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Poppy

Oisin

gone but not forgotten
I was sitting here quietly contemplating me navel when the Devil prodded me agen. I looked through some of me old stuff for inspiration and came up with this. It's the opening of a much, much longer story which, despite it's storyline, believe it or not, I wrote in 2001. So, while we're waiting for the Maestro's next epic poem I thought you might like to have a squint at it.



POPPY

There was more than the usual number of people at the bus stop and Ian Taylor was third in the queue. He checked his watch. It was seven thirty-eight and the seven twenty-six had not yet arrived. Restlessly and, for want of something better to do, Ian turned his head to peruse the line of people behind him. His gaze moved no further than the girl immediately behind him. She was standing side on, looking into the road, idly watching the traffic go by.
It was difficult to put an age on her. His angle of view did not give him a clear look at her face, but she was obviously of balanced proportions and very well turned out. Her rustic tweed, two-piece suit was expertly tailored with a hip-length jacket, and a skirt that reached down to somewhere just above her knees. A pair of brown leather court shoes with moderate sized heels completed the outfit.
It was not just her dress sense that held his attention. There was also something vaguely amusing in the way she stood – feet slightly apart, while her right knee rhythmically twitched the handbag, loosely suspended from both hands in front of her.
Without warning there was a flick of her shoulder-length auburn hair as she turned to face him full on. He felt his cheeks redden. Trapped in the glare of her bright green eyes, he struggled for something to say – something that might take the tension out of the encounter. She beat him to it.
‘Excuse me… Can you tell me what the time is now?’
He disguised a sigh of relief as he held up his left wrist and pushed back the sleeve of his coat.
‘Nearly twenty to eight.’
‘Thanks.’ She half-smiled before turning her freckled face back to the road. He did consider continuing the conversation, but decided to leave well enough alone. Her body language suggested she was not amenable to idle chatter. The squeal of air brakes, heralding the arrival of the bus, deterred him from any second thoughts.
The line of passengers surged forward. When it came to Ian’s turn, he swung aside allowing the girl on first. The arrival of the bus must have helped to ease her tension, as she thanked him with a more relaxed smile. He fell in behind her and immediately collided with her rear. She spun around. Their eyes met and, for a second time, he felt a flush of embarrassment.
‘Sorry!’ He managed a croaked apology.
She responded with an expression of reassurance.
‘No harm done!’
He watched the cause of the obstruction, a short, dark-haired young man at the front of the queue, fumbling a rucksack into the luggage rack. While he waited, Ian savoured the scent of the girl. He was no expert on perfume, but he knew what he liked, and he definitely liked whatever it was she was wearing.
The hitchhiker and two other passengers in front of the girl took the only vacant seats. With the encouragement of the conductor’s, ‘Move along the bus, please,’ Ian followed the girl until they stood side by side hanging on the grab-rails.
With the bus so crowded he was wary of avoiding any further physical contact. It proved difficult when the conductor came squeezing down the aisle to collect the fares, but he managed to survive for the two stops before seats became available.
The two seats were on either side of the aisle, in line with one another. As soon as the girl sat down she turned her attention to the view across the old lady next to her and out of the window. The view through the window on Ian’s side was across a middle-aged man wearing a trilby pulled down low.
As he watched the pedestrians and shops flow by, Ian began to question his own judgement and lack of self-confidence: Why had he felt so awkward about communicating with the girl? In the queue she had given the impression of not wanting anything to do with anybody. But, once on the bus, her temperament seemed to mellow. That was the opportunity he should have exploited, instead of blushing up like a tongue-tied schoolboy.
He took another sideways glance. He had not thought to look for a ring. Now, because of the way she was sitting, with one hand over the other, it was impossible to establish her marital status. Although the term ‘girl’ was how he had first seen her, she was easily old enough to be married. It was inconsequential. He really wasn’t interested.
His attention strayed to the passing scene beyond the trilby hat again. It was after another two stops that the man in the trilby rose. The girl, who had swung out of her seat, impeded the way the man’s exit. The hitchhiker, Ian noticed, was heading for the rear platform, a few paces in front of the girl. Then came the flash.
Before the full impact of the shock wave ripped the girl off her feet, like a rag doll being discarded by a bad tempered child, the hitchhiker was already flying back through the air.
The combination of the explosion and the force of the girl smashing into his shoulder sent Ian crashing into the aisle. In an instant he was left prostrate, blinded and deafened. The only sense left to him was the acrid stench of toxic smoke, which he frantically sucked into his lungs as he gasped for breath.

