Bunfight

This little piece, a short-short of just over 1000 words, was written in 2004 / 2005 and I never knew what to do with it. It's a little satire upon the behaviour of the modern repressed British male which to me comes under the category of 'cute' or just a bit of fun. In it I set two stereotypes against each other in silent confrontation played in a particularly English manner.

The story plot is based upon an old Douglas Adams gag from 'So long, and thanks for all the fish', I make no apology for that.

Joanna, smartly turned out on her first unsupervised day in her black ‘barista’ shirt, cleared the detritus of spilled coffee and shattered biscuit, quickly wiping the table down. What the hell had those two jokers been playing at?

Ten minutes earlier, she’d been working behind the counter and served one of them, a very elegantly turned out man in his fifties wearing a badge, which read “Mr Richard Sommersbury – Executive Director KLC Corporation.” He’d pocketed the badge while waiting for his double espresso and ginger nut biscuits. Obviously been to a meeting in the city by the look of him, expensively cut suit and carefully knotted tie, looked like real silk to her; neatly folded broadsheet newspaper tucked precisely under his arm. Having collected his coffee and biscuits she’d watched him out of the corner of her eye, not so much sit down at, as take possession of the table with the best view of the destination board. Oh hell, that table needed clearing now! Just behind him in the queue, a tall grey bearded man bid a brief farewell to his partner, a dark haired woman, all new age with her arty dangling dreadlock beads and feathers. “See you when you get back from Birmingham, Dave.” She gave him a showbiz ‘air kiss’ on both cheeks before sweeping out of the coffee bar and taking her jangling beads with her.

Joanna looked sideways at Marcus, who suppressed a snigger while frothing up a new batch of Milk for ‘Dave’s’ coffee. Bet she knows her own star sign backwards, she thought. Piotr, her supervisor tapped her on the shoulder and pointed at the tables that needed clearing before disappearing back into the cold store.

Poor Piotr, his English wasn’t too bad, but he was so painfully shy that he went to pieces every time Joanna gave him her special shy smile over her freckles, the one she reserved for people she really fancied. How on earth was a girl to get a man to ask her out if he forgot how to speak? Checking her sleek dark hair was properly bundled up in its ponytail as per company policy, she grabbed a black polythene sack, hand spray and cleaning cloth before heading over to the worst tables. Maybe if she asked Piotr out instead of waiting for him to make the first move?

Dave spotted the spare chair at the cluttered window table and made his way over. This particular Victoria Station coffee shop was always crowded. Still, it afforded a good view of the destination boards and the bustle of the floor below its historic Victorian clock.

He made brief eye contact with the smartly dressed man in his fifties reading a broadsheet at the other side of the table, gesturing at the chair. The man nodded, barely grudging assent. Dave set down his Latte and pack of three ginger cookies before sitting down. A quick glance at the destination board told him he had a good forty-five minutes to wait. Taking out his dog-eared copy of Proust he slid into the prose.

Richard was engrossed in the Business section of his broadsheet and barely nodded assent to the gestured question from the man in open necked shirt and Jeans. As a token of unconscious self-defence he paused in his reading and straightened his Windsor knotted silk tie.

Joanna suppressed a grimace at the state of each table, swiftly pushing everything into the black rubbish sack as quickly as she could, whilst trying not to think too much about the mess. Besides, if she was quick at clearing away, mightn’t she get a few words of praise from Piotr to break the ice of his Polish standoffishness? Why did she always have to fancy shy men anyway?

Both the men barely acknowledged the black uniformed girl who hurriedly cleared the detritus of empty wrappers off the table. In her distracted hurry to clear, she swept one of the two open packets of ginger biscuits into her black plastic sack.

Dave reached for a biscuit without looking and dunked it in his coffee, savouring the rich bite of ginger nut and extra shot of espresso. Richard did likewise, taking a bite then a sip of espresso with its delightful tobacco edge to counterpoint the crumb and crunch of the ginger. He finished it fastidiously with the slightest licking of lips. Dave dunked the rest of his before washing it down with a gulp of sweetened latte.

