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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Crime
- Published: 01/30/2023
The Bakery
Born 1980, M, from Exeter, United Kingdom![The Bakery](/storage/story/49F30A31-34EA-0E2D-A078-09081B7C82C4_1675098827-image(201x285-crop).jpeg)
It is August and my train pulls into White Cliff station at 21:30 with a squeal of brakes. I stand retrieving my luggage from the rack and disembark, oblivious of the other commuters as I head to the exit. Emerging onto a rain-soaked street I am unable to recognise the town I left twenty years ago. Growing up these streets were home to independent shops, family run restaurants, bars and hotels. It was always quiet at this time of night. Not anymore.
I gaze around in astonishment. The streets are packed. Big businesses now dominate. Coffee shops, cinemas, restaurants, casinos and even a strip club. Flashing neon signs advertise what the customers can expect inside. I am surrounded by billboards promoting well-known retail giants coming soon. Pedestrians either wander aimlessly in awe or patiently wait to get inside one of these shining temples of consumerism. I briefly wonder how they will fit as the interiors are already packed. I look up at the sky expecting to see the stars. However, the light pollution obscures even the brightest one.
I start walking to my parents home taking side streets, wanting to get away from the bright garish lights. I do my best to calm the rage building inside me. How could this happen? On the main street, all the familiar structures of my childhood have been demolished but in these dimly lit alleys they remain boarded up, their interiors in darkness. Yellow eviction notices fixed to their doors or flapping in the breeze. As I walk I gaze in the direction of the harbour, the water always has a calming effect on me. However, even this picturesque landmark is blocked from view by yet another concrete monstrosity, a shopping mall: ‘ShopTill U Drop’. Thinking of the injustice perpetrated on my town, tears roll down my cheeks. I stop in front of a building that is unaffected by the passage of time: my parents' business, the ‘Kneady Dough Bakery’. The two storey structure seems like a dwarf amongst giants. There is a light upstairs.
As I enter the bell above the door jingles cheerfully welcoming me home. Walking across the shop floor I head towards the wooden staircase. At the top whipping my eyes I push the brown door that swings inward with a squeak revealing my parents' modestly furnished open plan apartment. Dad, who is reading the paper at the kitchen table, looks up at the noise: “You came,” he says. My mother stops stirring the cooking, rushes over and envelops me in a hug: “How was your journey?” she asks. Before I can answer she continues: “Come, sit and eat. You must be hungry.” I take a seat. A plate appears in front of me and mum dishes up a large helping of venison and mushrooms stew with a freshly baked crusty loaf. I begin eating. “This is delicious, mum. I miss your cooking so much.” Her eyes go wide: “Doesn’t Samantha feed you?” I chuckle. “She does but she is not as good as you.” My father says: “Leave the poor boy alone, he just walked in.” My mum ignores him and for the next few minutes I am quizzed about my life in London. I respond in between mouthfuls. “Is the law firm treating you well?” “Yes, but I don’t feel that there is much chance of a promotion, at least in the short term.” When dinner is at an end I ask the question that has been on my mind since I received my mother's hastily handwritten note in the post two days earlier which mysteriously contained only two words: come home.
Reaching into my inside jacket pocket I remove the note and place it on the wooden table. “What's wrong?” I ask. Mum’s usual happy mood turns gloomy as she replies: “We need your help William. Your dad and I thought we could handle it ourselves but we were wrong. Your father is too proud to ask for help. He was under the impression that your job and new wife would keep you too busy and that you wouldn't be interested in coming to the aid of small town folks like us.” “You are my parents,” I protest. “That's what I told him but you know how he gets when an idea is in his head. There is nothing you can do to change it.” After she finishes her explanation dad says: “We know what you witnessed that night.”
*****
The night my father was referring to occurred when I was ten. The bakery was just about to close when the phone rang. It was Jean Wiseman, our mayoress. She apologised for the late hour but it slipped her mind that an old friend was coming to visit and she asked if we could provide some bread and pies. My parents disapproved of sending me out in the dark autumn evening but, like every resident in White Cliff, they felt a debt of gratitude to Ms Wiseman. She had made the town and the locals wealthy by investing money back into the municipality, always supporting local businesses like ours and ensuring that no big companies, chains or franchises could gain a foothold despite outside pressure.
So, I was sent to the mayoress’ residence. As I cycled along, with only my bicycle light to guide me, the aroma of the freshly baked goods that issued from the bag made my stomach rumble and my mouth watered. An owl hooted in the distance. Looking back it might have been a warning of the danger to come but my young legs just kept pedalling oblivious. When I arrived, I dismounted my bike, leaning it up against the low garden wall and took the branded paper bag with me. I walked to the front door. The gravel crunched under my feet. I knocked and waited. When I got no response I went around the house to check for signs of movement. My progress was halted when I reached the living room window. There were two figures in the room. One, a short elderly woman with white hair, the mayoress, was seated in the centre of the room. The other, a tall muscular man with a scar running down his left cheek, was wearing black leather gloves. I took him to be the friend that Ms Wiseman had been expecting. He was standing over her. I knocked on the glass to attract their attention. Suddenly the man’s grey eyes locked briefly with mine. Turning back he cut Ms Wiseman’s throat in one swift movement. Horrified I tried to run but terror rooted me to the spot. I watched helplessly as the murderer pushed the body, which slid onto the floor staining the thick grey carpet crimson with blood. Concealing the knife in his jacket, the man rushed out of the room. The spell broke, I frantically looked for a place to hide. Locating one a few moments before the stranger exited the house. He saw my bicycle and called in a menacing voice: “Come out, come out wherever you are!” He soon found my hiding spot in between two bushes at the edge of the drive. He squatted, parted the foliage and smiled at my terrified expression: “So here you are. If you tell anybody about what you saw tonight I will come back to kill you and your family. Do you understand?” I nodded. “What have you got there?” He stretched out his hand and grabbed the bag which was clutched to my chest so tightly that my knuckles were white. He straightened up and took a big bite of one of the pies. “This is delicious, my compliments to the baker!” he exclaimed, then walked off into the night. I grabbed my bike and rode home as quickly as I could, not telling anybody what I had seen. After just a few days the subsequent police investigation was mysteriously halted.