It seemed an eternity, but only a short time could have elapsed before he gained the sensation of a painful, high pitched whistling in his ears, and the grey-black shadows beginning to flitter around him.
As the numbness in his limbs gradually receded, he felt every bone in his body begin to ache, while the warmth of a pulsating track of blood trickled down the side of his face. Then the screeching in his ears developed into an awful ranting cacophony of human cries and screams accompanied by the sounds of breaking glass. When his vision became more defined, through the rancid blue haze, he witnessed the full extent of the carnage.
At the far end of the bus, flames licked menacingly at people, strewn over, or slumped, rocking in the last two rows of seats. Still others writhed in the aisle. Nearer to him the more fortunate, blood-splattered victims clutched at their wounds or nursed injured limbs while those who could struggled to escape through the serrated frames of shattered windows.
It was only when he attempted to move his legs that he realised they were trapped under the weight of the hitchhiker. Fighting to free himself, he watched in horror at the way the young man’s head rolled grotesquely on his neck.
Once he had slid clear, he found himself on all fours facing the front of the bus, confronted by the girl’s crumpled body slumped against the forward bulkhead. Her shoeless feet were no more than a few inches away from his head. Dragging himself closer he adopted a position of genuflexion; with his left knee to one side of her legs and his right foot braced against the floor on the other side. Not quite knowing what to do to protect her in the pandemonium around him, he thought if nothing else, he could prevent her from being trampled.
Lifting her left hand, he felt for a pulse somewhere near the gold watchband. He thought he sensed something but it was hard to be sure in all the chaos. Leaning forwards, he raised her head from her chest and held the side of his face against her lips. Yes! He could definitely feel a slight, intermittent breeze against his ear. Dragging himself up beside her, he managed to wriggle his aching arms out of his reefer jacket. Once he was free of it he draped it around the girl’s shoulders. With the lapels pulled high up under her chin, using the sleeve of his shirt as a swab, he dabbed blood off her face. Then, supporting her head against his chest, he desperately prayed for help to arrive...

(To be continued or not, whatever the case may be)
 
Paul/Oisin buddy Please continue,,,,,,,, or I am going to Punch You :knuppel2: Cheers Mate :coolsmiley: John
 
BRB to read.......just going to get a glass of Zinfandel to wash it down with.................

Oooooooooooooooooooooh twice in one day
 
yes please - can we have the next installment....................

Is this a 'tragic' period that you are traversing Paul?
 
Can't wait for the next installment Paul - a great story. I was sitting on the edge of my seat and holding my breath at your description of the carnage.
 
POPPY (Part 2)

With his eyes closed, while stitches were inserted into the wound above his left eyebrow, he could see it all over again – It was exactly how he had described it to the fresh-faced young policeman, to whom he had volunteered a statement as he waited for treatment. But now he began to question his own integrity. The vision haunted him. His ambivalence to the fate of the hitchhiker caused him concern – he could not believe how callously he had shrugged the young man’s body aside. Although he was dazed and shocked, he felt pangs of remorse at not being able to offer assistance to more of the stricken victims. The girl was the only one he had given any attention to. And that had been fairy pathetic. God! - He hadn’t even gone so far as to make sure her airway were clear. Now he desperately needed to know she was going to be okay.
After treatment to his relatively minor injuries, Ian set out to find out what he could about the girl. The reception desk was in turmoil with anxious relatives and friends desperate for news of their loved ones. Fortunately, he spotted the nurse who had met the ambulance, which had brought him and the girl to the emergency department. The nurse was waiting to consult a receptionist with a clutch of notes in her hand. Having approached her, he found it absurd to believe she could not recall the girl from the description he gave. He considered it was more likely she was following strict hospital policy on confidentiality when she shook her head and suggested that someone at the desk might be able to help. However, it became blatantly obvious that, unless he could come up with the girl’s name, he would be wasting his time in the queue. On the slight off-chance that she may have been taken to be X-rayed, he followed the relevant signs along the main corridor. There were several casualties lined up outside the X-ray department but the girl wasn’t amongst them.
On his way back to the reception area he racked his brains to think of some way to establish what had happened to the girl. He could come up with nothing short of invading every female ward in the hospital to search for her. The reality was, even if he knew her name, he would have to be a relative in order to acquire any information regarding her condition – such was the stupidity of institutionalised bureaucracy.
He was passing a side treatment room when the doors swung open and, without warning, a nurse backed out towing a trolley with a uniformed police officer in attendance at the other end. Between the attendants, she was wrapped in a blanket. Her face pale against the white pillowcase, the girl lay flat with a drip attached to her arm.
‘Excuse me.’ Ian called after a tall, middle-aged man in a grey suit who brought up the rear of the entourage as it raced along the corridor.
The man turned. His arms shot out as if symbolically blocking the way.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t allow you to come any further.’
‘I just want to know how she is.’ Ian’s explanation came as the trolley halted in front of the closed doors to a lift. ‘I was on the bus with her.’ He was close enough to get another glimpse of the girl’s face – even her freckles seemed faded and several stitches bristled from a wound close to the hairline on the right side of her forehead.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to ask you to return to reception.’ The request was issued more as an order.
‘But…’ Ian pleaded.
‘I’m sorry!’
Ian was uncertain whether it was the tone of the authoritative voice becoming more emphatic, or the ‘ding’ of the lift arriving that caused the girl to stir. Her eyes strayed onto his and he was sure he detected a hint of recognition as she was wheeled into the lift. But, in that split second, the man in the grey suit and the girl were gone.

