Flower of Scotland - 2
Another Collection of Short Shorts
by
William Meikle
(All previously published between
1992 and 2002 in genre magazines)
Copyright William Meikle, 2013
Dancers *
Too Many *
The Worst Sound *
The Shoogling Jenny *
Metastasis *
Phantom Payment *
The First Silkie *
Lucidity *
The Scotsman’s Fiddle *
The World of Illusion *
Just a Par to Win *
Bait and Switch *
Jake and the Cat's Paw *
Total Mental Quality *
The Just One *
~-oO0Oo-~
Dancers
Yes, I know its getting dark, and I know its getting cold, but just come over here for a minute. It won’t take much of your time. There's something I want to show you, someone I'd like you to meet.
Come on. Humor an old man who needs to tell his secret.
It's just there, behind the church. Yes, in the older graveyard. You're not afraid are you? I promise, there's nothing here that would ever hurt you.
Not you.
Watch out for the moss on the stones. Some of the slimier varieties can get embedded in your clothes, and it's murder trying to get it out.
Just about there is usually the best spot. Stand quietly now - let your eyes get adjusted to the dark. You'll soon see why I brought you here.
There she is.
Do you see her? She's standing right there. Look - in front of the large grey angel, just to the left of the patch of moonlight, almost underneath the old elm. Yes, there, beside the largest headstone.
My beautiful Sarah. Forever young, forever twenty.
See how the red of her hair glows like a burning firebrand, a halo around the white perfection of her face. And look - she's wearing the dress. The one I bought her for the dance, the last dance of our youth.
Three pounds two and sixpence that dress cost me - more than a week's wages in those days. Times have changed, haven't they? My mother told me that I was mad, spending all that money on a slip of a girl who was no better than she should be. But I knew that she was worth every penny.
I was drunk with the delight that danced in her eyes when she tried it on, swaying her hips to get the full effect from the long flowing pleats. I can still remember even now, fifty odd years and many strangers' kisses later, the sweet honeyed taste of her lips as she thanked me, the pressure of her hands on my back as we embraced.
I wish she would touch me now. Just one touch, to bring us together at the end. If only she could see me. I have so much that I've never told her.
How still she is, how composed. The wind refuses to ruffle her, the rain refuses to dampen her, the earth refuses to cling to her. Yet there's something more.
Look closer. She breathes; she blinks; her lips part and then connect, but there's no steam. Not like you and I, standing here puffing at each other. It may be almost winter here, but for her it's late summer, always summer.
Those lips. How deep and red and enticing they were that night, glistening moistly as she looked up at me. Smiling, dancing, laughing, we moved across the dance floor. We were young; the war had barely touched us, and I was in love for the very first time. The night held the prospect of many new pleasures.
And then he arrived.
I knew he was going to be trouble. Right from the start I could see what he was. American, charming, arrogant and different. Hello excitement, goodbye dependability. In the space of a minute I'd lost her forever.
Shall I tell you how it happened?
He butted in on our dance. Just barged right in, excused himself, and then off they went, whirling round the floor in a flurry of legs and feet and arms. I tried to stop him as they came round again, but he had all the advantages - height, weight, diet, composure and training - while I merely had my rage.
Afterwards, as I lay there on the floor, my tongue counting teeth as my handkerchief vainly tried to soak up blood, I heard a laugh. Looking up through eyes which had already begun to puff up, I saw her. Only six feet away, but already distant, clinging to the conqueror. Her hair made a red scar where it fell on her shoulder, and in that moment I knew what I would have to do.
Can you see? She's moving. But watch. Do her legs bend? Does she walk like you or me? Or does she glide, smooth and silent like a great white owl? Listen. Can you hear any gravel being trodden underfoot? Or is there only you and me and silence?
You can't tell, can you? She deceives the brain, but doesn't brook too much attention. Try not to look too closely - set your mind on other matters.
Ah yes. The chiming. It must be eight o'clock again. Do you think she's able to hear? She'll be heading for the wall. When she reaches it she'll rest her elbows and look over there, to the field on the left, where the airfield used to be.
I remember the women, silent, waiting, listening for the sounds which would tell them that their men were coming back. They used to peel off one at a time as the planes returned, until only a few were left, watching and waiting and wondering.
See how the moonbeams dance around her, making her glow. So white, so brilliant, so pure. And no shadow to taint the vision.
He was corrupting her. I could see that, even from the few glimpses I had of them together. There they were, laughing and giggling like a pair of kids fresh out of school. And kissing! In public! Right there on the main street for all too see, and again, later, in the pub, flaunting themselves in front of me.
Of course she had stockings. And lipstick. And chocolate. And cigarettes. The price of her innocence, the wages of sin.
I hoped that I wouldn't be too late, that she was still capable of being saved. I watched. I waited. I planned. He continued with her destruction, but soon I'd have my turn.