A few weeks later the stranger returned and introduced himself as Al Brooks. He told the town people that he had been handpicked by Jean Wiseman to continue her legacy. The residents of White Cliff were suspicious at first. However, after they heard that he knew our mayoress, the feeling soon evaporated, but a small group, including my parents, remained sceptical. Mr Brooks would buy food and drinks with a seemingly unlimited supply of cash and invited the clientele to join him for a meal as his guests. The number of people that took him up on his offer swelled every night. Finally we were given a choice: he could either become the new mayor or be the caretaker of the town until a new one was elected. Most people were in favour of the former option but our group remained suspicious and we were right to be.
Over the next few months big businesses, chains stores and franchises opened their doors. Unable to compete, most of the independent shops that for so long had thrived unchallenged on our streets, were forced to close and the owners were obliged to find employment in what used to be regarded by them as ‘the enemy’. Gradually the members of our group either caved in from the pressure and sought out jobs in these same establishments, or inexplicably vanished. It felt as if darkness had gripped our town. Only my parents remained defiant and so it was in fear for my safety that they put me on a train to London to go and live with my aunt and attend Primrose Boarding School. Tearfully I begged them to come with me but they shook their heads and said: “If we do, William, then Al Brooks will win. We must stay and fight. Go. Regards to Delilah, do what she tells you and listen to your teachers. We will see you soon.”
*****
The sound of something heavy hitting the table brings my thoughts back to the present. A medium size brown envelope lays in front of me. “What is this?” I enquire. “The latest sum of money Al Brooks is offering us to vacate these premises. We have three weeks to either accept the bribe or face the consequences.” “Have you spoken to the police?” I ask. “Since you've been away Al Brooks has become a very powerful man. He owns the local police and any outside investigation into his conduct is shut down within a few days of commencing. Even officers who thought they were incorruptible have their price. It turns out that this was the same method he employed during Jean Wiseman’s murder investigation. Former loyal employees have spoken out against Brooks. Apparently he did not give them all that he promised. When it comes to their pay and employment he changes his mind often. These whistle-blowers disappear overnight. Murders are suspected but never proven. We have tried on numerous occasions to reason with him but, far from the image of the welcoming man he presented when he first arrived, he has grown paranoid and surrounded himself with armed mercenaries. He spends all his time in the newly built ‘Happy Lobster Bar’. You cannot get close to him without being searched so smuggling something in is impossible. Your mother attempted it and barely escaped alive. Despite this she believes that you can succeed where we failed.”
After my father finishes detailing why I had been summoned so urgently I ask: “How did you know that I was there that night?” “He told us in an attempt to divide our family so we wouldn't contact you,” explains my mother. “Can you help us?” she pleads. While I do not relish the prospect of meeting the man who has periodically haunting my dreams ever since I was a child, my parents were in danger of losing their business or even their lives. I needed to help. “Don't worry, I will think of something,” I assure them. My affirmation seems to give them hope, the envelope is put away and the conversation returns to trivial topics.
As the days go by I try to come up with a way of helping my parents but a solution continues to evade me. When I tell them my father says: “Well, you tried your best.” Whereas my mother never loses her optimism assuring me: “You will come up with something. Don't give up.” Just when I think all hope is lost, I formulate a plan. It is perilous and reckless but the alternative does not bear thinking about.
It is morning. I put on a dark blue suit, adjust my red tie in the mirror, and attach a black and gold fountain pen to my lapel. Telling my parents that I have some business to attend to in town and that I will be back later. Leaving the house I follow the main road, go left around the bend and get my first look at the ‘Happy Lobster Bar’ which is on the crest of the hill. The building resembles a wild west saloon. Its sign, featuring the red crustacean winking periodically, is still lit up from last night. As I approach I see two armed guards patrolling its perimeter. Steadying my nerves I smile broadly and wave, shouting to attract their attention: “Hey Jim! It's me, Larry. We met last year. Remember?” One of the men looks at me with irritation: “There is no Jim here, friend. You have mistaken me for someone else.” “Oh, come on Jim. Don’t you recognise me?” I persist. “I'm not him. Now move along,” he growls in between clenched teeth. “Can I at least have a drink before I leave?” I ask good-naturedly. The man walks towards me: “The bar does not open till five o'clock,” he shouts. As he gets closer I realise he's much taller than me with broad shoulders. I start to wonder whether I made a mistake but then I think of my parents and what will happen if I do nothing and continue: “You really are the spitting image of Jim.” “Look, I don't know this Jim character. I don't know you either.” “Jim it's me Larry!” The man, clearly irritated by my persistence, points his machine gun at me: “If you don't stop making a nuisance of yourself and leave I will make you. You have until the count of ten.” I stand my ground. He starts counting backwards slowly. “Ten, nine, eight, seven….” Swallowing nervously and raising my hands I ask: “Could you, at least, tell me where I can find Al Brooks?” At the mention of his boss' name the guard lowers his weapon: “Why do you want to know?” “I have business to discuss with him.” “What might that be?” asks the man. “I don't think your boss would like his affairs discussed on the street, do you?” He replies angrily: “Wait here, I will see if he is free.” He walks back towards the bar entrance. Before disappearing inside he tells his colleague: “Keep an eye on that one.” I follow him but the other guard stops me. “Frank told you to wait,” says the guard. “I'm sorry, but I really need to get inside, out of the heat. I feel faint.” I stumble against him. Recovering, I raise my hand in apology and wait patiently. Frank soon returns: “Mr Brooks will see you,” he says abruptly.
