Flying the Coop

Cohen flashed his badge and the cop lifted the incident tape to allow him through. He walked down to the jetty, buttoning his coat against the wind whipping across the water. Under a dim sodium light, a couple of uniforms stood over a body lying face down in a puddle on the otherwise dry boards. His partner, Robinson, was crouched down next to it, a torch in her hand.

‘What have we got?’ said Cohen.

Robinson answered without looking up. ‘Couple of fishermen hauled him out. Caucasian, mid-forties. Cable ties round his wrists. Bullet to the back of the head.’

‘I guess we can rule out suicide,’ said Cohen. The uniformed cops snickered.

Robinson rolled her eyes, flipped the corpse over and went through his pockets. She fished out a sodden wallet and found a driving licence.

‘Ilyas … something.’

‘Khasbulatov,’ said Cohen. ‘Commonly known as “The Chechen”. One of Torode’s guys.’

‘Drug gang killing,’ he said, yawning. ‘Bag him up. I’m going back to bed.’


The next morning, Cohen arrived to find Robinson already hard at work. She ambushed him at the coffee machine, notebook in hand.

‘You were right about Khasubal…the Chechen guy,’ said Robinson. ‘He came over in ‘96, allegedly fleeing the fighting in Chechnya. Seems he had skills that Torode found useful.’

‘Like how to handle a gun?’

‘Must have been more than that,’ said Robinson. ‘Under Torode’s patronage, he rose up the ranks pretty quickly.’

‘So, it was one of Torode’s enemies who whacked him.’

‘Maybe,’ said Robinson, ‘but apparently he’d fallen out big time with Torode’s new son-in-law, Luc Verlaine.’

‘Verlaine had a beef with with The Chechen?’ said Cohen, stirring his coffee.

‘That’s not all,’ continued Robinson, trailing Cohen to his desk, ‘My snitch also tells me that The Chechen had been secretly meeting with Torode’s main competitor in the local heroin business.’

‘Dan Hatton? Very interesting.’

‘Who should we talk to first?’ said Robinson.

‘As the man sang,’ said Cohen, ‘first we take Dan Hatton, then we take Verlaine.’

‘Spare me, Cohen, please,’ sighed Robinson, picking up the car keys.


‘Sure, I met with Khasbulatov,’ said Hatton. He leaned back in his chair, cigar in hand. ‘His import/export experience, and the inside information he offered, would have been very useful. And he was keen to further his career in my organisation.’

‘Keen?’ said Cohen.

‘Desperate, actually,’ said Hatton. ‘When Torode brought his pushy son-in-law into the business, Khasbulatov knew his time was up. Verlaine’s a snake. A poisonous one.’

Hatton rose to indicate that the meeting was over. ‘Listen – I wanted to hire Khasbulatov, not kill him. But if Verlaine found out he’d been talking to me…’

‘Boom,’ said Cohen. ‘Kentucky Fried Chechen.’

They thanked Hatton and headed off to find Verlaine.

‘Hatton’s story sounds plausible to me,’ said Robinson, starting the car.

‘I agree,’ said Cohen, ‘Moreover, it answers one of life’s eternal questions.’

‘What’s that?’

Cohen cleared his throat. ‘Why did The Chechen cross Torode?’

‘Oh no…’ said Robinson.

‘Oh yes,’ retorted a smiling Cohen. ‘To get to the other side.’

First published in Writers’ Forum, October 2018 issue, as Winner of the Flash Fiction Competition.

The brief for this competition was to write a story that explained ‘why the chicken crossed the road’ – but as far removed from the original joke as possible. It also had to end with the phrase, ‘to get to the other side’. Regarding my inspiration, I said, “The ghost of a famous Canadian songwriter told me to do this as a crime spoof and to mention his name. I was too frightened to argue.”




‘So you already knew what was in Mum’s will, then?’ said Graham.

‘Pretty much,’ said Angela. ‘She mentioned it a few times when I was sorting out her finances – paying bills and things.’

They were in an otherwise empty pub across the road from the solicitor’s office. The reading of the will had been a brisk, business-like affair and it was still only mid-morning.

Graham downed his whisky before responding.

‘Well, that all sounds very cosy. You in control of her money and round there every weekend, buttering her up.’