The following day’s evening newspaper confirmed the names of three of the four fatalities. The unidentified victim, Ian guessed, was the hitchhiker. Although forensic tests were still in progress, the text intimated that the unnamed young man was the prime suspect in the investigations. It seemed the device had consisted of two major elements: explosives, that had caused the blast, and incendiary material intended to envelop the bus in a ball of flames. By some quirk of fate the latter had not ignited. The bomb was described as: “the work of some unknown anarchist or terrorist group, to cause as many casualties as possible.” It was also suggested that the timing mechanism had faulted, resulting in the premature detonation, which had killed the perpetrator along with his victims.
With a heavy twinge of conscience Ian ran through the list of the dead again. The check proved negative. There was no one included who matched the girl’s description. He was further encouraged by the mention that none of the survivors, detained in hospital, had sustained life-threatening injuries.
Having read through the cold objective print, he rocked back on the hard kitchen chair. Staring at the ceiling, he relived the horror all over again. Screwing up his eyes, he attempted to put faces to the details of the dead. Besides the hitchhiker’s there was only the conductor’s features that he could readily picture. “… a twenty-six year old married man with two young sons…”
A cold shiver ran through him as he tried to quantify the amount of pain and suffering caused by some clandestine group in the name of… God knows what! The aspect he found most difficult to comprehend concerned the hitchhiker: He seemed just like any other young man – not much different in age to himself. What could he possibly have hoped to achieve by carrying out such a barbaric act? What could have driven him to sacrifice, not only the lives of his innocent victims, but his own along with them? And now he was dead! Never having seen a dead person before, Ian began to wonder if that image of that man’s lifeless body, sprawled across his legs, would stay with him for evermore.
It was only when he reflected on the events in greater detail that he realised how many questions there were with no logical answers. Of course he could be suffering from shock, preventing him from getting matters into their correct perspective.
It was all so bizarre! The girl, for instance - when he had felt for a pulse, he could clearly remember seeing a watch looped around her wrist on a gold bracelet. So why, when they had been in the queue, had she asked him the time? And, why if she did not intend going that far, had she paid her fare to the city centre?
Then, at the hospital, who was the man in the grey suit? His manner had been too official for him to be some hairy gorilla of a husband, who didn’t approve of her talking to strange men on buses. And he appeared too abrupt to be a member of the hospital staff.
The sound of the doorbell broke his train of thought.

Although they had the statement Ian had given the uniformed officer at the hospital the previous evening, the two plain-clothed policemen were keen to establish if he could remember anything more. They stressed how every detail, however seemingly unimportant, may provide them with a vital clue. Ian did what he could to help as they encouraged him with prompts for descriptions of people and timings of events.
While most of the procedure seemed routine, as the interview progressed, he began to sense something strange in the reaction of the detectives to any mention of the girl. He got the distinct impression that, although they were interested in every aspect of all the other passengers, they were dismissive of the events surrounding the girl.
It was after they had thanked Ian for his assistance that he decided to challenge them.
‘This girl I told you about – have you spoken to her yet?’ The detectives exchanged glances. He continued, ‘I mean, is she well enough to be interviewed?’
The older of the police officers acted as spokesman.
‘We’re not really sure. You see she’s not on our list. She’ll probably be seen by other officers.’
‘Well, if you do come across her, would you mind passing on my best wishes?’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’
The detective’s smile was warm but unconvincing.

After seeing the policemen out of the front door, Ian returned to his seat at the kitchen table. As he stared at the open newspaper he struggled to evaluate the most recent event. He concluded the trauma of witnessing an atrocity of such magnitude must have left him paranoid. What else could explain his feelings that there was a conspiracy between the police and the man in the grey suit involving the girl?

The days turned into weeks. On the surface, a degree of normality returned to Ian’s life but he could not escape the flashbacks: The dark nights when, haunted by his memories, he would wake up in a cold sweat. These instances had grown more infrequent with the passage of time. But still, sometimes even in the cold light of day, he would find himself reliving the nightmare.
Occasional newspaper articles, theorising over allegations that this group, or that, may be responsible for the outrage, triggered many of these instances. Always, when all the evidence was balanced, there were never any hard facts to be relied on. At the end of the day, the official statement was always the same: “we are following up several lines of investigation. We cannot comment any further than that.”
One of the practical scars he was left with was his dread of using public transport: He had to summon up every last ounce of courage to ride on a bus again. When he did he found himself sitting near the exit, keeping a wary eye on the luggage rack.
This phobia caused him to reconsider the Spanish holiday he had planned with his friends for early October. But their insistence that, far from causing him more anxiety, it was just what he needed to escape from reality while he came to terms with it all, finally convinced him that going on holiday would probably be the best option.

(To be continued...)
 
Right Ossie me lad you are now grounded until we get the next instalment. No messing, you can however have a little food and water, but nowt else.
 
Whatever Connie Gracie sez has to be...

