaded Mick to go away and sober up."

"That seems sensible."

"Exactly. But Ellen wanted a more positive or physical reaction from Ralph. She thought Ralph should have hit Mick too, or at least pushed him away, or should have sworn at Mick. Ralph was too calm and conciliatory. He's much bigger than Mick. Ellen thought Ralph should have acted, not talked."

"Ralph is Mick's friend. You know that."

"So does Ellen. She thought Ralph valued the friendship with Mick more than his relationship with her. Even today she's still furious."

"I wondered why you didn't respond much during that phone call, Anne."

"Ellen was too wound up. She wouldn't have listened now. She needs time to calm down and think. A good sign is that she rang me to warn me that Ralph might need my support. That shows she's still thinking about Ralph's feelings."

"You could have mentioned Ralph's arrest last year..."

"Ellen knows about it. When she's thinking straight she might consider that it affects Ralph's actions."

Last year my brother Ralph had come to the local theatre to pick me up after the rehearsal of an amateur play I was helping to stage. He had parked the car and was approaching the stage door as I emerged. A drug addict mugger grabbed my purse. He ran towards Ralph who hit him with a single punch. The mugger was knocked unconscious and hit the pavement hard. It was all recorded on the theatre's CCTV. The mugger was in a coma for a week.

The Police arrested Ralph for 'actual bodily harm'. The Crown Prosecution Service took months to decide whether to prosecute Ralph of not. They had to consider whether his action was proportionate. Eventually they decided that there was no case for Ralph to answer. The local newspapers had portrayed Ralph as a heartless thug assaulting a smaller man. They eventually printed a tiny apology totally unlike their headline accusations.

Story 011

Carhunt

Judy and I were lost. We had been doing so well with the car treasure hunt. We had solved the first three clues perfectly. The fourth one had led us astray.

We thought it referred to a ruin near a tumulus between a Roman Road and a disused railway. We were between the two and had found several tumuli on the map but no ruin.

"Paul," said Judy who was navigating, "We're getting nowhere and it will be dark soon. I think we should give up."

"Let me have a look at the map," I replied. "There must be a ruin somewhere around here."

Judy handed it over, scowling. I trusted her map reading but...

"I think we might have read the clue wrong." I said. "If there were a ruin in the right place you would have spotted it."

I had to be diplomatic. Judy has a temper when her abilities are unfairly criticised. It is one of the things I love about her. She is competent in most activities and brilliant in some. She was right this time as well. There was no ruin anywhere near us. I unfolded the map to get a wider picture.