Angela stared open-mouthed at her brother. She pushed her coffee aside.

‘Cosy? She was my mother. Our mother. Maybe you should ask yourself why you didn’t have a cosier relationship with her yourself.’

‘I visited her…’

‘On her birthday.’

‘And Mother’s Day…’

‘You sent flowers. Where were you when she was sick or she’d wet the bed? It wasn’t too cosy then, I can tell you.’

Graham folded his arms across his chest.

‘So you were a model daughter. Does that make it right that she left everything to you?’

‘She didn’t,’ said Angela. ‘She left you £30,000.’

‘And you get five times that?’

‘Hardly. There’s the mortgage to repay, remember? But I agree that it doesn’t seem fair.’


‘Trust me, I’ve given it a lot of thought. I think the fairest thing would be if we got equal amounts.’

‘Oh, well, that’s good.’ Graham smiled. ‘I felt sure you’d do the decent thing, Angie.’

Angela smiled fleetingly. She took a chequebook, a pen and a small blue notebook from her bag and placed them on the table.

‘You brought your chequebook,’ Graham said, rubbing his thighs. ‘Great.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘But I’d like to discuss this other book first.’

Graham’s smile faded. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s a notebook of Dad’s. A record of the money they loaned you over the years. You know how meticulous he was. Mum updated it after he died too.’

She showed Graham the neatly written entries.

‘Interesting reading. Dates, amounts, what it was for – supposedly. Whether you repaid it or not. You never did, of course.’

She waited to be corrected, but Graham said nothing. She turned a page.

‘Oh, look. A note about remortgaging the bungalow to save you from the debt collectors. Must have been a very big debt.’

Graham glowered. ‘Come on, don’t tell me you never…’

‘You’re right. It’s not all about you. Here’s where they helped me buy a car and…there’s the date I paid them back.’

She looked steadily at him.

‘So, I agree we should divide Mum’s estate equally. Minus what you’ve already received, of course. I’ve worked it out and written you a cheque for the balance.’

Angela tore the cheque from her book.

‘Oops… nearly forgot.’

She signed it with a flourish and slid it across the table.

Graham read it. It was made out to him for the amount of “SOD ALL. NOTHING. NADA.”

‘I think that’s fair,’ said Angela. ‘It’s important to be fair, isn’t it?’


(First published as Winner of the Writers’ Forum Flash Fiction competition, April  2018)

Happiness is in Your Genes

‘There’s nothing wrong with my genes. Or Steve’s.’

‘I’m not suggesting there is, Mrs Cobb,’ said Eva. ‘May I call you Sarah?’

Eva was keen to recruit the Cobbs into her research project; cases like theirs didn’t come along often. But, instead of obediently signing the consent form, Sarah was wasting time asking questions.

‘Your daughter reacted badly to her medicine because she can’t metabolise it properly,’ Eva explained. ‘Amy’s what we call a non-converter. We believe she may have inherited an inactive gene from you and Steve. Even if each of you is a normal converter, you can still be a carrier for a recessive inactive gene and then it’s down to chance if your children inherit it. But, don’t worry, Amy will be absolutely fine now we’ve switched her to a different drug.’

‘Is that true?’ said Steve.

He had been silent until now despite Eva’s efforts to engage him.

‘Absolutely. She’ll be discharged…’

‘No. I mean that.’ He pointed at the mug on Eva’s desk. It bore the cheery message, “Happiness Is…In Your Genes!”

‘Oh – this. My colleagues gave it me as a joke after I argued on TV with someone who claimed there was a “happiness gene”, of all things.’

‘And there isn’t?’

Eva suspected that a comprehensive answer would be wasted on Steve.

‘It’s complicated. But it’s highly unlikely that a complex emotion like happiness is controlled by a single gene.’

‘Have I got this right?’ interjected Sarah, keen to get the discussion back on track. ‘You want to do a test on all three of us and see if Amy has inherited a dodgy gene from Steve and me, right?’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Eva, hiding her amusement at the term “dodgy gene”.

‘Sounds okay to me,’ said Steve.

Eva pushed the consent forms and pen across the desk but Sarah checked her watch.

‘Hadn’t you better move the car, Steve?’

‘Already? We’ve still got…’

‘We don’t want another parking fine, do we, sweetheart?’