POPPY (Part 3)

The coach trip from Birmingham to Luton proved to be less traumatic than Ian had expected. And, once he was on the plane with a couple of stiff drinks inside him, he actually managed to relax.
By the time they landed in Ibiza and been transferred by coach to the Hotel Marigna in San Antonio the nightlife was in full swing. Dropping their luggage in the hotel room the boys set about finding some action. It wasn’t long before they were settled in a main street bar, shifting Bacardi and Cokes like there was no tomorrow, while chatting up a trio of high-spirited girls from Glasgow.

Ian was first to be resurrected in the morning by the fierce glare of the sun bursting through the flimsy weave of the hotel curtains. His companions were still in Limbo. Phil was completely hidden; cocooned in the shroud of his bed sheet. Terry lay sprawled, pale and lifeless, arms dangling over the side of the bed with nothing but his most intimate parts concealed by a corner of his dishevelled sheet - the only visible clue to his demise being two large red marks on the side of his throat, suggesting he had fallen prey to a vampire. The scene was no sight for sore eyes and Ian’s eyes were decidedly sore. That wasn’t the end of it: His tongue felt like a rasp grinding away at the inside of his mouth, while the whole percussion section of a symphony orchestra (complete with cannon) pounded out the ‘1812’ in his brain.
He badly needed re-hydrating but there was only tap water available, which he had been cautioned against drinking. Perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to swill some round his mouth and spit it out again. It had to be better than nothing. Having heaved himself into an upright position, he waited for his head to stop spinning before making his way to the bathroom.
Once his head was under the tap and he was sucking in the cool refreshing water he threw caution to the wind. He had to get his body fluid levels up to somewhere near normal. The effect was immediate – he felt almost human again. And, when he dipped his head to allow the water to run cold over the back of his neck, he felt even better. With a violent shake of his head, he shed the surplus droplets, pushed back his hair into some sort of shape and felt ready to face the day.
With a towel tugged around his waist, he left the bathroom, passed his fallen companions, and out onto the balcony to in the sea view and gasp in the fresh, morning air. The lure of the sun glinting on the calm waters of the Mediterranean soon had him captivated. A quick glance at his watch told him it was only ten past eight – there was plenty of time for a decent swim before breakfast.

Preferring to enter the water with one big splash rather that wade though the shallows, Ian selected a small outcrop of rocks to dive off. He had shed his outer layer of clothes and took the plunge.
Although the temperature of the water was, more or less, what he had expected, the sudden immersion drained the breath from his body to the extent that he took in some brine. Returning to the surface, whale-like, he blew out what he could of the intake. Then, floating on his back, he relaxed – basking in the heat of the morning sun. His stomach still didn’t feel one hundred percent. That was unsurprising when he considered the previous night. And, anyway he could feel himself improving with every minute that passed.
It was when he was back on the rocks, wriggling his Wranglers over his damp trunks that his voyeuristic instincts were tested. He had spotted the figure of a young woman emerging from the sea. Her hair was cropped so short that, had it not been for her emerald green bikini and the way she filled it, she could have been mistaken for a boy.
As he watched her dab her body with a brightly coloured beach towel, he amused himself by trying to predict what her next move would be - how would she change out of the wet costume? He was somewhat disappointed when she made no attempt to remove it. Instead, she reached into the bag again and produced a pair of leather sandals and a short red towelling dress. Having pulled the dress over her wet swimsuit, she secured it by knotting two loose ties at the back of her neck. Slipping her feet into the sandals, she heaved the bag onto her shoulder, and then paused to exchange greetings with a small boy walking his rough looking mongrel.
After a brief moment or two, she left the boy and headed off in the direction of the main street leading into the town. There was something about the easy, confident way she moved, and the obvious familiarity with her surroundings, which suggested she was a local girl – possibly a domestic from one of the hotels. Further speculation was cut short by a sudden wrenching sensation deep in his stomach, which sent an uncontrollable burst of vomit up and out between his lips.
He was still hanging over the small crevice in the rocks, where the foul smelling liquid had landed, when the small boy’s mongrel approached. The dog gave the area a quick sniff and scampered away. His master followed up to have a look and exclaimed with a broad grin, ‘Cuba-Libra, eh, Senor?’
The brunt of the joke was about to give an apt Anglo-Saxon response when he was suddenly overcome with a second convulsion. By the time he had recovered both boy and dog were well on their way.