They search me and find nothing. I am escorted inside. Mr Brooks’ people lounge around, one plays a tune on a Steinway while four more play cards at a square table and a barmaid wipes glasses ready to serve customers. They watch me with suspicion as we walk past. I am taken to a small room at the far end of the saloon. It is empty apart from a circular table and two chairs. Sitting at it is Al Brooks who is wearing a Panama hat. He has gained weight and is no longer the athletic man that I remember. His large stomach overhangs the trousers of his cream coloured suit. A bushy grey beard obscures his scar. He is eating fruits from a silver platter, letting the juice run down his chin before wiping it away with a linen napkin. More keen eyed mercenaries stand against the walls alert to any danger. Their weapons are not as obvious as the ones carried by the guards outside but I am not foolish enough to think they haven’t got any. Bulges under their jackets confirm my suspicion. I need to get rid of his bodyguards somehow. Brooks doesn't look up as I sit opposite him. In between mouthfuls he enquired sharply: “What do you want? You are interrupting my breakfast.” “I am terribly sorry but I have business to discuss with you in private,” I say. “You can talk freely in front of them,” he replies, gesturing to his bodyguards. “I am afraid it is a rather delicate matter,” I whisper leaning forward. He looks up: “Do you think I was born yesterday?” he shouts startlingly at me. “The moment I send them away you are going to kill me.” I spread my hands in a placating gesture: “I mean you no harm sir. I assure you that I'm here to offer my services. However, we must speak privately.” “Leave us! But stay close in case I need you,” he orders. With a snap of his fingers they leave the room.
I watch them go then introduce myself: “My name is Larry Stoneman.” “How do I know I can trust you?” he interrupts. “Well,” I look around conspiratorially, “I think one of your men is stealing from you.” “Impossible! I hand pick all my personnel myself. They are loyal. They all know the consequences if they steal from me.” “Maybe so sir, but when I was outside I saw one of your guards with an envelope and I am betting that if you search him you will find that what I say is true.” Mr Brooks wipes his hands, puts his napkin on the platter, pushes it to one side and says with a smirk: “OK, I will indulge you. However, if I find nothing you won't get out of here alive. I will kill you where you sit.”
Moments later the guards are sent for and searched. A cream envelope is found. Mr Brooks’ eyes go wide with surprise when he sees the money inside. “What’s the meaning of this,” he roars. Despite the man’s stuttering protests that he had never seen the envelope before, Al Brooks takes a snub nose revolver from his jacket pocket and shoots the man in the head. The body falls to the ground with a ‘thud’. I struggle to hide my revulsion at this barbaric act but somehow manage. The blood forms a pool on the dark wooden floor. Al watches the corpse being dragged out the room. The discovery of the cash on the guard had been part of my plan to gain Mr Brooks' trust. Before leaving my parents' apartment I put part of the bribe into the cream coloured envelope and took it with me, transferring it to the pocket of the unfortunate man when I fell against him under the guise of heat exhaustion.
Al turns his attention to me, leans back, takes a grape, pop it into his mouth and asks casually: “Now, where were we?” “I have heard that you have a problem,” I reply. Al’s belly laugh echoes around the small room. “Problem? Mr Stoneman, I run this town. What problem do you think I have?” he responds arrogantly. “The ‘Kneady Dough Bakery’,” I say. At these words he leans forward with a look of curiosity on his face: “Oh yes, I admit that particular piece of property and its owners are proving a persistent challenge for me and my men. But how do you know that?” “I have been following your career with interest. For somebody who has researched you as much as I have, it is common knowledge.” This answer seems to satisfy him. “Then how do you propose we fix it?” I shake my head: “There will be no ‘we’ Mr Brooks. I must do this alone. The owners know all your men by sight and will defend themselves. You have lost the element of surprise but they won’t see me coming. I will have them out within a few days, then the building will be yours to do with as you wish.” Mr Brooks' eyes sparkle but he inquires cautiously: “If you can do what you claim I will make you a very rich man Mr Stoneman, but I’ve learned in business that people never do favours for others without wanting something in return. So what can I do for you?” “I would like to know how you achieve your success? What drives you?” “I am of the belief that big business should be the only shops allowed to flourish in towns and cities for maximum profits. Independent shops are obsolete and need to be eliminated.” I nod: “I understand your philosophy but it seems that others don’t.” “Yes, there are always short-sighted people. For example when I arrived, this town had a mayoress, a charming woman named Jean Wiseman, but she didn’t share my vision for White Cliff so I was forced to deal with her.” “What do you mean?” I ask innocently. “She met with an unfortunate accident.” At my blank expression he elaborates: “I murdered her.” I suppress a gag at the memory. “There have been others that have met the same fate. I find it's the quickest way of getting things done. Meetings, discussions and planning applications are so tiresome.” I continue: “Are you not afraid of somebody finding out?” “I have accumulated enough money to pay off anyone that gets close to the truth. This is not the only town I have modernised,” he adds. “How many?” I ask faking admiration. “Enough,” he chuckles. “How do you think I’ve got the money to build all this?” “This is a very impressive place but why would you choose to build yourself a saloon as your headquarters?” “I have always enjoyed the western film genre ever since I was a child. I see myself as the mysterious stranger that comes into town and saves the poor residents from a life of poverty. Those who don’t support me… Well, that decision has fatal consequences, that's the price of progress,” he smiles. “What happened to the bodies?” I ask with curiosity. “White Cliff has a very deep harbour which is perfect for waste disposal,” he replies.