With Steve out of the room, Sarah asked, ‘Do we get to know the results?’

‘Certainly. You have the right to know the results. Or not, if you prefer – but it’s not like the information is sensitive in this case. It’s all explained in the consent form…’

‘So Steve will know if he is a carrier for the faulty gene or not?’

‘Frankly, if our theory is right – and I’m pretty sure it is – then the only explanation is that, as Amy’s mother and father, you both carry an inactive gene.’

As she spoke, Eva understood. Sarah figured that Steve would very likely learn he was not a carrier for the defective gene. Even he could work out what that meant. Eva replaced the forms and pocketed her pen.

Sarah stood up, buttoning her coat. ‘Steve’s a good husband. And father. No point hurting him unnecessarily.’

With a wry smile, she nodded at Eva’s mug and its dubious slogan.

‘Like you said – it’s complicated.’


(First published on, April 2016)

Narrated version on Mash Stories podcast:  Soundcloud




‘Give this to Finn. He’ll know what to do with it.’

Leo tore the page out of his notebook and handed it to me. He saw Finn as often as I did, so I don’t know why he asked me to deliver it. Maybe it suited him to use a go- between. He liked to play games with people. I folded the paper and tucked it into my wallet.

‘That’s it? No message?’



‘That’s it? No message?’

‘No. He said you’d know what to do with it.’

Finn looked again at the creased paper with the scrawled lines on it.
‘He doesn’t want it for himself?’
‘I guess not.’
‘What is this? Scraps from the king’s table?’
I was taken aback by Finn’s reaction. He and Leo were friends and their professional relationship benefited both of them. Leo was revered as one of the most important songwriters of his generation, while Finn’s band made chart-friendly versions of his songs. It was win-win.

I’d read the note myself when I stopped for gas and coffee on the road down to LA. Just a few lines, a couple of dozen words. Although I knew it was original, it seemed familiar, like a fragment of a poem I’d always known. Something about a river. About wanting to follow it, wherever it flowed.

Finn took a drag on his joint and frowned. He made smoking dope look about as much fun as clearing a blocked toilet. He stood up and looked down the valley to where the city lay in a yellow haze. I sat on his sofa and marvelled at how uncluttered his living room was. In my experience, most musicians lived in disorder, but Finn was obsessively tidy. He turned back to me.

‘Well, if you see him, tell him thanks. I guess.’
‘So – do you know what to do with it?’
‘Sure. I mean – maybe. There’s not much there, to be frank.’
He picked up a notebook from the table and flicked through pages covered in small, precise handwriting until he found an empty place, and slipped the note carefully inside. ‘Do you want a coffee or do you need to be some place? You’re a busy guy, I guess.’ I got the message. He was right, I said, people were expecting me. As I walked back to my car I heard him strumming his twelve-string guitar. A songwriter can’t put things off. He has to write as soon as inspiration strikes. Even if his muse is a dope dealer with a page torn from a notebook.


A couple of weeks later, I was in The Manic Minstrel where Finn was playing a solo set to an excited crowd. Finn was nobody’s fool. He would deny rumours of the band falling apart, but still promote his solo work as a fallback strategy, just in case. Finn’s show consisted of acoustic versions of the band’s hits mixed with some fresh material he was trying out.

About halfway through, he announced a new number and I immediately recognised the opening words. Something about following a river to the sea. I was astonished at what he had crafted from those few lines of Leo’s. The plaintive melody, the evocative lyrics – they were moving and instantly memorable. The audience loved it and during Finn’s encore someone shouted out for him to ‘play that river song again’. It got even more applause the second time around.

After the show, I made my way backstage. Finn was holding court in his dressing room, still high on the adrenaline of a successful performance. I grabbed a beer and hung back until everyone else had left.

‘Hey Finn, great show.’

‘Oh hi. Did you catch it? Great crowd tonight. They appreciate good material here.’

‘I love what you’ve done with Leo’s lyrics, man. That river song blew me away.’

‘What do you mean, “Leo’s lyrics”? That’s my fucking song, man. What did Leo contribute? Twenty-nine words? Twenty-nine fucking words? Does that make it Leo’s song?’

I was stuttering some words of apology when I saw Finn looking over my shoulder. Leo was standing in the doorway, wearing dark glasses and a cap pulled low over his head. He stepped into the room, acknowledged me with a smile, and gave Finn a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He must have missed his outburst.