Richard lowered his newspaper for a moment and looked aghast at the solitary biscuit remaining. He looked up, glaring across the table at the interloper. Bloody cheek! You let some scruffy greybeard sit down and they immediately help themselves to your biscuits!

Dave looked up, innocently reaching for another of his ginger nuts. What was Colonel Blimp over the table glaring at? Hang on, who’d had the second of his biscuits? His hand paused. Both men looked away, uncomfortable with public confrontation on strange territory.

Richard began to reach across the table. Dave paused, then glared at his opponent, his hand creeping closer to its goal. They each looked sidelong at the remaining ginger nut, neither daring to move. An agonising minute crawled by with neither man daring to blink, staring down at the solitary focus of their attention. All around them the sounds of Victoria station echoed whilst eyes narrowed, staring like gunfighters in some spaghetti western waiting for the signal to draw.

The tension mounted; for a split second Dave’s grip loosened and his paperback slipped from his grasp. Richard dropped his newspaper and snatched. Dave’s hand was closer but slower off the mark.

Exploding crumbs skittered across the tabletop as they both recoiled from the suddenness of warm flesh. Hurried grabs were made for unstable cups as coffee threatened to spill, leaving an isolated torn wrapper and a few ginger fragments as sole evidence of the conflict.

For a moment they glared spite at each other. Dave retrieved his paperback from the floor. Richard picked up his broadsheet and made a disgruntled sound that could have been “Hmph!” Dave grunted an angry obscenity under his breath before they slowly and carefully turned away from each other, furiously concentrating on their respective reading material.

Joanna glanced over – what! She’d only just cleaned that table! Some people weren’t even housetrained!

The end
1049 words excluding title

Polish Ted

I first penned this tale back in late 2003 / early 2004 and I've rarely really tried to get it published, as I could never really work out who to send it to. There's too much strong language in it for the mainstream magazine short story market, and it's too quintessentially English for anywhere else. Kind of stuck betwixt and between. This piece is like a vintage car you keep for a hobby. You keep on bringing it out of the Garage and play with it every so often on a sunny Sunday. Every so often you turn it over, and listen to it cough and wheeze before rumbling into life. It has that kind of period charm.

'Polish Ted' is one of those 'twist in the tale ending' stories about a World War two veteran in his declining years who gets attacked by some of the local toughs. The theme is not a new one, but I happen to like this particular incarnation.

“Give us it you old sod!” Sean lunged at the old guy in the tweed cap and jacket, intending to push him over for a laugh. Maybe nick his pension money; these old geezers loved carrying cash didn’t they? Dead easy pickings, and Sean had got a thirst on for some ready money and a pint or two.

There was a moment of unexpected sudden movement, and cold grey paving stones cracked Sean’s cheekbones, his Burberry check baseball cap rolling into the gutter.
“Get lost.” Came the contemptuous, heavy middle European accented answer from the old man, who paused over him meaningfully before striding vigorously down the narrow red brick terraced English street.
Sean lay on the pavement, muzzily wondering how he had missed as everything faded to blankness.

“Oh look.” Millicent stood in her old fashioned pearls and twin-set by the window, hearing aid turned down to tune out the background noise of Rebecca’s hoovering. “It’s Ted up and around again. That’s nice.” Regular as clockwork he as he ever was; ten o’clock every day. She’s missed seeing him stride up the street these past six months. Still, nice to see him back. She let the net curtain fall back into place and turned to smile gently at her home help.

