The dead don't lie.

Lionel Stent sat at his desk fiddling with his fuchsia coloured tie and staring at the strange woman who sat opposite him. She was a large woman, somewhere past middle age, with a tangled nest of black hair that seemed to balance precariously on her head. She had a slight hook nose and bright red lipstick that bled into the lines around her lips. The overall impression that she gave Lionel was that of a pantomime dame.
‘I ‘ad to come and see you Mr. Stent. As luck would ‘ave it I ‘ad no trouble finding you, you’re very well known around ‘ere.’
This was true, Lionel was a big fish in a little pond. Everyone in town knew who Lionel was and that he ran his business from the old butcher’s shop at the edge of the market, but no one knew exactly what line of business Lionel was in. If he was ever asked he would say that he ‘specialised in security’ and it was left at that.
‘I was told you would be in ‘ere today.’ She looked around ‘What a lovely old shop, very aufentic’. It was authentic because Lionel hadn’t done much to it. The door outside and in was a faded, chipped blue and the white tiles still lined the walls inside and redundant meat hooks hung from the grimy ceiling. Lionel had even kept the butchers block, bloodstains still ingrained, to use as a makeshift desk. Some people found it very off putting but Lionel was accustomed to blood, being the son of an abattoir manager and a mother who had plucked chickens for a living.
‘I was goin about my business when I ‘ad one of my visions. I saw you ‘ere in your shop. You was sat right there, where you are now. I saw your face, your bald ‘ead, your ‘itler moustache…’ Lionel was about to protest, but she didn’t pause, ‘and your fingers covered wif all them gold rings.’ She pointed to his fingers which were indeed covered in gold and rather stumpy. Lionel put his fingers on his knees, somehow, he felt very uncomfortable when she pointed it out.
‘What do you want? Mrs…er…'
‘Ricketts, Maggie Ricketts. As I say I ‘ave always ‘ad visions and fings, never wanted them mind, but, well it just ‘appens. I ‘ave never ‘ad one like this before. In my vision I was told by spirit, to write down everyfing about your past and give it to you, so ‘ere we are.’
She reached into her large green rattan bag and pulled out an A4 sheet of paper. ‘Ere it is, all written down, in the order it all ‘appened. As you will see there are some fings on there that no one should know, least of all a stranger like me’.
He almost snatched the paper off her and scanned it quickly whilst wondering how she knew about all these things. He decided to play it down.
‘Rubbish, some of these things didn’t happen, some of them anyone could have told you and what’s left is neither here nor there. I don’t see the point of this Mrs…er…Ricketts. Now, I am a very busy man if you will excuse me.’ Lionel stood up ready to show her the door. Mrs Ricketts stayed in her chair.
‘Mr. Stench… I’m sorry Stent, I was told to come and see you and give you the list of your past. I cannot be responsible for ‘ow the message is received, only me own part’. Lionel sat down again. ‘Aha! I knew it, someone sent you, didn’t they? Who was it?
‘It was your wife what sent me’
Lionel suddenly felt heartburn rising inside him and fumbled in his pockets for a tablet. The sweat rolled from his brow and landed with a plop on the paper.
‘Not the young lady what’s livin’ in your ‘ouse now who spends all day on the sun lounger, not ‘er. Your wife.’
‘My wife is dead’. said Lionel through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, she is.’ Mrs. Ricketts delved into her huge bag again and pulled out another piece of paper. ‘I wrote it down, what she told me. Wife dies by car going over cliff in the dark. There was a suicide note. No body ‘as been found but bits of the car ‘as turned up in fishing nets. Coroner ‘as left an open verdict. That’s what she told me.’
‘You could have got that from a newspaper, or the internet, everyone knows it.’
Mrs. Ricketts looked at her watch. ‘That’s all I was told to tell yer Mr. Stent. Now, if you will excuse me I ‘ave to go and make Mr. Ricketts tea. ‘E ‘as fish on a Wednesday.’
Lionel breathed a sigh of relief and mopped his brow with his fuchsia tie. Mrs. Ricketts made her way to the door closely followed by Lionel. She suddenly stopped and turned around. ‘There’s just one fing that bovvers me. In my vision that picture wasn’t on the wall, it was a blank wall.’ They both looked at the photo in the large gilt frame that adorned the wall above Lionel’s butchers block desk. A photo of Lionel and the Mayor, both in Masonic aprons shaking hands and smiling at the camera. ‘Must ‘ave got it wrong. I shall call back tomorrow if I get anyfing else tonight.’
‘I shan’t be here tomorrow,’ said Lionel quickly.
‘Not to worry dear, I’ll catch up wif you I’m sure. Lionel ushered her to the door
‘Goodbye Mrs Ricketts.’ She hesitated, and looked back into the shop. ‘Very strange about the picture, oh well, can’t always be right I suppose’. Lionel almost pushed her out and slammed the door. As the door slammed the photo of Lionel and the mayor fell onto the floor with a crash, the glass shattering everywhere. Mrs. Ricketts opened the door, popped her head around and said with delight, ‘That’s what I saw, me vision was right! Ta ra.’