‘Amazing show, Finn. I only snuck in for the second half, but you sounded incredible.’

For a moment, Finn looked embarrassed by this praise but he quickly regained his cool.

‘I wish I’d known you were here, man. We could have done something together.’ ‘It’s your show, Finn. You don’t need me up there, cramping your style.’
Leo’s minder knocked on the door. ‘Time to go, Leo. The paparazzi found out you’re here.’
‘I’m coming. Next time, Finn.’
A friendly punch in the chest served as a farewell to me and then he was gone.


Driving down Highway One the next summer, I heard Leo being interviewed on the radio. The host loved his new album but she was puzzled by something.

‘I have to ask you about the closing track. It’s titled, rather curiously, “And Loyalty in 29 Words”. It’s a beautiful song – about friendship, I suppose. I find it incredible that you can convey so much with so few words, but – maybe I’m being obtuse here – no matter how many times I count, it just keeps coming out at twenty-eight.’

Leo laughed. He was in one of his teasing moods.
‘Did you really count the words? I can’t believe anyone would do that!’

‘I just needed to check, I suppose.’
‘Well, I guess a word got lost someplace.’


Copyright © 2016 Kevin Cheeseman

Awarded Second Prize in the March 2016 ‘1000 Word Challenge’, on the theme “29”. 

1000 Word Challenge

Toussaint’s Day

As I trudged home from work past shops still flaunting Halloween displays, I thought of how I’d sat alone the evening before ignoring the trick-or-treaters at my door.

Maybe it was feeling so downcast that made me unusually suggestible. A discreet notice in a town house window caught my eye and, impetuously, I rang the bell. I hoped that nobody who knew me would see me standing there.

The dark haired woman who opened the door was younger than I’d anticipated.

‘Sorry – I haven’t made an appointment.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said and beckoned me in. ‘Can I take your coat, Mr…?’

‘Toussaint,’ I said.

She beamed. ‘I love that name. And today’s your day, right?’

She could see I didn’t understand.

‘All Saints’ Day. That’s what Toussaint means, isn’t it?’

‘Right. Yes.’ I hadn’t expected small talk. ‘Sorry – do I pay first or afterwards?’

‘Upfront, please,’ she said. ‘It gets…awkward, otherwise.’

I counted out the notes.

‘Do you use a….’

‘Crystal ball? No.’

We sat at a small table and she took my hands in hers. ‘What were you hoping to discover?’ she asked.

To my surprise, the words flooded out. I’d moved here two years earlier for a new job. It was great, I loved it, but I was so tired of being alone. I was a good man, I thought – why couldn’t I find Ms Right?

It was easy talking to her and I gabbled on. But then I started to suspect this was a trick of hers to elicit information. I clammed up. She just smiled, closed her eyes, and was silent too for a long minute. Then she spoke.

‘The one you’ve been looking for – she’s been waiting too. She’s right there, if you’d only see it. But you will. And soon. Then – marriage, children. Fast. Very fast.’

Wow. She’d shaken me out of my self-pity but this seemed crazy. And yet, for some reason, I felt sure it was true.

‘Is it someone I work with?’

‘Is there someone at your office who you think could be the one?’

My mind raced. There were several I would gratefully have accepted. Did one of them secretly yearn for me? I thanked her hurriedly and practically skipped out. I couldn’t wait to get to the office the next morning.


With every woman I met during the following days and weeks, I found myself thinking, ‘Is it you?’ It never was.

Increasingly desperate, I went through the gears from amiable to obnoxious, provoking reactions of corresponding intensity. Charm evoked puzzlement. Flirtation caused annoyance. Finally, my remark, “Come on, I know you fancy me really”, earned me a painful slap. I deserved it. I wanted to slap me too.

What the hell had I been thinking? I’d been duped by a phoney clairvoyant. I left work early, determined to confront her.


I rang the doorbell long and hard. She let me in and led me to the back room.

‘What’s on your mind?’

Good question. The angry accusatory speech I had prepared had disappeared. Looking into her eyes, I saw for the first time how perfectly green they were and the penny dropped.

‘I’ve been slow on the uptake, haven’t I?’

She smiled. ‘I knew you’d get there eventually.’