Rebecca half ignored Millicent’s comment and barely glanced out of the window at the old man walking purposefully up the street of terraced houses. These old people lived in a world of their own; but still she asked, just for the sake of appearances. “Who’s Ted?”
Millicent brushed a stray lock of permed silver hair back into place and tried to hold on to her smile. Rebecca was a nice girl really but bit of a milch cow. No real spark, no spirit, nothing exciting about her. Not the slightest urge to dress well either. Well, if she had any of those qualities she wouldn’t be a home help would she?
“Quite a man in his day.” Millicent felt a warm thought bubble into her ninety-two year old breast.
“Really.” Was Rebecca’s disinterested reply. Oh to have a day of the youth this bottle blonde woman was wasting, thought Millicent.
“One of the first commandoes. If you believe the gossip down at the British Legion.” She tantalised. Still Rebecca carried on hoovering the faded floral carpet in that almost insulting manner of hers, as though she was only doing this under duress.
“Oh.” It was clear the silly girl had no idea.
“Special Operations too, although you’d never think it to talk to him.”
“What? SAS?” More of a contemptuous grunt than real interest.
“Oh no, before them dear.”
“What was he, a spy or something?” Why was Rebecca being so sarcastic?
“No dear, he came over here in nineteen forty after Poland was invaded by the Nazi’s. Joined the Army like a lot of his friends and carried on the fight. Won all sorts of medals. You’d think he’d walk sideways on Remembrance Day.” Millicent giggled for the first time since Rebecca had known her.

Rebecca looked at her sideways, lip curled in scarcely veiled disgust. Surely the old dear wasn’t thinking about sex? At her age!

Millicent caught the look but did not acknowledge it. These girls nowadays! You would have thought they’d invented sex the way they carried on. She could tell Rebecca a thing or two. Not that the silly girl would believe her. Not that any of them would believe anything, even if it crept up and bit them on the backside. Just because you’ve gotten old it doesn’t mean you never did anything with your life. She went back to looking out of the window. Ten minutes later, a scattering of blue light flashes announced an Ambulance pulling up at the top of the street. Wonder who that was for?

Sean woke, looking into a bright light and recoiled, his right hand automatically trying to fend off whoever was doing this to him. “Good pupil reaction. Mild concussion.” The voice came from a light blue clad blur. “All right young man.” A firm friendly grip pushed his hand to one side and a fatherly dark skinned face swam into view. “What’s your name?”
“Sean. Gerroff with that light willyer?”
“Okay Sean, you’re in hospital. Now stop fidgeting.” He was pushed back onto the bed.
Hospital! What! That old bastard had fucked him. Him!
“What’s your full name Sean?”
“Sean Wilson.”
“Where do you live?”
“Who wants to know you old fart?”
“Hospital records. If we know who you are, we don’t give you the wrong medicine. Right?”
“Fuck you!”
“If that’s your attitude…” The voice sounded like he’d seen and heard all this before.
“Okay, alright. 32 Whetmore Street.”
“Thank you.” There was a pause as the figure wrote something down. “Headache?”
“What?”
“Have you got a headache?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“Mm-hm. Where?”
Sean pointed to his left cheek which was covered by a dressing. It itched. As he did so he looked at his right arm properly for the first time. Who’d put this cast on him?
“Your right arm was fractured. Looks like you took quite a tumble.” Was the Doctors blithe comment. “We think you also fractured your cheek when you fell. What happened?”
Sean was about to say “Some old fart did it.” Then bit his tongue. What actually came out was “Dunno.” As if he thought it would help he added. “Got jumped. From behind. I think there was three of ‘em.”
“Uh-huh.” It was pretty plain the Doctor didn’t believe him. “Okay. Well you’ll have to stay overnight as you’ve been unconscious. Apart from your arm, there’s nothing much wrong with you other than a few bumps and bruises.” The Doctor stepped back. “There’s a Policeman here if you want to talk to him.” His lips twitched into a smile as he saw Sean’s alarmed reaction. “Thought not. Okay Sean, I’ll get rid of him.”
“Thanks.” Sean lay back and breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want the plods fishing around. That old fart was going to get what was coming to him. Petey and Jed would help; three of them should do it. Teach that old fucker a lesson.