See how she moves between the stones, not attempting to pass through them. Does she look solid to you? You can't see through her, not like in the books or the films. Do you think that if I went over there and put out my hand she'd be able to take it, be able to feel? Would she notice that I was there?
I have often, over the years, thought about why she returns. It is only now, when I'm near my own end, that I'm able to look at it dispassionately. Maybe, when I go to join her, we'll both understand.
Did you know that I used to be a mechanic? Well I was, and a good one at that. It was easy. I already had the run of the airfield, so it was simple to wangle myself in on the servicing of his plane. Once I had spent five minutes aboard, it was only a matter of waiting for the next flight.
I was subtle though. I didn't want the plane blowing up over land; not over England anyway. My work might have been noticed. No, the explosion would occur only when the plane climbed to more than one thousand feet. That should do it. By the time it reached that height it would be well out over the channel.
He took it out the very night day.
Look. She's reached the wall. See how her elbows stay white, despite the damp and moss and stone? Her eyes will be moist. Will those tears be real? Could I perhaps touch them? Touch them and somehow feel her pain?
The next day I saw the flight take off, twelve planes slowly gathering in formation before beginning their long climb into the sky. I watched them until they rose into the clouds, then listened as they droned away. Was there an explosion? Did the droning lessen? I never did find out.
Whether I'm a murderer or not, he never came back, and I never lost the guilt.
Later that day, when the sky was once more filled with sound, the women left the wall, one by one, until she was the only one remaining, trying to pierce the cloud
s as she peered avidly eastwards, willing him to return.
I stood, just about here, and watched, cursing her for her devotion, cursing him for his hold on her, as darkness fell and the skies grew silent.
It was late summer, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. A light drizzle began to fall, chilling me to the bone.
And still she waited, and still I watched.
See it. There's the cigarette. How ungainly it looks in those pearl white fingers. It burns - there's a good quarter of an inch of ash on the end - but there's no smoke, no smell.
He started her off on that habit. She'd told me that morning that she did it because it made her look like a real lady. As if she'd not been a lady before that. It made me angry, so angry that I could watch no longer.
See how she turns, surprised. Now she'll look confused for a second. Then she'll see that it's only me; only the young, fresh faced, solid, dependable me.
Watch closely now. You may just catch the disappointment as it flits across her face. Look, she turns her back again, returns to her vigil.
One look and I was consigned to despair. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her around to face me, demanding that she explain herself. She struggled in my arms but I held on as we moved around in a parody of a waltz; held her as she screamed, her once-beautiful lips contorted in rage.
She pulled away once more, and this time she was too strong for me to hold on to her. Surprised to be free so easily, she lost her balance.
I reached out desperately for her as she fell, slowly, slowly, towards the unyielding gravestones. And then came the sound, the one I hear late at night in my dreams, the sound of her neck as it broke.
So now we wait, she for a sweetheart who will never return, me for an end to the guilt and the hope of forgiveness. Which of us is more dead?
And the time passes and I watch, every night, as she dances, just for me.
~-oO0Oo-~
Too Many
The room was white, a brilliant white that almost hurt her eyes as she struggled to focus. Something was wrong. The last thing Sheila Davidson remembered was leaving the shop. She’d said goodnight to the assistant, walked to her car and…
And nothing.
She couldn’t remember anything after that, until she woke sitting in front of a desk composed of a white marble that shone with its own inner light. She was transfixed, tilting her head from side to side to catch the glittering patterns of light and shade, and was only stopped in her reverie by a discreet cough from across the desk.
"When you're quite finished?" a deep gravelly voice said.
She looked up into a pair of piercing green eyes and a sardonic grin. The owner of the grin wore a sharp business suit and an expensive Italian silk tie. The gold band of a watch gleamed as he rolled a hand over the computer keyboard in front of him. Sheila was so taken with the suit that it took her several seconds to notice the talons… and the horns.
She threw herself back in her seat with a scream, and came up hard against the wall of the room. She searched frantically for a door, but there was none, just blank, featureless white.
The demon smiled at her again.
"If you’d just take a seat miss, this won’t take too long."
"Where… where am I?" Sheila whispered.
The demon tapped at a badge on the lapel of his suit. Sheila had to stand and move closer to read it.
It read, Ballygrampus, Assistant Deputy Demon, Substation 3933 level 46, Hell.
"Hell?" Sheila whispered.
"What, you were expecting Pearly Gates and mellow fruitfulness?"
She sat down, hard. She pinched her forearm, so tight as to bring a flare of pain, but when she looked up, the demon still sat there, smiling.
"So, what was it? Accident? Heart attack?" the demon asked.
She could only sit and stare. Every time she tried to speak, she failed to come up with a sensible sentence for this situation.
"Ah. Here it is," the demon said, reading from the screen. "Shelia Davidson, aged forty-nine, heart attack. Unlucky not to reach the big 5-0."
"It’s next month," Sheila whispered. "We’re having a party… all the family will be there."