‘Was it love at first sight for you?’

‘Love at second sight, actually. I foresaw you coming.’


I still don’t know if she was teasing me. Mrs Toussaint seldom tells fortunes these days – the children keep her so busy. But every November 1st we celebrate our version of Valentine’s Day: Toussaint’s Day.


First published as Winner of the Writers’ Forum Flash Fiction competition, Feb 2016.

Note: The great songwriter Allen Toussaint died shortly after All Saints’ Day 2015 and I made the connection with his name. I binge-listened to his songs and one of his most well known, Fortune Teller inspired this story. I couldn’t use that as the title, as it would have acted as a spoiler for the start of the story.

India Lima Yankee


The day after Dad died, Oscar and I met up at the small terraced house that had been our childhood home and busied ourselves with the many tasks that fall to the recently bereaved. Tedious tasks for the most part, but they needed to be done. Anyway, they served to distract us.

Oscar opted for making a start on clearing out several decades’ worth of clothes and shoes upstairs and left me to sort through Dad’s papers. I sat myself at the desk in the tiny box-room that Dad liked to call his study and wondered where to start. Smart of Oscar, I thought, to pick a job where he could just switch off and not need to think at all.

A list was what I needed. People to inform, and to invite to the funeral. I opened the top drawer of the desk, found a notepad and started writing. Family, friends, work-mates…I could think of quite a few names right off the top of my head but I’d need their addresses or phone numbers. Dad was always meticulous in keeping things organised, he must have an address book around here someplace. I pulled open another drawer and there it was, faded blue cover, the edges of the pages well thumbed. I recognised Dad’s neat handwriting and muttered a word of thanks when I saw that he had been diligent in keeping it up to date, amending entries as and when people moved house.

Upstairs, I could hear my brother opening and closing cupboards and drawers, emptying out Dad’s clothes. He’d better not be making a mess up there. Dad had been very particular about keeping the place tidy since Mum died. Not that it mattered now, of course. But still. And I hoped he’d remembered what the undertaker had said, about putting aside one of Dad’s suits, to dress him in. I shook off the image that conjured and quickly turned back to Dad’s address book and the task in hand.

Having found the contact details for the names already on my list, I went back through page by page, looking for people I’d overlooked. That’s when I found the card. Tucked between the pages under ‘C to D’. I recognised it straight away, of course. One of my old business cards. I turned it over in my hand. “Charles Frame, Associate Legal Advisor”. My first proper job after graduating. The italic black typeface, the company name in embossed gold…it all looked rather dated now. I was surprised that Dad had kept it. The details were many years and several career moves out of date, so it was hardly of any practical use.

But then, that was the last business card I ever gave him. It had been received so badly, after all. As I studied the card, I pictured myself all those years ago, proudly, handing it to my father. Him seated at this very desk, Mum and I standing in the doorway, both of us impatiently awaiting his reaction.


Dad studied the card, frowning slightly. I wondered how long it could take him to read a dozen words but eventually he spoke.

‘They’ve put Charles Frame,’ he said.

Not exactly the response I had hoped for. Something with the word ‘congratulations’ in it would have been nice.

‘They must have assumed that ‘Charlie’ was a nickname, I suppose,’ Dad continued. ‘That’s a shame. You’ll have to get them to reprint those.’

He held the card out for me to take back. I ignored it and put my hands in my pockets.

‘It’s not a mistake, Dad,’ I said. ‘I asked them to put Charles. The way I see it, if someone can call themselves Charlie when their given name is Charles, then why not the other way round?’

I didn’t say why I’d started to call myself Charles. To my mind, ‘Charlie’ wasn’t a name befitting my new status. My imagined status, at least. A corporate lawyer… a man who was going up in the world. But I didn’t need to say it. Dad had worked that bit out for himself.

‘I see,’ said Dad, quietly. He laid the card carefully down on the desk and pushed it slowly away with the tips of his fingers. ‘So, the name we chose for you isn’t good enough now?’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but stood up and pushed past us, out of the room. I heard the back door go, and guessed he was heading for the sanctuary of his shed at the bottom of the garden.

Mum sighed and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘You should have kept that to yourself, Charlie,’ she said. ‘You know how funny he is about the names.’