Over the next couple of days the three lads did what lads do on holiday – spending most of their time with the girls from Glasgow, going to various bars, a nightclub and a barbecue.
It was after the girls had boarded the coach taking them to catch their flight back to Scotland that the boys decided to try a different bar for their afternoon session of San Miguels. They had to. Since they had arrived several bars had closed for the “off-season”. And, of those that had not, many observed the ritual of “siesta”.
The bar they selected was a small traditional place. There was nothing more to the décor than a number of oil paintings hung at intervals around the walls. It was obvious by the presence of price tags that some local artist had an arrangement to use the establishment as an outlet for his work.
Being the only customers, they had a wide choice of where to settle. While Terry went to order the drinks, Phil and Ian selected a table near the window, where they kept an eye on whatever was happening in the street.
‘Cracker there, lads!’ Terry grinned over his shoulder, on his way back to his friends.
‘Where?’ Phil scanned the empty counter.
‘You’ll see when she brings the drinks,’ Terry chuckled.
Phil shook his head at Ian. ‘And that’s the bloke who, not one hour ago, swore his undying love for his “Princess of Paisley”.’
The delivery of their drinks was greeted with a grimace from Terry and grins from the other two. The cracker they had been told to expect turned out to be a middle-aged man, sporting a big black bushy moustache chased by a chin full of stubble that was fast catching it up.
Phil nodded at Terry as he consulted Ian.
‘Do you think we’re safe sharing a room with him? I reckon he could be on the turn.’
Terry vented his irritation on the man pouring the drinks:
‘That girl – the one who took the order – where is she?’
‘Ah, Connie,’ the man replied in a rich Spanish accent, ‘She has to go to the market. So I take over. She is English.’ He smiled inquisitively. ‘You know her?’
Terry was visibly relieved. He gave the others an ‘I told you so!’ look.
‘No, he doesn’t know her,’ Phil explained, ‘But he’d like to.’
Their host’s moustache curled into a broader smile.
‘Yes, she is a very pretty girl, is she not?’ He waved to a painting hung on the far side of the bar, ‘You see her there?’
Terry left his seat and crossed the room to get a better look at the picture of a young female figure set against the familiar backdrop of the local sea front. But, even at the distance he was at, Ian immediately recognised the subject. She was wearing the same towelling dress he had seen her step into that first morning on the beach.
‘Get at butcher’s at this!’ Terry waved at his colleagues, ‘Then you’ll see what I’m on about.’
Ian shook his head. ‘I know her.’ He exaggerated to wind Terry up a little.
‘Cobblers!’ Terry retorted. ‘Where do you know her from?’
‘If you must know, we’ve been swimming together.’
‘When?’
‘That first morning – while you were comatosed.’
‘How come you didn’t mention it before?’
‘I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?’
‘Taters! Terry returned to his seat. ‘Tell you what, we’ll see when she comes back from the market.’ He turned to the waiter who was obviously enjoying the banter. What time will this erm...’
‘Connie.’ Phil helped him out.
‘Yeah, what time will she be back from the market?’
The waiter shrugged apologetically.
‘She has the rest of the day off. She will not be back until this evening.’
As day wasn’t strictly evening, Ian considered the waiter’s statement not to be as self-contradictory as he had first thought.
After a couple of more beers, in conversation with their Spanish host, they discovered that he wasn’t a mere waiter, but the proprietor of the bar. He introduced himself as Manuel. But it was Connie Terry wanted to know more about. Manuel was only too willing to oblige; apparently, she had recently completed a degree in modern languages at Sussex University. She was now taking a year out to hone her practical use of Spanish. Manuel considered himself fortunate to have her in his employment, as she was hard working and very good with his children.
The picture of Connie was by Roger Greaves, a middle-aged Englishman, who, after the death of his wife had taken early retirement and moved to the island to paint. For the last few months he had been renting a villa on the outskirts of the town. The latter information was irrelevant to Terry. He was only interested in the girl herself.
In response to his query, ‘Does she ever go swimming first thing in the morning?’
Manuel lifted an eyebrow and chuckled, ‘Every day, Senor.’
‘Smug bugger!’ Terry snarled at Ian, on the way out of Manuel’s bar.
They killed time around the town and the beach before returning to the hotel for their evening meal. Over dinner it was decided (mainly on Terry’s insistence) that en route to the nightclub, they would drop into Manuel’s again, just to grab a look at this Connie.