"I guess they will now," the demon said. "It’s a pity you won’t be there to see it. Let’s see why they sent you to me, shall we?"
Sheila watched as the talons rattled across the keyboard.
"So far so good," Ballygrampus said. "Nothing for Fornication, nothing for Sloth, nothing for Envy."
He looked up and gave Sheila a wink.
"Looks like you might actually have come to the wrong place."
He went back to looking at the screen.
"Nothing for Pride, nothing for Avarice."
The demon looked up again, and this time it was more a smirk than a grin that crossed his face.
"That just leaves Theft and Gluttony. Want to guess where you stand? I'll bet you five years that it's Theft."
The demon pulled back his sleeves revealing a line of red, almost burnt, flesh, as he turned once more to the keyboard.
"You weren’t a bureaucrat were you? We love them down here. They come in very handy with the filing."
"No," Sheila said in a whisper. "I am… was… a housewife. Just a housewife."
"Ahhh," Ballygrampus said, and smiled again. Thin wisps of smoke came out of his ears. "It’ll be Gluttony then."
Sheila spluttered.
"I’ve looked after my body! I’m very careful"
"I noticed," Ballygrampus laughed. "But there is more than one kind of gluttony."
Smoke came out of his nostrils.
"Let’s just see."
The demon's eyes burned with a gold flame as page after page of information scrolled up the screen.
"Here’s the first… December 29th 1973, 12.30 PM… two pairs of platform gold lame boots… never worn."
The demon laughed again, but this time it was a cold hard thing, and the hackles at the back of Sheila’s neck began to rise.
"January 2nd 1983. Twelve pairs of sandals - in a day? You must have been kind of desperate."
Sheila didn't get a chance to reply
The demon recited every single piece of shoe shopping activity in her life.
"March 15th 1987 2 PM, two pairs of strappy heels at 2:30 PM, and a pair of Cuban heeled Cowboy boots at 5 PM. I think we're beginning to see a pattern here."
The demon punched several keys, and his eyes blazed as the result came up.
"Two thousand, two hundred and thirty three counts of Gluttony. Congratulations, I think you've got the record."
Talons rattled on keys as another screen came up.
"The going rate is a week for each offence. I'm sorry about that, but there are so many of you around these days that we've had to get tough on you. I make that forty-three years, give or take a week. Minus the five I owe you, that makes thirty-eight years. Have a nice day."
Sheila blinked… and looked out over the largest shoe store she’d ever seen.
"Well… this isn’t too bad," she whispered.
After a while she spotted a pair of red stilletoes that would look just right with her new dress.
She put them on and paraded in front of a mirror.
"Oh, I must have these," she said.
They pinched a bit around the toes, and, if truth be told were just starting to hurt at the ankle.
She bent to take them off… only to find that they had become moulded onto her feet, the skin already growing in thick folds over the shoes. The pain grew to a hot flaring like a needle being thrust into her ankle again, and again.
She tore frantically at the shoes, but there was no way to remove them.
Somewhere, a demon spoke.
"Thirty-seven years, three hundred and sixty four days, and twenty-three hours."
Sheila started to scream.
~-oO0Oo-~
The Worst Sound
What’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard?
Buy me a drink and I�
��ll tell you about a death, a sound, and the end of a dream.
It was ten years ago and I was a young Church of Scotland minister. Yes, I know I don’t look like a man of the cloth, but hear me out.
Matt Duncan was dying when I got to him, thin bubbles of blood at mouth and nostrils. His wife had called, pleading with me to come, to help in his last hours.
I was young and sure of my faith but the sight of those sunken eyes and the thin rasping from his chest made my heart lurch with pity. He was trying to speak, and I had to lean close to hear him.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned," he said.
I tried to tell him I wasn’t Catholic, but he merely grasped my hand hard and began to speak.
I won’t bother you with the details. This life he related was full of theft and mayhem, of sexual depravity and of murder.
I felt bile rise in my throat as he disclosed one particular story about a twelve year old girl, but my God is a merciful God.
I prayed with him, telling him that God would care for him.
I had just reached the end of a prayer when I heard the death rattle in his throat. I placed his hand on his chest and bent my head.
It was then that I heard it.
The room hummed with the far off sound of heavy machinery. A bell rang, harsh and tinny, echoing around the small room. There came a sliding, metallic noise of a door opening and a gravelly deep voice intoned the words I’ve heard every night since…
"Going down."
~-oO0Oo-~
The Shoogling Jenny
I found the lyric I sought in a small town in the Appalachians. I’d been looking for the origins of the song for some time, but now I wish I had never heard it. It is a hard story to tell, but I’m setting it down here and leaving it in the archive in the hope that it might dissuade others from following in my footsteps.
It started in hope. Even the long drive after an even longer flight failed to dampen my enthusiasm. I was on the trail of something that would justify the money the Miner’s Union had given me – I would prove a link between Scottish and Appalachian mining songs.
Flower of Scotland 2 Page 1