I knew, all right. How many times had Oscar and I heard the tale of how our names had been chosen? A tale that began before we were even born, on the day our parents met. Dad telling the story in his romantic, happy-ever-after way. Mum chipping in with sceptical, but affectionate, comments. Or her version. Warm but less sentimental, and Dad unable to stop himself adding corrections and elaborations. Either way, I knew it all by heart.


Mum and Dad had met in August 1945 at a street party in the East End of London. The war was over and the whole country was celebrating. Mum told us how Dad was a very handsome young man in his army uniform, but remarkably reserved for a soldier. The serious type, she decided. He’d introduced himself as Victor and said that he was a radio operator, waiting to be demobbed. Mum said that she was a nurse and was working at the local hospital, in Bethnal Green.

It was when she said that her name was Juliet that he had become really excited. He’d declared that there was something auspicious about their meeting on that particular day. She’d learned to be wary of ardent soldiers, and she suspected he was just another army boy trying it on. But as he went on to explain what he meant, she realised that he was completely serious.

He described the special alphabet that radio operators used to spell out words when speaking over the air. They would say ‘Alpha’ for A, ‘Bravo’ for B, and so on, all the way up to ‘Zulu’ for Z. It was to make sure that messages were not misheard.

She’d known that. And yes, of course, she knew that they used the word ‘Juliet’ for J. But she’d forgotten, or perhaps never known, that the word used for V was ‘Victor’. And that was the crucial point, the excitable young soldier had said. Victor meeting Juliet on, of all days, VJ Day. It must have been “written in the stars”, he’d said.

‘It was written in the stars. It was our day,’ Dad would say to us boys. ‘We were destined to meet then. And we’ve had good luck and happiness ever since.’

Mum would gently deny, ‘falling for that flimflam’. Weren’t there other men’s names in that list? One name in particular seemed a far better match for a girl called Juliet. Whenever she said this, Dad would wink at us boys and say, ‘Oh yeah – good luck finding someone called Romeo round these parts.’

Maybe Mum wasn’t entirely convinced about the significance of the date, but the starry-eyed soldier won her heart anyway. They got engaged. Dad was demobbed and found a job. They got married. Neither Oscar nor I paid much attention to those parts of the story, I’m afraid. I vaguely recall some mention of ration books, of hand-me-down clothes, and the hardest winter in 50 years, but we weren’t really interested. We just wanted them to get to the part about how we got our names.

They made us believe our names were special somehow. Predetermined. Not like other kids, with names inherited from grandparents or picked from a list. Except, they did pick our names from a list. That same phonetic alphabet that had been so significant when they had first met.

Unquestionably, this decision severely restricted their options. There are only a few names for boys in that alphabet, after all. Especially if you exclude Romeo – which it’s pretty clear Dad would have done. But the limited choice was never mentioned as being an issue. Not by Mum. And certainly not by Dad.

Within a year of being married, Mum gave birth to a boy, and they called him Oscar. An unusual choice of name for an English boy in those days, but Mum always said she thought it sounded distinguished.

Just under two years later, I came along and they named me Charlie. Nothing distinguished about that, it seemed to me. And I was the last because, as Dad liked to joke, they were waiting for Mike but he never showed up.

Two boys. No girls. I once asked my parents what name they would have chosen if they’d had a daughter. Mum laughed, but Dad winced, each of them recalling some incident from when she was expecting one of us. She had told him that she was considering India or Sierra for a girl. Or even Echo, which she discovered was the name of a Greek nymph. She was bluffing, of course. Working class English girls weren’t given names like that in those days.

As a young child, I thought the whole story of our names was great fun and I liked to hear it told and retold. Other kids grew up with friezes of the regular alphabet on their nursery walls, all of them pretty much identical. A for Apple. B for Ball. The inevitable Z for Zebra. But not us. On the wall of our shared bedroom, Oscar and I had a poster of the radiotelephony alphabet, with our names highlighted in bright colours.

We loved it. Oscar cut out a magazine picture of the gold Academy Award and pasted it under the letter ‘O’. I stuck a silhouette of Chaplin, with bowler hat and wonky cane, under the letter ‘C’. We’d proudly show the poster to our school friends and recount the story.