They entered the bar to be confronted by the rear view of Connie as she unloaded drinks onto a table. Terry gave Phil a nudge.
‘What do you reckon, eh? Worth the detour, wasn’t it?’
From the view they had, Ian wondered how Phil was to make a proper evaluation. There was certainly nothing exceptional about the girl’s outfit. It was the traditional uniform of a waitress – a plain white blouse and a straight black, below the knee skirt with a short, central split at the back.
He only had a second or two to take this in before she turned to face them with a welcoming smile. Terry reacted by nudging Phil again, while Ian was left in a state of confusion.
Down on the beach, that first morning, he had not been close enough to get a good look at her but, although her wet hair had appeared darker, he had no reason to doubt this was the girl.
However, there was something more startling than that. It seemed a stupid analogy but, if this Connie had been older; if her hair had been a deeper shade of red and much longer; if she had had less freckles, more make-up and a bit more weight, she could well have been the mystery girl from the bus. He tried to brush the thought aside as he followed his friends to a convenient table.
Terry insisted on having a seat away from the wall, facing the bar. Ian elected to sit on the other side of the table, next to Phil.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Phil asked as soon as Ian was seated. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘To tell the truth, for one minute there, I thought I had. That Connie! She reminds me of the girl I told you about – the one on the bus.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Terry smirked. ‘The sun’s getting to you. She’s bound to look familiar. Don’t you remember you went swimming with her the other day?’ He stared at Ian across the table. ‘Or did you?’
Ian shrugged and smiled back at him. ‘Yeah. You’re right. I must be getting mixed up.’
Terry slapped the table. ‘If that’s the case, how come she shows no sign of recognising you?’
Ian shrugged again. ‘You heard what Manuel said, ‘she’s hard working.’ – she doesn’t fraternise with the punters when she’s on duty.’
‘In that case,’ Phil suggested, ‘We might as well sod off.’ He nodded at Terry. ‘You’re wasting your time here.’
But Terry had spotted the waitress heading towards them. ‘Oh, come on. Now we’re here, we might as well stay for a couple.’
‘Hello. Now, what can I get you?’
The words wafted over Ian’s head with the scent of her perfume. There was no mistaking it. It was the same – just as he had remembered it. He felt a dull shiver come over him. He twisted around to look up at her. Their eyes met very briefly before she turned her attention to Terry, who had elected himself as spokesman. Ian had no recollection of what the exchange was. The images of the past stirred by those big green eyes had, momentarily, rendered him oblivious to the present.
‘And what’s yours?’ Terry’s voice brought Ian back to his surroundings. There were three pairs of eyes on him.
‘Oh, could I have a coffee and a brandy to go with it, please?’ He tried to sound calm and rational.
Connie scribbled something on her pad.
‘Right, if that’s the lot, I’ll have them for you in just a minute.’
When she was out of earshot, Terry took Ian to task again.
‘Come on, admit it, you’ve never been any closer to her than you were then, have you?’
Ian took a deep breath and shook his head.
‘D’you know something, Terry, old pal, I don’t think I’m sure of anything anymore.’
‘You’re not still thinking she could be the girl on the bus, are you?’ Phil frowned.
Ian gave another slow shake of his head.
‘I know it sounds crazy but it’s the perfume and her eyes. I just can’t get the thought out of my mind.’
‘It’s got to be coincidence,’ Phil attempted at rationality, ‘I mean, what are the odds against bumping into her in a place like this - God knows how many hundreds of miles from home? The truth is, you had a traumatic experience – something you will never forget. It’s only natural that your mind should play tricks on you from time to time. I suppose, because you never did find out what happened to her, that mystery girl is still nagging at your sub-conscious.’
‘Phil’s right,’ Terry nodded, ‘And look at it this way, pal, what’s the point of worrying about it? If Connie is this girl, she obviously doesn’t want anything to do with you or she’d have made herself known to you before now.’
Phil ignored the comment and trained his attention on Ian.
‘Listen mate, if you don’t feel comfortable here, we’ll head off to the nightclub.’
‘Oi! Don’t I get a say in this?’ Terry protested.
‘You can spin your wheels here for as long as you like,’ Phil told him, ‘but there’s bound to be more action up the road.’

(To be continued...)
 
Oh bl.... h... Ossie, who is she and what's the connection to the bus outrage? You may come out of your room for five minutes, take a little light refreshment and then back in again for part four - say posted in the morning? That gives you several hours if you apply yourself. O0
 
Here's this morning's offering...


POPPY (Part 4)