These last words hang in the air for several minutes before Al announces resolutely: “That's enough talk, let's have a drink to toast to our partnership.” He gets up, crosses the room, opens the door and calls: “Sandra! Whisky for me and my guest.” Sitting back down we regard each other in silence. A few minutes later there is a polite knock and the barmaid walks in carrying two crystal glasses and a black bottle. She puts them between us and leaves without a word. Al pours us a drink and pushes a glass towards me: “To success and riches!” he toasts. We clink our glasses together. I am so eager to leave that I swallow my drink in one gulp. He pours me another, which I leave untouched. Pushing my chair back from the table and saying: “I will leave you, I have taken up enough of your time.” “What’s your hurry, stay a while.” “Regrettably I cannot. Arrangement must be made.” “Fair enough,” he says toasting me. “Adios, Mr Stoneman.” “Bye for now, Mr Brooks.”
When I stand, my legs are unsteady. Brooks is pure evil and I cannot wait to leave. He makes my blood run cold. I exit trying to look normal. When I'm out of danger I collapse on all fours, gasping for air, not quite believing I have faced the devil and survived.
On my way back to my parents’ house I have an uneasy feeling. What if somehow Al Brooks knows my real identity and what my plan was from the moment I sat across from him and was sending someone to kill me. I try to calm down, but I cannot stop the paranoia from taking root. I keep looking over my shoulder, the footsteps of the other pedestrians seem unusually loud in the stillness of the day, their unfamiliar faces only serve to unnerve me further. It could be anyone! To my immense relief I reach the bakery unharmed and climb the stairs. Just outside the apartment I lose consciousness.
When I wake it is late afternoon. I am in a chair with a cold flannel on my forehead. My mum smiles at me: “Welcome back! You made us worried. Your father found you and brought you in. Are you OK?” “I'm fine,” I reply weakly. “I just need a minute.” When I am fully recovered I describe my encounter with Al Brooks. My closing words are: “I have the feeling he won’t be bothering you anymore. I unclip the pen from my lapel: “This was the crucial element of my entire plan. Samantha gave it to me for my birthday, it contains a digital recorder. I use it for dictation. She teased me that I look like James Bond with it on my jacket. I hope it will be Mr Brooks' downfall.” My parents’ concerned expression turns to astonishment when I play the recording. Afterward my mother kisses me and exclaims: “What a brilliant actor you are, William! Your wife is right, you really are quite a spy.” Then, unable to hold back her tears, she starts to cry. Even my father, normally a stoic man, embraces me and says: “Thank you son.”
I wait another day before giving the recording to the local police who try to ignore it but, thanks to my contacts in the media, the recording is broadcasted on the national news that evening. They have no option but to arrest Al Brooks who is going to spend the rest of his life in prison and no amount of money will make this conviction go away. With no one to pay them the mercenaries leave town soon after the arrest.
Police dive teams search the harbour and the bodies are recovered giving their relatives much needed closure. Independent businesses are gradually reopening. The shadow cast over our town is slowly receding. A new law is being written to ensure that nothing like the event described can ever happen in the future. However, they say with every hardship faced there's a lesson learnt. Ours is not to fight change but to embrace it. With this in mind the new mayor is making some alterations to the townscape. While most big businesses are closing their doors for good, some remain open, under the understanding that they are to share, not monopolise, the business on our streets. I am making some changes of my own too. We have relocated to White Cliff. Where I now work as a legal assistant to the mayor. Also Samantha is expecting our first child much to the delight of my parents.
Although there is still a long way to go, there will come a day when the turmoil will give way to stability and peace will return to the town of White Cliff.
The Bakery(Christopher Long)
It is August and my train pulls into White Cliff station at 21:30 with a squeal of brakes. I stand retrieving my luggage from the rack and disembark, oblivious of the other commuters as I head to the exit. Emerging onto a rain-soaked street I am unable to recognise the town I left twenty years ago. Growing up these streets were home to independent shops, family run restaurants, bars and hotels. It was always quiet at this time of night. Not anymore.