But when adolescence kicked in, I decided the whole thing was stupid and unspeakably embarrassing. Like pretty much everything else about my parents. What kind of a name was Charlie, anyway? Oscar shared his name with sophisticated people…musicians and artists. He even decided to become an architect because there was a famous one called Oscar. But Charlie? Comedians. Footballers. Me and a bunch of other clowns.

What the hell had Dad been thinking with his crazy idea about the phonetic alphabet? Mum had gone along with it, but it was Dad who was the superstitious one. I could imagine him pleading with her not to choose other names, not to break the spell, and Mum agreeing, just to keep him happy.

As soon as I left home, I dropped Charlie and became Charles. At work, and to my new friends, that is. I couldn’t completely shake Charlie off, though. Every time I had to fill in one official form or another, I found myself having to explain the discrepancy with my birth certificate and resenting it all over again.

After the incident with the business card, Dad and I never discussed the matter again. I kept him up to date with my job moves, of course. I let him know how to contact me at work. But I kept my new cards in my wallet.


I heard Oscar come down the stairs and I slipped the card back in the address book. From the kitchen, came the noise of the kettle being filled and the rattling of cups. Oscar had obviously decided it was time for a break. I went and joined him. He was opening cupboards and peering in jars as I walked in.

‘How’s it going, Charlie?’ said Oscar, looking up. ‘Fancy a cup of coffee?’ He opened the fridge. ‘There’s no milk though.’

‘Thanks, yeah. Black is fine,’ I said. I squeezed past him and sat at the small table by the kitchen window. ‘I haven’t got very far to be honest,’ I said. ‘My mind kept wandering.’

‘I know, me too,’ said Oscar. He spooned some coffee messily into two mugs and leant back on the kitchen cabinet with his arms crossed across his chest. The electric kettle was heating up, slowly and noisily. ‘Tell you what, Charlie. When you’re ready, we’ll split the list and I’ll do some of the phoning around. All right?’

I agreed and thanked him. Oscar started opening cupboards again in a fruitless search for something to eat with the coffee. Meanwhile, I sorted through an untidy pile of mail, leaflets and papers that we had found in the hallway on our arrival and dumped on the kitchen table. I threw the local paper into the bin but immediately had second thoughts and retrieved it. I turned to the announcement pages near the back.

‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘if I call the paper today, we could get an announcement about Dad in the ‘Bereavements’ section this week. What do you think?’

‘Good idea,’ said Oscar, placing a mug of coffee in front of me. ‘Look at some of the ones in the paper and get an idea of what to put. Nothing soppy though, eh? Keep it fairly formal. Maybe mention Mum’s name and ours so that people can, you know, join up the dots about who’s who in the family. “Devoted husband to Juliet” and so forth.’

Oscar sat down opposite me. He placed a small wooden box on the table between us.

‘I found this in Dad’s bedroom,’ he said. ‘I think it must have been Mum’s, judging by what’s in it.’

It looked like it had once been a cigar box, and had a simple pattern carved on its lid and corner decorations made of brass.

I put the newspaper to one side, pulled the box towards me, and opened the lid. Inside were a handful of items, no more. Nothing of any monetary value, but precious to Mum, it was clear. Mum’s thin gold wedding ring. A couple of other rings with modest semi-precious stones. A round, silver and blue nurse’s badge with the words “Bethnal Green Hospital” around its edge. Two small black and white photographs of Oscar and me as new born babies, names and dates written on the back.

Underneath the other things lay a slightly creased, postcard-sized photograph. I pulled it out. It was of a young man in an army uniform. Very young, but still recognisably Dad. He was posing awkwardly outside what appeared to be a barracks hut and smiling shyly at the camera. I couldn’t remember having seen this photograph before. I turned it over and on the reverse was written, “India Lima Yankee!” in big letters. The meaning wasn’t immediately obvious to me and Oscar helped me out.

‘I-L-Y’ he said.

I looked blankly at him and he rolled his eyes.

‘I. Love. You. I can only assume that Mum understood it better than you did or we wouldn’t be here now.’

I started to say something in response but my throat tightened and my eyes filled with tears. I slid the photo across the table to Oscar and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. I took a deep breath and composed myself.

‘Sorry, Oscar. Don’t know where that came from.’

‘No need to apologise,’ said Oscar. ‘I had a little moment myself earlier, up in Dad’s room. It was the suit that did it for me.’