PC Solanki nodded to the Casualty Officer, glanced round the curtain before leaving the bustling casualty department. Had someone finally bounced Sean Wilson? No convictions but the name kept surfacing in connection with crime reports. No successful prosecutions and witness intimidation was suspected but not proven. Still, the news that someone had taught him a short sharp lesson was not entirely unwelcome. PC Solanki ran his hand through his gel slicked black hair and walked out, placing his helmet securely on his head. Be nice to have the little tearaway off the streets for a few weeks. Local crime might even drop for a while. Trouble was; Sean would probably be planning something with his low-life chav mates when his arm healed. PC Solanki knew he’d have to investigate and maybe get to the bottom of it all before it turned into a full fledged gang war. If his case load allowed.

Just after eleven that morning, Rebecca shut Millicent’s front door behind her, stepping into the tidy little street of English terraced houses. Her mobile shrilled. She listened and wavered a little as the news hit her. Her Sean in Hospital!

She bundled her heavy frame into her old Red Ford Fiesta and cut sharply away from the kerb, causing another car to brake heavily. Horns sounded. She ignored them, fleshy features creased in concern, not really thinking about the chaos she left in her wake.

Millicent heard the cacophony and sipped at the cup of tea she had managed to persuade the surly Rebecca to make her before she went. My goodness, it was getting noisy out there today. What was going on? She smiled at a familiar figure and gave it a little wave as it passed by her window.

Tuesday, the following day, the Police station was normally quiet. Today however the Enquiries Officer found himself facing the full molten fury of a mother in offspring protection mode. He forced himself to bite his lip while Rebecca tried to scream the place down. She had her eldest boy with her. A better case for late abortion the officer had never seen, he thought sardonically; he wasn’t just thinking about Sean either.
“Are you listening to me?” Rebecca screeched, face distorted and red with rage.
“Yes madam. If you want to make a complaint…”
“I don’t want to fill in your sodding forms – someone tried to kill my Sean!”
Pity they didn’t succeed, thought the Enquiries Officer, carefully keeping his face open. He could feel the internal CCTV camera on his back, watching, waiting for him to make a slip that could lead to a disciplinary notice. All he could do was sit down and wait for her to run out of steam or storm out of the door. Right now either would do. She paused in mid flow, coughing. “Okay.” The Enquiries Officer took out his pen and an Incident Form. “Tell me what happened and we’ll put wheels in motion.”
“I don’t want wheels in motion I want that old bastard arrested!”
“Right. Who did you say did this to your son?” The Enquiries Officer had chosen his moment expertly. Rebecca was stopped in mid tirade. Sean had for once, the good sense to remain silent.
“That old Polish bloke from Highland Street!” She shouted. “Weren’t you listening?”
“Do you know his name?”
“Course I don’t know his fucking name! You stupid plod! Wouldn’t be here otherwise would I!”
The Enquiries Officer put his pen down, folded his arms and looked Rebecca squarely in the eyes. “If you want to make a crime report or complaint, please do.” He told her in stiff formal tones. “If not, stop wasting Police time.” There. That told her. Get rid of the silly bloody woman.

Rebecca stormed out, pausing only to push Sean outside. “Fucking coppers don’t care about us!” She shouted as a parting shot. “Only care about filling in fucking forms!”
PC Solanki walked in through the still swinging double doors a moment later. “Was that who I think it was?”
“Oh yes. Wanted some old Polish bloke arrested from what I could make out.”
“Yeah, are they claiming someone beat up little Sean?”
“Good luck to whoever it was. Any idea’s?”
“No. All I know is they found Sean unconscious on the corner of Highland Street and West Avenue.” PC Solanki took off his helmet. “There are a couple of old Polish families down that way. I’ll go and have a chat later on this afternoon. See if they know anything.”
“D’you think we’ve got a vigilante on our hands?”
“No. It looks like a one off. Maybe an ex soldier and a mugging that went right.”
“Don’t you mean a mugging that went wrong?” The Enquiries Officer asked as he keyed the security door.
“No.” Said PC Solanki, grinning at the thought as he entered the main office. Being the districts only Asian PC he knew all about these inter family rows, they were the background noise he’d grown up with. A timely quiet word in the right ear was often the best way to deal with the situation and damn the bureaucracy. Walking past a stifled guffaw from the Enquiries Officer he headed off to the canteen for lunch.