Although the environment of the nightclub had helped to ease Ian’s pre-occupation with the past, the nagging doubts persisted through his restless dreams and disturbed his sleep. There was only one solution - he would confront Connie head on.
He rose and showered. Then, in a re-run of that first morning, he left his paralytic partners in their pits, and made his way to the beach. The more he thought about it the more natural it seemed. He would just bump into her and strike up a conversation. It was as simple as that.
He wandered along the water’s edge. There was the usual array of oldies out for their morning dip but no sign of his target. No recognisable cropped haired head bobbing about in the calm blue sea. No red towelling dress left on the sand - no trace of the girl from the bar. He retired to a rock and checked his watch - just gone eight. Maybe he was too early. He would wait a while longer.
It was twenty passed eight when he checked the time again. Manuel had told them, quite emphatically, that she took an early swim every morning. This was Sod’s Law: If she decided to miss a day, this had to be the one! Or, maybe she had been and gone. Perhaps that’s why he had missed her. It was a ridiculous exercise. He should have listened to Terry. If they had stayed in Manuel’s a little longer the previous evening, there would have been more of a chance of taking the matter up with her right there and then. The opportunity had come and gone and he had missed it.
Disgruntled, he eased himself onto his feet. Intent on returning to the hotel for breakfast, he turned his back on the sea, and there she was!
‘Hello! You’re up bright and early this morning.’
Besides the familiar red beach dress she was wearing sunglasses. So at least he didn’t have those eyes to contend with.
‘Yeah,’ he replied as nonchalantly as he could, ‘Thought I’d take a dip - blow the cobwebs away.’
‘How’s the water?’
‘Warm.’
‘But not wet?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I see you’ve managed to keep your hair dry.’
He felt a touch of embarrassment. Things were not going as he had planned.
‘Okay, to tell the truth, I chickened out.’
‘Spirit willing but the flesh weak?’ she chuckled.
‘Something like that,’ he shrugged.
‘See you then.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I assume you’re only going back to the hotel,’ she said, sliding the large bag off her shoulder. ‘Your holiday isn’t over yet, is it? So, I guess I’ll see you around.’
‘Oh, yeah, I suppose you will.’ He had floundered around that much he realised he had all but blown the opportunity. There was no alternative but to tackle her head on. ‘Connie!’ She had removed the sunglasses and was bent over, about to drop them into her bag, when the sharpness of his tone caused her to pause and look up at him. ‘Where, in England, are you from?’
She diverted her attention back to what she was doing.
‘Stafford.’
‘Have you ever been to Birmingham?’
‘Many a time. Why?’
‘Do you remember the bus bombing?’
‘Of course.’
‘You weren’t on that bus, were you?’
‘What makes you ask?’
He thanked God that she had been distracted from stripping off the dress. It was difficult enough talking to her with it on.
‘Because I was and, I know it sounds daft, but you look just like a girl who was there.’
‘Is that right?’
His inquiries must have sounded like some corny old chat-up line.
‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m some kind of nutter. It’s just something I had to know.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’
That was it! She really did think he was a nutter who needed to talk to a shrink.
‘I’ve only mentioned it to those two I was with last night.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘No.’
‘And what did they think about it?’
‘They reckon I’m having delusions.’
Why couldn’t she put him out of his misery by telling him they were right? Instead, she sat down on the sand and looked out to sea with her arms resting on her knees. He sat down beside her. A considerable amount of time passed before she spoke again. When she did, it was without removing her eyes from the horizon.
‘This makes things very difficult for me.’
‘What?’
She faced him again.
‘Listen, I can’t go into details but it is very important that you keep any mention of that incident out of any further conversations while you’re here.’
His heart skipped a beat.
‘So it was you!’ Those big, green eyes held him transfixed. ‘Well, what the bloody hell is going on?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she frowned, ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful for what you did for me that day, but there are lots of complications that I can’t discuss with you right now.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
It was his turn to gaze out at the ocean while he gathered his thoughts.
When it came, the realisation landed on him like a ton of bricks. Without a moment more of thought, he told her, ‘I get it. You’re up to your neck in it, aren’t you? You’re in with the sods who did it! Thought you were safe over here. But now I’ve come and upset the apple cart.’ He sprang to his feet. She was up as quick as him.
‘Now where are you going?’ She tugged at his arm.
He tried to shake her off. ‘To anyone who will listen to me.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve got it all wrong.’ She stepped in his path and confronted him full on. ‘In fact, you’ve got it completely back to front. I could be compromising my situation here by telling you but, honestly, Ian, I really am on the opposite side to what you suggest. Now, please don’t push me any further.’
Her plea succeeded in lowering his blood pressure, but only a little.
‘But how do I know you’re telling the truth?’ He asked, conceding, only to himself, that he may have jumped the gun a touch.
‘I know your name,’ she smiled.
‘You could have picked that up in the bar last night.’
‘Ian Charles Taylor?’
‘Where the bloody hell did you get that?’
Her smile erupted into a broad grin.
‘You made a statement to the police after the bombing, didn’t you?’
‘So you’re police?’
He paused as he recalled the vision of her being wheeled into the hospital lift with the uniformed officer and the man in the grey suit in attendance. A bewildered frown creased his brow.
‘I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. I was confused. I just didn’t know what to think.’
‘I suppose you’re entitled to some kind of explanation,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got the rest of the day off. How about if we meet up later? Say at Manuel’s in a couple of hours, what do you say?’
‘No problem.’
He caught her staring over his shoulder into the middle-distance.
‘Okay, see you then. But, in the meanwhile, Ian, it is absolutely vital that you keep what you know to yourself, okay?’
‘Understood!’
He turned to see what had attracted her attention. When he turned back she was reaching behind her neck to loosen the ties of her dress.
‘Connie!’
‘Yes.’
With Terry bearing down on them he knew he had to be quick.
‘Thanks for being honest with me. I really did think I was going ga-ga.’
She shook sand from the dress before stuffing it into the bag with her sandals.
‘See you later,’ she beamed over her shoulder as she sprinted towards the water’s edge.

Ian picked up Terry in his wake as he set a course back to the hotel. Once he was alongside, Terry launched into a predictable line of rebuke.
‘D’you know, Taylor, you’re the most devious bugger I’ve ever come across. “See you later”,’ he mimicked Connie’s parting words. ‘No wonder you wanted out of that place last night. Too much competition cramps your style, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t mind so much, if it wasn’t for that little act you put on. Poor old Phil - you really had him feeling sorry for you. How could you stoop that low?’
Ian came to an abrupt halt that left his companion continuing on for another couple of strides before realising what was happening.
‘That was no “act” last night. I really did think she was the girl on the bus. That’s why I made a point of catching her this morning.’
‘So? Is she?’
‘No!’
‘Now, isn’t that a surprise?’
Terry’s sarcasm fuelled Ian’s irritation.
‘Look! I had no intention other than clearing up the matter up with her. That was difficult enough. I thought merely raising the issue would lead her to believe I’m barmy. But it didn’t - so…’
‘So, don’t tell me, you decided to chance your arm with her.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Ian studied the screwed up appearance of Terry’s face and grinned. ‘I thought it was a bit early in the day for you to be out of your pit. I’ve trod on your toes, haven’t I?’ He gave Terry’s shoulder a consolatory pat. ‘Never mind, old pal, I guess it’s just a case of the early bird catching the worm. Better luck next time.’
‘Well,’ Terry conceded, ‘I suppose you’ve done me a favour cos, if she thinks you’re not barmy, she can’t be the full shilling herself. Anyway, in this instance, isn’t it a case of the early worm catching the bird?’