He studied the photo of Dad, and the words on the back, and smiled. ‘Big softie, wasn’t he?’ he said. He returned the items carefully to Mum’s box and closed the lid.

We sat without speaking, sipped our drinks, and gazed at the back garden through the window. The fridge, which had been buzzing noisily, gave a violent rattle and then stopped, deepening the silence. I drained my coffee and stood up.

‘Better get back to it, eh?’ I said. ‘I’ll call the Gazette and see about this bereavement notice.’

Back in Dad’s study, I sat with my notepad and pen, drafted something that seemed appropriate, and then telephoned the newspaper office. I dictated the few lines that I had composed to a sympathetic sounding woman. She read it slowly back to me and then took my credit card details as payment.

‘Can I just check something?’ she said, hesitantly. ‘You said the name on your credit card is ‘Charles Frame’. Should we put “Charles” in the announcement? Where it says “Loving father to Oscar and Charlie”, I mean. Or shall we keep it as “Charlie”? Only, I’d hate for us to get it wrong.’

‘No,’ I said, quietly. ‘Put Charlie, please. I want it to say Charlie’.

First published in Scribble short story magazine, Autumn 2015.  Awarded second prize

Cuckold’s Revenge

‘Jealousy makes you do bad things,’ said Dave. ‘That’s what makes it one of the seven deadly sins.’

They were drinking coffee in Nigel’s kitchen, sitting awkwardly either side of the space where the table used to be.

‘Envy,’ said Nigel, quietly.


‘Envy,’ repeated Nigel. ‘The deadly sin. Not jealousy.’

Dave shrugged. ‘Same difference. The point is – are you sure you want to do this?’

‘That so-called artist stole my wife,’ said Nigel, ‘Am I supposed to do nothing? I walked in on them …’ He faltered, struggling to say the words. ‘Having… sexual congress. On our kitchen table. Hepworth humping away. Brenda with her legs in the air. Lying right on the place where I eat my lunch.’

He gazed through the window to the garden. Two charred table legs stuck up from the smouldering remains of the bonfire, mocking him.

‘Like Jack Nicholson in The Postman Always Knocks Twice,’ said Dave, brightly. ‘Oh man,’ he yearned, ‘that Jessica Lange…’

‘Rings Twice.’


‘The postman. You said “knocks”.’

‘Right. Is there even a postman in that movie?’ wondered Dave.

Nigel ignored him. ‘They didn’t even stop when I came in. Brenda just glared and waved at me to go away. I went and watched the TV news until they’d finished. Then I heard the door go and found that she’d left with him. Gone to be his sodding muse, I suppose.’

‘Was it the full news programme’ asked Dave, ‘or the two minute headlines?’

‘Thirty fucking minutes. They didn’t rush.’

Dave appeared impressed, albeit not with Nigel. ‘Why didn’t you just hit Hepworth there and then?’

‘I’m neither impulsive nor inclined to fistfights. But, having considered the matter, I’ve now resolved to act.’

‘You’ve also armed yourself in the meantime. A laser, you said?’

Nigel sighed. ‘A Taser, Dave.’ He stood up. ‘It should be fully charged by now. Are you coming?’

The gallery was just opening as they arrived. They walked purposefully through the rooms, ignoring various strange installations, and headed straight to the far chamber, where visitors were promised an opportunity to observe the artist at work. It was empty of people save for Hepworth himself, dressed in yellow overalls. He was contemplating an apparently random collection of household appliances, some freshly daubed with blue paint, evidently from the pot he was holding.

Nigel strode up to Hepworth, pressed the Taser to his neck and triggered it. Hepworth fell to the floor and convulsed violently. His arms jerked back and forth smearing paint across the tiles. Nigel and Dave studied him impassively.

‘He does slightly resemble Jack Nicholson, actually,’ said Dave. ‘In Cuckoo’s Nest, that is.’

An elegantly dressed woman entered and approached them, looking puzzled. She held a list of exhibits in her hand.

‘Which one is this?’ she enquired.

‘Cuckold’s Revenge,’ said Nigel, ‘It’s not on the list’.

She contemplated the twitching yellow form and the smeared blue paint for a few moments. ‘It’s clever,’ she said. ‘But is it art?’

(First published on May 2015)