I gaze around in astonishment. The streets are packed. Big businesses now dominate. Coffee shops, cinemas, restaurants, casinos and even a strip club. Flashing neon signs advertise what the customers can expect inside. I am surrounded by billboards promoting well-known retail giants coming soon. Pedestrians either wander aimlessly in awe or patiently wait to get inside one of these shining temples of consumerism. I briefly wonder how they will fit as the interiors are already packed. I look up at the sky expecting to see the stars. However, the light pollution obscures even the brightest one.
I start walking to my parents home taking side streets, wanting to get away from the bright garish lights. I do my best to calm the rage building inside me. How could this happen? On the main street, all the familiar structures of my childhood have been demolished but in these dimly lit alleys they remain boarded up, their interiors in darkness. Yellow eviction notices fixed to their doors or flapping in the breeze. As I walk I gaze in the direction of the harbour, the water always has a calming effect on me. However, even this picturesque landmark is blocked from view by yet another concrete monstrosity, a shopping mall: ‘ShopTill U Drop’. Thinking of the injustice perpetrated on my town, tears roll down my cheeks. I stop in front of a building that is unaffected by the passage of time: my parents' business, the ‘Kneady Dough Bakery’. The two storey structure seems like a dwarf amongst giants. There is a light upstairs.
As I enter the bell above the door jingles cheerfully welcoming me home. Walking across the shop floor I head towards the wooden staircase. At the top whipping my eyes I push the brown door that swings inward with a squeak revealing my parents' modestly furnished open plan apartment. Dad, who is reading the paper at the kitchen table, looks up at the noise: “You came,” he says. My mother stops stirring the cooking, rushes over and envelops me in a hug: “How was your journey?” she asks. Before I can answer she continues: “Come, sit and eat. You must be hungry.” I take a seat. A plate appears in front of me and mum dishes up a large helping of venison and mushrooms stew with a freshly baked crusty loaf. I begin eating. “This is delicious, mum. I miss your cooking so much.” Her eyes go wide: “Doesn’t Samantha feed you?” I chuckle. “She does but she is not as good as you.” My father says: “Leave the poor boy alone, he just walked in.” My mum ignores him and for the next few minutes I am quizzed about my life in London. I respond in between mouthfuls. “Is the law firm treating you well?” “Yes, but I don’t feel that there is much chance of a promotion, at least in the short term.” When dinner is at an end I ask the question that has been on my mind since I received my mother's hastily handwritten note in the post two days earlier which mysteriously contained only two words: come home.
Reaching into my inside jacket pocket I remove the note and place it on the wooden table. “What's wrong?” I ask. Mum’s usual happy mood turns gloomy as she replies: “We need your help William. Your dad and I thought we could handle it ourselves but we were wrong. Your father is too proud to ask for help. He was under the impression that your job and new wife would keep you too busy and that you wouldn't be interested in coming to the aid of small town folks like us.” “You are my parents,” I protest. “That's what I told him but you know how he gets when an idea is in his head. There is nothing you can do to change it.” After she finishes her explanation dad says: “We know what you witnessed that night.”
*****
The night my father was referring to occurred when I was ten. The bakery was just about to close when the phone rang. It was Jean Wiseman, our mayoress. She apologised for the late hour but it slipped her mind that an old friend was coming to visit and she asked if we could provide some bread and pies. My parents disapproved of sending me out in the dark autumn evening but, like every resident in White Cliff, they felt a debt of gratitude to Ms Wiseman. She had made the town and the locals wealthy by investing money back into the municipality, always supporting local businesses like ours and ensuring that no big companies, chains or franchises could gain a foothold despite outside pressure.
So, I was sent to the mayoress’ residence. As I cycled along, with only my bicycle light to guide me, the aroma of the freshly baked goods that issued from the bag made my stomach rumble and my mouth watered. An owl hooted in the distance. Looking back it might have been a warning of the danger to come but my young legs just kept pedalling oblivious. When I arrived, I dismounted my bike, leaning it up against the low garden wall and took the branded paper bag with me. I walked to the front door. The gravel crunched under my feet. I knocked and waited. When I got no response I went around the house to check for signs of movement. My progress was halted when I reached the living room window. There were two figures in the room. One, a short elderly woman with white hair, the mayoress, was seated in the centre of the room. The other, a tall muscular man with a scar running down his left cheek, was wearing black leather gloves. I took him to be the friend that Ms Wiseman had been expecting. He was standing over her. I knocked on the glass to attract their attention. Suddenly the man’s grey eyes locked briefly with mine. Turning back he cut Ms Wiseman’s throat in one swift movement. Horrified I tried to run but terror rooted me to the spot. I watched helplessly as the murderer pushed the body, which slid onto the floor staining the thick grey carpet crimson with blood. Concealing the knife in his jacket, the man rushed out of the room. The spell broke, I frantically looked for a place to hide. Locating one a few moments before the stranger exited the house. He saw my bicycle and called in a menacing voice: “Come out, come out wherever you are!” He soon found my hiding spot in between two bushes at the edge of the drive. He squatted, parted the foliage and smiled at my terrified expression: “So here you are. If you tell anybody about what you saw tonight I will come back to kill you and your family. Do you understand?” I nodded. “What have you got there?” He stretched out his hand and grabbed the bag which was clutched to my chest so tightly that my knuckles were white. He straightened up and took a big bite of one of the pies. “This is delicious, my compliments to the baker!” he exclaimed, then walked off into the night. I grabbed my bike and rode home as quickly as I could, not telling anybody what I had seen. After just a few days the subsequent police investigation was mysteriously halted.