Sean was blushing furiously as only a nineteen year old being towed by his mother could. He wanted to sort it out himself, not get the coppers involved. Rebecca bundled him into the front passenger seat and slammed the door. The suspension bouncing as she literally jumped into the car. In her frustrated anger she stalled the engine twice before cutting sharply into the flow of traffic.

It was no good trying to talk to Mum when she had a strop on. Sean slouched back into the worn seat and sulked. He’d wait until everyone had forgotten this whole thing then he’d pay the old cunt a visit with some mates.

Six weeks later over at Petey’s place, Jed and Sean sat drinking Cans of Stella and trying to out – belch each other. Rap music at full volume reverberated around the room, spilling out into the street. Petey and Jed cackled loudly at their successes and failures while Sean sat gloomily slumped in a bean bag at the back of the room. He was still nursing his first drink while his mates were well into their third. After a while he said. “I’m bored.”
“What you wanna do?” Petey gurgled down the last of his lager.
“I wanna fuck somebody over.” Sean smirked with an evil leer.
“Like who?” Jed was curious.
“Anyone. I want to have a bit of a laugh.”
“All right.” Petey stood up and farted loudly. They all laughed.
“Yeah.” Jed stood up and tried to copy Petey. He was glad they didn’t notice when the fart failed to arrive. Sean left his half finished can in the ashtray and dropped his cigarette in. It extinguished with a hiss.

Two baseball bats, stolen the week before from the local high school were bundled inside the Hoodie Sean habitually wore. Petey slid an iron bar up his right sleeve where it wouldn’t show.
“Where we gonna go then?” Jed picked up his car keys.
“You drive. I’ll tell you when.”
“Okay.”

It was mid Wednesday afternoon and the streets were quiet. Jed drove while Sean sat glowering out of the rear window at people in the street. Petey wound down the nearside front window, making insulting comments at them. “Get a proper job!” He roared gleefully at a Traffic Warden, Jed revved the Volvo’s old engine for effect. Bloody Traffic Vultures!

As they turned left into the Terraced row of West Avenue Sean saw exactly who he was looking for. “Here.” Jed inexpertly pulled his old Volvo into a parking place, two wheels on the kerb. “Him.” Sean pointed to the tweed clad figure walking towards them and got out of the car, slipping his hooded sweat shirt over his baseball cap just in case there was CCTV on this street. Petey followed suit. Jed reached under the drivers front seat to take out one of the baseball bats and hid it behind his back. He circled around behind the tweed clad figure, closing the gap until he saw Sean’s nod and swung at the old guy’s head, hard.

Millicent saw Ted’s familiar figure pass by her front bay window and waved as she always did. As usual he seemed not to see her. It didn’t matter anyway, he always knew she was here if he wanted to drop by.

What she saw next horrified her. Not ten paces from her front door, three young men wearing those scruffy hooded things went after Ted with vicious looking clubs in their hands. “Ted!” She shouted, her panicked voice pitifully weak. Oh no. Trying to control shaking hands, she picked up her telephone receiver and, arthritic fingers painfully slow, dialled ‘999’.

By the time the squad car arrived it was all over. Sean, Jed and Petey lay on the pavement, massive head wounds oozing the last of their lives, all three weapons blooded. Ted was nowhere to be seen. An ambulance pulled up and the paramedics got out, emergency bags in hand. Millicent was obviously agitated as she opened her door to PC Solanki’s polite knock. “Oh dear, officer.” She quavered in considerable distress, tears in her rheumy blue eyes before a faint “Oh,” escaped her lips. “Oh dear.” Her voice took on a deeper, calmer note as she saw Ted was not one of the bodies on the ground.
“Did you see anything madam?” PC Solanki enquired solicitously. His colleague, a female Community Support Officer stood back and waited in case the old lady in the old fashioned dress needed the feminine touch.
“I saw those three young men..” Her voice tailed off. A paramedic shook his head sadly before moving on to the next body.
“What were they doing?”
“They had those bats and they tried to attack Ted, er, Mr Pulaski.”