The following day Lionel kept well away from the shop. He had been tossing and turning all night his mind racing when he was awake and weird dreams when he was asleep. Eventually he got up and decided to do his business from home. After a fruitful morning Lionel was feeling more relaxed and as the clock struck twelve he poured himself a large Brandy and lit a cigar. He was casually looking out of the window admiring his drive when the large black and gold Buckingham Palace replica gates opened and in came Mrs. Ricketts. ‘What the hell…’ She walked up the drive, past the two six feet concrete lions and the gold fountain towards the colonnaded porch. Lionel dropped his brandy glass and it shattered into tiny pieces. ‘Damn the bloody woman’. He started to pick up the glass but the bell rang, its 1812 Overture chime echoing all over the house. By the time Lionel reached the front door he was sweating profusely. Mrs. Ricketts smiled and then said very gravely, ‘You ‘ave blood on your hands Mr. Stent’. Lionel felt the colour drain from his face. Mrs. Ricketts rummaged in her bag and produced a tissue. ‘Ere we are. Use this’. Lionel realised he had cut himself on the brandy glass and she started to dab at his hand.
‘What do you want Mrs. Ricketts?’ said Lionel abruptly
‘Mrs. Stent… deceased… ‘as given me some more information for you.’
‘I don’t care, I don’t want it, go away’. He started to close the door but Mrs. Ricketts put her foot out and held it open.
‘Mrs. Stent said that she needs me to mention somefing.’
‘My wife is dead, you cannot speak to the dead because they are dead!’
‘I beg to differ, she has somefing to tell you’. Her voice changed again and she whispered ‘Somefing important.’
She was looking at him intently. Lionel felt defeated and let her in.
‘What a lovely room Mr. Stent’ said Mrs Ricketts looking around the huge lounge. ‘It’s a bit like an airport waiting lounge innit?’ She looked over to the art deco bar in the corner.
‘Oh, look you ‘ave a bar. We ‘ad one in the seventies. Mr. Ricketts loved ‘is bar, those were the days. Course ‘e can’t drink no more, not after ‘avin ‘is spleen removed. You can’t do much wifout a spleen Mr. Stench.’
‘Can we get on with it Mrs. Ricketts? But she was looking at a photo on the wall. ‘Is that you wif the chief of police Mr. Stent? Funny I don’t remember that bein’ on that wall either. Lionel rushed to the photo, took it off the hook and put it face down on the bar. Lionel was getting impatient, he just wanted her to say what she had to and then go. ‘Is that better Mrs.Ricketts?’
‘Yes, that’s what I saw a blank wall wif a mark where the photo had been.’ Now then! Down to business, can I sit down? Lionel gestured to the chaise lounge. ‘Oh! what a lovely chase long, I always wanted one of these.’
Lionel couldn’t help himself any longer. ‘For God’s sake woman, what do you want?’ He wiped his brow with the tissue.
‘Well I got ’ome from bingo last night and I felt a bit woozy, you know. I went fer a lie down and Mrs. Stent popped in. She says I really must come and see you today. That’s why I’m ‘ere’. There was a pause.
‘Yes, go on, go on.’
‘Well, she said that the bit about ‘er writin’ a suicide note and drivin’ off a cliff is not ‘ow it ‘appened. She says you drove your car into her car and pushed ‘er off’.
‘Ridiculous, now I know you are making it up’.
‘The dead don’t lie Mr. Stent.' Mrs. Ricketts stared at him,her gaze seemed to penetrate into his head. She smiled. He shuddered inside.
‘She… she… she killed herself, that’s it. She left a note.’
‘She said that you wrote that note Mr. Stent, before you pushed ‘er car off the cliff wif your car’.
For a moment Lionel was dumbstruck, then he pulled himself together.
‘No one will believe you’.
‘Oh! I ain’t goin’ to tell no one Mr. Stent. I am far too professional. I never repeat what any of the spirits tell me I only ever tell the person what the message is for’. Lionel realised he had been holding his breath and let it out in a wave of relief. ‘The only fing is, and this could be a problem of which I ‘ave no control over. I am doin a demonstration at the Town ‘all next week and it’s a trance demonstration. Now when I go into a trance I ‘ave no idea, what’s going to ’appen, I ‘ave no control. I was finking, what if Mrs. Stent comes frew and says what I just told you? I know the Mayor and ‘is wife’ll be there and the Chief Constable, what will they fink?’
‘They can think what the hell they like. Nothing can be proved by a woman in a trance.'
‘Yeah, but it’ll be in their ‘eads won’t it Mr Stent? They’ll talk about it and fink about it.'
‘Maybe, but there is still no proof is there?’ Lionel said raising his voice, ‘NO PROOF AT ALL…’
‘No yer right, no proof’. There was silence. Lionel felt relieved.
‘Cept fer the text that is.’
‘What bloody text, what the hell…?’
‘The text what you sent to ‘er, tellin ‘er where to meet you, where to park, exact spot’. There was a pregnant pause, Lionel was sweating again. ‘Course, that phone she ‘ad ‘as gone swimmin’ wif the fishes now. But I ‘eard on the telly that you can get them texts back now It’s all recorded, cos of terrorists I suppose, police can get anyfing back now. The wonders of technological fings Mr. Stench. Do yer mind if I ‘ave a fag?’ She pulled a pack out of her bag. ‘Want one Lionel?’