A few weeks later the stranger returned and introduced himself as Al Brooks. He told the town people that he had been handpicked by Jean Wiseman to continue her legacy. The residents of White Cliff were suspicious at first. However, after they heard that he knew our mayoress, the feeling soon evaporated, but a small group, including my parents, remained sceptical. Mr Brooks would buy food and drinks with a seemingly unlimited supply of cash and invited the clientele to join him for a meal as his guests. The number of people that took him up on his offer swelled every night. Finally we were given a choice: he could either become the new mayor or be the caretaker of the town until a new one was elected. Most people were in favour of the former option but our group remained suspicious and we were right to be.
Over the next few months big businesses, chains stores and franchises opened their doors. Unable to compete, most of the independent shops that for so long had thrived unchallenged on our streets, were forced to close and the owners were obliged to find employment in what used to be regarded by them as ‘the enemy’. Gradually the members of our group either caved in from the pressure and sought out jobs in these same establishments, or inexplicably vanished. It felt as if darkness had gripped our town. Only my parents remained defiant and so it was in fear for my safety that they put me on a train to London to go and live with my aunt and attend Primrose Boarding School. Tearfully I begged them to come with me but they shook their heads and said: “If we do, William, then Al Brooks will win. We must stay and fight. Go. Regards to Delilah, do what she tells you and listen to your teachers. We will see you soon.”
*****
The sound of something heavy hitting the table brings my thoughts back to the present. A medium size brown envelope lays in front of me. “What is this?” I enquire. “The latest sum of money Al Brooks is offering us to vacate these premises. We have three weeks to either accept the bribe or face the consequences.” “Have you spoken to the police?” I ask. “Since you've been away Al Brooks has become a very powerful man. He owns the local police and any outside investigation into his conduct is shut down within a few days of commencing. Even officers who thought they were incorruptible have their price. It turns out that this was the same method he employed during Jean Wiseman’s murder investigation. Former loyal employees have spoken out against Brooks. Apparently he did not give them all that he promised. When it comes to their pay and employment he changes his mind often. These whistle-blowers disappear overnight. Murders are suspected but never proven. We have tried on numerous occasions to reason with him but, far from the image of the welcoming man he presented when he first arrived, he has grown paranoid and surrounded himself with armed mercenaries. He spends all his time in the newly built ‘Happy Lobster Bar’. You cannot get close to him without being searched so smuggling something in is impossible. Your mother attempted it and barely escaped alive. Despite this she believes that you can succeed where we failed.”
After my father finishes detailing why I had been summoned so urgently I ask: “How did you know that I was there that night?” “He told us in an attempt to divide our family so we wouldn't contact you,” explains my mother. “Can you help us?” she pleads. While I do not relish the prospect of meeting the man who has periodically haunting my dreams ever since I was a child, my parents were in danger of losing their business or even their lives. I needed to help. “Don't worry, I will think of something,” I assure them. My affirmation seems to give them hope, the envelope is put away and the conversation returns to trivial topics.
As the days go by I try to come up with a way of helping my parents but a solution continues to evade me. When I tell them my father says: “Well, you tried your best.” Whereas my mother never loses her optimism assuring me: “You will come up with something. Don't give up.” Just when I think all hope is lost, I formulate a plan. It is perilous and reckless but the alternative does not bear thinking about.
It is morning. I put on a dark blue suit, adjust my red tie in the mirror, and attach a black and gold fountain pen to my lapel. Telling my parents that I have some business to attend to in town and that I will be back later. Leaving the house I follow the main road, go left around the bend and get my first look at the ‘Happy Lobster Bar’ which is on the crest of the hill. The building resembles a wild west saloon. Its sign, featuring the red crustacean winking periodically, is still lit up from last night. As I approach I see two armed guards patrolling its perimeter. Steadying my nerves I smile broadly and wave, shouting to attract their attention: “Hey Jim! It's me, Larry. We met last year. Remember?” One of the men looks at me with irritation: “There is no Jim here, friend. You have mistaken me for someone else.” “Oh, come on Jim. Don’t you recognise me?” I persist. “I'm not him. Now move along,” he growls in between clenched teeth. “Can I at least have a drink before I leave?” I ask good-naturedly. The man walks towards me: “The bar does not open till five o'clock,” he shouts. As he gets closer I realise he's much taller than me with broad shoulders. I start to wonder whether I made a mistake but then I think of my parents and what will happen if I do nothing and continue: “You really are the spitting image of Jim.” “Look, I don't know this Jim character. I don't know you either.” “Jim it's me Larry!” The man, clearly irritated by my persistence, points his machine gun at me: “If you don't stop making a nuisance of yourself and leave I will make you. You have until the count of ten.” I stand my ground. He starts counting backwards slowly. “Ten, nine, eight, seven….” Swallowing nervously and raising my hands I ask: “Could you, at least, tell me where I can find Al Brooks?” At the mention of his boss' name the guard lowers his weapon: “Why do you want to know?” “I have business to discuss with him.” “What might that be?” asks the man. “I don't think your boss would like his affairs discussed on the street, do you?” He replies angrily: “Wait here, I will see if he is free.” He walks back towards the bar entrance. Before disappearing inside he tells his colleague: “Keep an eye on that one.” I follow him but the other guard stops me. “Frank told you to wait,” says the guard. “I'm sorry, but I really need to get inside, out of the heat. I feel faint.” I stumble against him. Recovering, I raise my hand in apology and wait patiently. Frank soon returns: “Mr Brooks will see you,” he says abruptly.