PC Solanki looked over at the Paramedics who had stopped trying to save life that was so obviously extinct. “Where does Mister Pulaski live Mrs Jellicoe?”
“Number eighteen. Oh dear, is he in very bad trouble officer?”
“I think we had better talk to Mister Pulaski first.” He said tersely. At least the war was over. Now he had an OAP murder suspect. Sighing inwardly he walked down the street to number eighteen. As he passed the rented properties that replaced a once tight knit little community, a sense of unease told him something was very wrong here. Grimy windows and unwashed curtains choked with dead flies were all he could see as he peered inside. Already a hard lump of suspicion was forming in his mind. He pressed the doorbell and heard it ring again. No reply. The Community Support Officer came up behind him. Exchanging a look of mutual agreement, PC Solanki walked through the brick built side entry and pushed open a peeling, weathered rear gate.

Beyond the gate the narrow garden was a mess. Although everything seemed to be in place the back yard was overgrown, choked with weeds and brambles. The windows at the rear of the house were almost opaque and looked like they had been unwashed for the better part of a year. He could hear the Community Support Officer ringing the front doorbell and calling Mr Pulaski’s name repeatedly. Then he caught a whiff of a particular odour. Once smelt, never forgotten. Walking back round to the front door he beckoned her down the passage. She grimaced as the musty odour registered. Both of them knew exactly what it meant.

A key left underneath a flowerpot by the back door saved them the trouble of breaking in. PC Solanki opened the kitchen door and sniffed gently. “Call the coroners office and the Police Surgeon.” He said tersely as the full odour caught in his nostrils.

The tiny galley kitchen was clean and bare, the downstairs parlour white painted, almost starkly so. Two chairs and a sofa pushed back to the walls and curiously, no Television. A scree of junk mail had cascaded down from the letter box to the bare wooden floor, littering it with gaudy free offers and never to be missed opportunities. Walking gingerly up the narrow stairs he followed the smell to its source. Just before opening the door, he turned to the Community Support Officer. “You ready?” She nodded, face taut.

Theodorus ‘Ted’ Pulaski lay neatly in his dead fly scattered bed upstairs, a dried out, part mummified husk with scraps of maggot ignored flesh clinging to a skin wrapped skeleton. Ted’s medals lay in an open case on the dust and fly strewn dressing table along with a neatly arranged gentlemen’s grooming kit in silver plate. A well worn Harris Tweed suit hung dustily on a rail in an open wardrobe. Otherwise the room was neat but bare with white painted walls and illuminated by a solitary light bulb. “I’ve seen worse.” PC Solanki saw another ambulances flashing blue lights pulling up in the street outside. “Let them in. Not that they can do anything for him.”

The Police Surgeon arrived, and after a brief examination decided death must have been by natural causes some twelve months earlier. The body was removed to the local hospitals mortuary and enquiries begun to find next of kin.

PC Solanki shook his head gently. Mrs Jellicoe must have been mistaken. Not really surprising at her age and state of health. So who the hell had those kids gone after? Even three witnesses in the street who had actually seen the boys get out of their car couldn’t say. This was one for CID; see if they could come up with anything. His well-honed coppers instincts told him they’d be hard pushed.

The following day Millicent was pleasantly surprised when her doorbell rang. On her doorstep was the man himself. “Oh Ted! You shouldn’t have.” She said taking possession of the single red rose. “Come in and have some tea.” He was such an old romantic. “Nice to have a gentleman caller for a change.” She giggled a little self consciously.

As the kettle boiled they discussed the previous days events. “As for those boys Ted.” Millicent chided. “You shouldn’t have tricked them into hitting each other like that.”
“So? They wanted to kill me.” Ted Pulaski laconically replied from his place in the chintzy armchair by the rarely watched Television.
“But that’s different, Ted.” Came Millicent’s reproving voice from the kitchen. “You’re already dead.”

The End. 3470 words