Oggbashan Stew Pt. 03

She had visited a friend who lived nearby. That friend was outside the area her husband, Alan, was banned from entering. Somehow he must have found out where she was. He had been waiting near her car, grabbed her, dragged her into the alleyway and had started beating her up.

I had arrived after the first few blows. He had been telling her to withdraw the injunction, stop the divorce, and come back to him, punctuating each request with a blow or two. Usually he started slowly and worked himself up into a fury, eventually using all his strength until she was unconscious. Thanks to me he hadn't done much damage this time.

I made coffee for us. Clare had to be careful, drinking from one side of the mug to avoid her split lip. I noticed that the knuckles of her right hand were split.

"Did you hit him?" I asked.

Clare nodded. She reached for the pad and pen to write:

"Alan claims that I beat him up regularly. All I did was defend myself, as I did tonight. It took me months to decide that I wasn't going to just let him hit me whenever he wanted. The first time I hit back startled him. It startled me too. From that moment I had decided that enough was enough and I needed to divorce him. I went to the solicitor's office the next day. When Alan got the divorce papers he went mad. That time I had to be admitted to hospital. He'd hit me many times with a baseball bat.

The police interviewed me in hospital, took pictures of my injuries and statements from my neighbours because I'd managed to get out of the house. Alan kept hitting me while we were in the front garden, in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon. Some of the neighbours dragged him off me and someone had called the police. Alan was arrested but released on bail within hours.

At his trial, at which he denied everything despite the neighbours' evidence, he accused me of starting it and showed photographs of "his" bruises. The magistrates were shown pictures and medical evidence about my injuries and committed Alan for trial at the Crown Court. They imposed conditions for his bail: that Alan should live with his parents, shouldn't come within 500 yards of my house, shouldn't attempt to contact me except through his and my solicitors - until tonight as far as I know he'd met those conditions.

The divorce has been granted provisionally, becoming final shortly and he is due to appear at the Crown Court next week.

I'm afraid that if the police investigate tonight's attack he'll claim that I attacked him. You can't say whether I did or not. You came after I'd hit him several times but I was losing. He was high on drink or drugs and not feeling the pain. I felt every punch, particularly when he hit old bruising."

Clare stopped writing and rubbed her fingers. I could see that they were painful. I offered my first aid kit and use of the downstairs cloakroom. She took the kit and went to the cloakroom.

While she was gone I began to think about what I should do with Clare. Some of her story didn't ring true. If Alan had an injunction against him and had met the conditions until tonight - why did she have so many old bruises? I could see them on her face, on her arms and the way she moved suggested that what could be seem was a small part of her injuries.

Why should she lie to me? Why should she protect Alan? I was a witness to him punching her tonight - an independent witness who had never met either of them before. Surely it would be better for her to go to the police with my backing and get Alan restrained until after the divorce? What was I missing?

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Story 058

Silken Trap

I should have kept my mind on my task and well away from any romantic entanglements. But if I had, I wouldn't have been me.

My task was simple enough and easily completed. All I had to do in the secretive country was find out where their tank factory was, and whether it was actually producing tanks. My employers weren't concerned about how many tanks, or what type of tanks, just whether they were making any.

I entered the country legitimately as a businessman looking for local factories that could produce basic simple toys at a low price. I found several and had sent details back home of what could be produced and for what cost. That information could prove to be genuinely profitable for me and my employers, and good for the factories' owners and workers.

My real task was almost as easy. I suggested that I could be also interested in heavy machinery, track-laying cranes, bulldozers, tractors for export to some African countries who would be more concerned about competent ruggedness than looks. I was given an official tour of the tank factory. Alongside the agricultural machinery there were the tanks on the parallel production line. The line was moving and tanks were being made. I even looked closely at them. The tanks' tracks and suspension could be easily adapted for the heavy machinery I was apparently looking for. I even said so.

My messages back home included a couple of code phrases that told my employers that yes, tanks were being produced at the factory. I sent a map and contact details for the 'heavy machinery' factory.

My task completed, I relaxed. Too soon.

That evening I went to my hotel's bar. As with every building used by foreigners, it was monitored by their secret police. Every room was probably wired for sound and vision. All the staff and visitors would be checked before being allowed to interact with foreigners. I knew that, yet let my guard down with an attractive woman.

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Story 059

Sister

I love my sister. Once I would have added 'like a brother should'. Now I can't say that. I just say 'I love my sister'.

Everything changed on that disastrous Friday evening. I had gone round to my girlfriend's house. We were to go to a party and then perhaps on to a night club. An hour later I was walking back up the front path of my parents' house with my world shattered.

We had been boyfriend and girlfriend ever since we met on a postgraduate course. It was understood that we would get married but I had never actually asked her to marry me. That had been thrown in my face. I had taken too much for granted. I had taken her for granted and assumed that what I wanted to do she wanted as well. Now that had gone forever. What was I going to do? I had been saving for a deposit on our house. So had she. That Friday night was to have been a rare relaxation from our strict economy to celebrate her friend's engagement.

I hardly noticed opening the front door. Our parents were away. They had left during the afternoon to visit Dad's sister and they would be away until Sunday night leaving Sharon and I alone. Why not? She was in her final year at University and apart from going to the same engagement party with her boyfriend she intended to spend the weekend studying.

I looked for Sharon. I wanted to talk to someone and if I couldn't talk to my sister, who could I talk to? I heard something in the kitchen. I walked through to find Sharon crying her eyes out. I didn't say anything. I just wrapped my arms around her and held her. She sobbed against my shoulder.

My troubles didn't matter. I was her big brother. She needed me. That was enough. I stroked her long blonde hair as the sobs shook her. Slowly she calmed down. She turned her head to look at me. She may be my 'little' sister but that is only a term. In her heels she is the same height as me. I reached into my pocket for my clean handkerchief and dried her tears.

Sharon threw her arms around my neck and kissed me on both cheeks. That wasn't unusual. Both of us are tactile people. We touched each other often. Every time we met, even over breakfast, we would kiss each other on the cheek.

Then Sharon surprised me. After a peck on each cheek she kissed me full on the lips. I was startled but I responded even when she pushed her tongue into my mouth. I forgot she was my sister.

End of Part 03