Lionel took a cigarette. They both sat smoking in silence. Eventually Lionel turned to her and said, ‘How much do you want Mrs. Ricketts?’

. About a week later Maggie Ricketts was relaxing in a Greek villa with her lover the ‘late’ Laura Stent. ‘Two Hundred grand isn’t bad for round one is it’? said Laura popping an olive into her mouth. He must have had a lot of cash I didn’t know about. Next thing we’ll go for is his gold, I’ll get those rings off his stumpy little fingers. I shall get a lot more this way than going to the police and through a messy divorce.’
Maggie, who was an attractive woman now that she had discarded the wig and padding said, ‘It was fun. The best moment came from the picture in the shop. From where I was sitting I could see the string fraying. I knew it was going to go at any moment’. You should have seen his face’.
‘I wish I had!’ laughed Laura pouring two glasses of wine. ‘Of course, if he had only looked into the car before he pushed it off the cliff he would have seen that I wasn’t even in there and I had got out and was watching from behind that bush. Idiot!’ They both laughed, picked up their glasses and raised a toast to Lionel Stent.
© Copyright. Cassandra Jarvis 2017

Checkmate

Arthur Drew caught sight of his reflection in the bus window. He stared for a little longer, as he admired his voluptuous eyebrows. Arthur was very fond of his eyebrows which he considered his most redeeming feature. They matched his moustache perfectly, both being dark brown with little blond flecks in them and tiny ginger hairs, like one might expect to see on a tortoiseshell cat. He occasionally trimmed his moustache but never, ever, did he pluck his eyebrows. A pair of tweezers they had never come into contact with. It was not a planned trip on Bus number forty-two to Bloomsbury that late afternoon on a miserable wet Wednesday in October, more of an emergency really. Some things could be put on the back burner for a while but this was not one of them. After he received, what can only be described as, a jeering phone call from his chess opponent Victor, Arthur dropped everything and made his way to the British Museum to see if what Victor had said was accurate. For Arthur, everything had to be veritable by himself and he trusted no one, especially Victor, whom he longed to beat at chess someday. They both belonged to a chess club with its headquarters in an antique gentlemen’s club where dull middle-aged men went on to become incredibly boring old men. It suited Arthur as his personality was akin to that of a dead fish and the only thing remotely interesting about him was the aforementioned eyebrows. Arthur and Victor were, at that time in the middle of a chess match which had been in play for three months. Their table, in the corner by the old mostly neglected bookcase was set up ready for the next move, which was Victors. He and Victor had that rivalry that can only come from a deep and secret loathing of the other. They were polite to each other, but it was an uncomfortable politeness with an undertone of mistrust. Two weeks previously Arthur had moved his bishop to a secure position and Victor’s king was in a very insecure location, although, at this stage, capture was by no means inevitable. This had made Victor childishly infuriated, Arthur saw it in him. Even though he was calm and gracious on the outside, he knew that inside, Victor was fuming and Arthur basked in his minor success. That is, until the phone call.
The light was starting to fade as he entered the museum. Waking into the Great Court he encountered the portly security guard. ‘You know that we close in ‘arf an ‘our?' Arthur waited for the ‘sir’ but it never came. ‘Yes, I won’t be that long. I just need to see one exhibit.' His shoes squeaked down the hall to the East Lift and made his way to the first floor. He thought of Victor’s words ‘You should pop along to the museum Arthur, I was there today and saw something you would be very interested in.' Then he had given a little snigger which had annoyed Arthur very much.
‘And what might that be Victor?'
‘Today Arthur, old man, I met your doppelgänger.'
‘My what?'
‘Pop along there, I’m sure you’ll find it as fascinating as I did. New exhibits section.' Another snigger. ‘See you at the club tonight.' Arthur could have sworn he heard uproarious laughing as Victor hung up.
He reached the second floor and spotted the sign, a large hand with a pointing finger, New Exhibits. Arthur wondered who his doppelganger could be. A Roman Emperor? A Greek Philosopher? Was he a statue? Bronze possibly? A fine marble made by ancient craftsmen of high intellect? But, if it were any of these things would Victor have sniggered? Or even mentioned it? Arthur became very nervous as he reached the room. Upon entering he saw a large glass case with the information above Latest Exhibits. He moved cautiously across the room, stopping by the case and before looking in he got out his handkerchief out to wipe away some smears. ‘Dam schoolkids, shouldn’t be allowed in a museum.’ Looking gingerly into the case he saw five shrunken heads. In the middle was a poor unfortunate Dutch explorer with enormous tortoiseshell eyebrows. In fact, the head was actually the spitting image of Arthur, but the size of a grapefruit. Oh, the humiliation, to have a shrunken head as a doppelgänger. At that moment Arthur hated Victor. He turned around and stormed out of the museum straight to the chemist, to buy some tweezers before chess club.
© Copyright. Cassandra Jarvis (2017)