They search me and find nothing. I am escorted inside. Mr Brooks’ people lounge around, one plays a tune on a Steinway while four more play cards at a square table and a barmaid wipes glasses ready to serve customers. They watch me with suspicion as we walk past. I am taken to a small room at the far end of the saloon. It is empty apart from a circular table and two chairs. Sitting at it is Al Brooks who is wearing a Panama hat. He has gained weight and is no longer the athletic man that I remember. His large stomach overhangs the trousers of his cream coloured suit. A bushy grey beard obscures his scar. He is eating fruits from a silver platter, letting the juice run down his chin before wiping it away with a linen napkin. More keen eyed mercenaries stand against the walls alert to any danger. Their weapons are not as obvious as the ones carried by the guards outside but I am not foolish enough to think they haven’t got any. Bulges under their jackets confirm my suspicion. I need to get rid of his bodyguards somehow. Brooks doesn't look up as I sit opposite him. In between mouthfuls he enquired sharply: “What do you want? You are interrupting my breakfast.” “I am terribly sorry but I have business to discuss with you in private,” I say. “You can talk freely in front of them,” he replies, gesturing to his bodyguards. “I am afraid it is a rather delicate matter,” I whisper leaning forward. He looks up: “Do you think I was born yesterday?” he shouts startlingly at me. “The moment I send them away you are going to kill me.” I spread my hands in a placating gesture: “I mean you no harm sir. I assure you that I'm here to offer my services. However, we must speak privately.” “Leave us! But stay close in case I need you,” he orders. With a snap of his fingers they leave the room.
I watch them go then introduce myself: “My name is Larry Stoneman.” “How do I know I can trust you?” he interrupts. “Well,” I look around conspiratorially, “I think one of your men is stealing from you.” “Impossible! I hand pick all my personnel myself. They are loyal. They all know the consequences if they steal from me.” “Maybe so sir, but when I was outside I saw one of your guards with an envelope and I am betting that if you search him you will find that what I say is true.” Mr Brooks wipes his hands, puts his napkin on the platter, pushes it to one side and says with a smirk: “OK, I will indulge you. However, if I find nothing you won't get out of here alive. I will kill you where you sit.”
Moments later the guards are sent for and searched. A cream envelope is found. Mr Brooks’ eyes go wide with surprise when he sees the money inside. “What’s the meaning of this,” he roars. Despite the man’s stuttering protests that he had never seen the envelope before, Al Brooks takes a snub nose revolver from his jacket pocket and shoots the man in the head. The body falls to the ground with a ‘thud’. I struggle to hide my revulsion at this barbaric act but somehow manage. The blood forms a pool on the dark wooden floor. Al watches the corpse being dragged out the room. The discovery of the cash on the guard had been part of my plan to gain Mr Brooks' trust. Before leaving my parents' apartment I put part of the bribe into the cream coloured envelope and took it with me, transferring it to the pocket of the unfortunate man when I fell against him under the guise of heat exhaustion.
Al turns his attention to me, leans back, takes a grape, pop it into his mouth and asks casually: “Now, where were we?” “I have heard that you have a problem,” I reply. Al’s belly laugh echoes around the small room. “Problem? Mr Stoneman, I run this town. What problem do you think I have?” he responds arrogantly. “The ‘Kneady Dough Bakery’,” I say. At these words he leans forward with a look of curiosity on his face: “Oh yes, I admit that particular piece of property and its owners are proving a persistent challenge for me and my men. But how do you know that?” “I have been following your career with interest. For somebody who has researched you as much as I have, it is common knowledge.” This answer seems to satisfy him. “Then how do you propose we fix it?” I shake my head: “There will be no ‘we’ Mr Brooks. I must do this alone. The owners know all your men by sight and will defend themselves. You have lost the element of surprise but they won’t see me coming. I will have them out within a few days, then the building will be yours to do with as you wish.” Mr Brooks' eyes sparkle but he inquires cautiously: “If you can do what you claim I will make you a very rich man Mr Stoneman, but I’ve learned in business that people never do favours for others without wanting something in return. So what can I do for you?” “I would like to know how you achieve your success? What drives you?” “I am of the belief that big business should be the only shops allowed to flourish in towns and cities for maximum profits. Independent shops are obsolete and need to be eliminated.” I nod: “I understand your philosophy but it seems that others don’t.” “Yes, there are always short-sighted people. For example when I arrived, this town had a mayoress, a charming woman named Jean Wiseman, but she didn’t share my vision for White Cliff so I was forced to deal with her.” “What do you mean?” I ask innocently. “She met with an unfortunate accident.” At my blank expression he elaborates: “I murdered her.” I suppress a gag at the memory. “There have been others that have met the same fate. I find it's the quickest way of getting things done. Meetings, discussions and planning applications are so tiresome.” I continue: “Are you not afraid of somebody finding out?” “I have accumulated enough money to pay off anyone that gets close to the truth. This is not the only town I have modernised,” he adds. “How many?” I ask faking admiration. “Enough,” he chuckles. “How do you think I’ve got the money to build all this?” “This is a very impressive place but why would you choose to build yourself a saloon as your headquarters?” “I have always enjoyed the western film genre ever since I was a child. I see myself as the mysterious stranger that comes into town and saves the poor residents from a life of poverty. Those who don’t support me… Well, that decision has fatal consequences, that's the price of progress,” he smiles. “What happened to the bodies?” I ask with curiosity. “White Cliff has a very deep harbour which is perfect for waste disposal,” he replies.
These last words hang in the air for several minutes before Al announces resolutely: “That's enough talk, let's have a drink to toast to our partnership.” He gets up, crosses the room, opens the door and calls: “Sandra! Whisky for me and my guest.” Sitting back down we regard each other in silence. A few minutes later there is a polite knock and the barmaid walks in carrying two crystal glasses and a black bottle. She puts them between us and leaves without a word. Al pours us a drink and pushes a glass towards me: “To success and riches!” he toasts. We clink our glasses together. I am so eager to leave that I swallow my drink in one gulp. He pours me another, which I leave untouched. Pushing my chair back from the table and saying: “I will leave you, I have taken up enough of your time.” “What’s your hurry, stay a while.” “Regrettably I cannot. Arrangement must be made.” “Fair enough,” he says toasting me. “Adios, Mr Stoneman.” “Bye for now, Mr Brooks.”
When I stand, my legs are unsteady. Brooks is pure evil and I cannot wait to leave. He makes my blood run cold. I exit trying to look normal. When I'm out of danger I collapse on all fours, gasping for air, not quite believing I have faced the devil and survived.
On my way back to my parents’ house I have an uneasy feeling. What if somehow Al Brooks knows my real identity and what my plan was from the moment I sat across from him and was sending someone to kill me. I try to calm down, but I cannot stop the paranoia from taking root. I keep looking over my shoulder, the footsteps of the other pedestrians seem unusually loud in the stillness of the day, their unfamiliar faces only serve to unnerve me further. It could be anyone! To my immense relief I reach the bakery unharmed and climb the stairs. Just outside the apartment I lose consciousness.
When I wake it is late afternoon. I am in a chair with a cold flannel on my forehead. My mum smiles at me: “Welcome back! You made us worried. Your father found you and brought you in. Are you OK?” “I'm fine,” I reply weakly. “I just need a minute.” When I am fully recovered I describe my encounter with Al Brooks. My closing words are: “I have the feeling he won’t be bothering you anymore. I unclip the pen from my lapel: “This was the crucial element of my entire plan. Samantha gave it to me for my birthday, it contains a digital recorder. I use it for dictation. She teased me that I look like James Bond with it on my jacket. I hope it will be Mr Brooks' downfall.” My parents’ concerned expression turns to astonishment when I play the recording. Afterward my mother kisses me and exclaims: “What a brilliant actor you are, William! Your wife is right, you really are quite a spy.” Then, unable to hold back her tears, she starts to cry. Even my father, normally a stoic man, embraces me and says: “Thank you son.”
I wait another day before giving the recording to the local police who try to ignore it but, thanks to my contacts in the media, the recording is broadcasted on the national news that evening. They have no option but to arrest Al Brooks who is going to spend the rest of his life in prison and no amount of money will make this conviction go away. With no one to pay them the mercenaries leave town soon after the arrest.
Police dive teams search the harbour and the bodies are recovered giving their relatives much needed closure. Independent businesses are gradually reopening. The shadow cast over our town is slowly receding. A new law is being written to ensure that nothing like the event described can ever happen in the future. However, they say with every hardship faced there's a lesson learnt. Ours is not to fight change but to embrace it. With this in mind the new mayor is making some alterations to the townscape. While most big businesses are closing their doors for good, some remain open, under the understanding that they are to share, not monopolise, the business on our streets. I am making some changes of my own too. We have relocated to White Cliff. Where I now work as a legal assistant to the mayor. Also Samantha is expecting our first child much to the delight of my parents.
Although there is still a long way to go, there will come a day when the turmoil will give way to stability and peace will return to the town of White Cliff.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
03/26/2023This was a fantastic story! A well deserved story star of the week! Congratulations!
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Shirley Smothers
02/04/2023Great story! I agree with Kevin. This would make a great Novella. I was invested in your tale from start to finish.
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Kevin Hughes
02/04/2023Christopher,
That is a just a treat. And prescient in some ways too. This story makes me wonder if you don't have a Novel inside of you waiting to be written...for een though this was a short story, the seeds of a Novel are there. It is complicated, has strong characters, a wonderful them, and a plot that begs for multiple directions.
I read a lot of Science Fiction, and most Hugo Awars Winners started out as either a short story or a Novella, until they became popular...then the Author rewrote them to Novel lenght.
I think this story might be one of those. Waiting.
Smiles, Kevin
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Christopher Long
02/04/2023Thank you so much for this wonderful comment and your support Kevin really glad you liked it maybe but I find that when I sit down write a Novel, my brain has too many ideas and it become big and falls apart. I like the A B C of short stories much more. have that said that.....never say never
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Lillian Kazmierczak
02/03/2023That was terrific,Chris. It had my interest from the first word to the last. Lots drama and suspense and a real hero! Great writing! Congratulations on short story star of the day!
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JD
02/02/2023That was a superbly written, riveting, edge of the seat mystery thriller, Chris. Great job.
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Christopher Long
02/04/2023Thank you for JD for short story STAR of the day it is always a lovely and unexpected surprise, receiving this never falls to make me scream with joy :)
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