(To be continued…)
 
Oh Paul!!!! Don't keep us in suspenders. This is your best story yet in my opinion. O0
 
Kate,
Praise indeed coming from you. :)
To avoid dragging it on and on I am editing it down to a reasonable length for the site. Having Connie Cassie Gracie distracting me to resize pictures doesn't help :knuppel2: but I'll eventually get there despite that. ^-^
 
Hey good looking you got in by the deadline.  O0    It really is good stuff Ossie. O0 O0 O0
Now you have done that little job for me, you may have breakfast and then get on with it. I'm off shopping with daughter, but I will be thinking of you in your cramped attic room, no heating, very little light, just a flickering candle. Isn't life tough when one is an artist  :smitten: :smitten: :smitten:
 
It was yesterday I had no heating due to a power cut. And perhaps you can tell me why I'm not getting notifications of replies to this thread? :'( Anyway, besides all that, as always your wish is my command, Ma'am...



POPPY (Part 5)

While he waited for Connie in Manuel’s bar, Ian was treated to a coffee on the house and a lecture from the proprietor.
‘You are a very lucky man, Señor. I have not known Connie to go with any other tourist. Up to now, she has really only had anything to do with Señor Greaves. He is a nice gentleman but much too old for a beautiful young girl like Connie. I am pleased she has decided to go out and enjoy herself with somebody nearer her own age. She has only been here for a short time but already; I have begun to regard her as a daughter. I do not want to see her unhappy.’
Here we go, Ian thought to himself, he had not got so far as stepping out of the door with this over-protective man’s adopted daughter, and already the question of honourable intentions was about to arise.
Connie’s appearance brought a sudden end to the Spaniard’s inquisition, and an expression of relief to Ian’s face.
Manuel slapped his left hand on the table and waved the other in the direction of Connie. ‘Ah! See! Now, what did I tell you, my friend? Is she not a picture of elegance and beauty?’
‘Less of the Blarney,’ Connie told him, ‘And you,’ she rounded Ian, ‘don’t you believe a word he’s said!’
Ian found that easier said than done, especially the Spaniard’s assessment of his employee’s appearance: There was nothing exceptional about the cool, cream linen dress. It was the way she wore it, as if it had been casually dropped over that close-cropped hair to settle around her. The effect created an aura of confident, simplicity that was more than pleasing to the eye.
‘You look after my baby now, won’t you?’ Manuel grinned as he skidded a set off car keys across the table. ‘I think she has petrol in her.’
‘He thinks!’ Connie tutted as she snatched up the keys.

Manuel’s “baby” was an old battered, blue Fiat 500. Not the scarlet Ferrari that would have been more in keeping with Connie’s style. Folding his limbs, Ian eased himself into the confines of the front passenger seat and fragrance of Connie’s perfume. With the roof rolled back and the windows down, once the car was moving, the scent soon became less defined, leaving him to seek consolation in the view of her bronzed legs afforded by the short cut of her dress.
The rhythmic movements of her knees as she worked the pedals to change gear held him mesmerized for longer than they should have. It was only when he looked up to see if she was watching him watching her that he noticed the jagged scar high on the right side of her forehead. This was the injury he had last seen freshly stitched at the hospital. He found it difficult to believe he had not spotted it earlier. Her original hairstyle, or any average length cut, would have easily disguised the wound. But, for some strange reason, she had opted for that cropped look which left the scar fully exposed. Then again, he decided, after further observations, it wasn’t exactly a disfigurement, it fact it really wasn’t worth bothering with at all.
The Fiat’s small engine whined. The gearbox went up another notch, as did his brain. The reality of his predicament became all too apparent: He was in a strange car in an alien country, with a mysterious young female, going God knows where! In the James Bond films the ach-villain always used a glamorous woman to lure the hero into some deadly trap. How could he be sure this was not what he had let himself in for? Connie had all the qualifications of a femme fatal, right down to those sinister looking sunglasses.
She had told him she was working on his side but he had seen no identification. If she was working for some major terrorist organisation, it would have an intelligence wing with access to any amount of confidential information, including his name and address etc. Connie! - Constance! - My arse! - He thought: Her real name had to be Pussy Galore, or something like that.
Life was so unfair; it was just his luck to be taking his last ride on Earth in an old Fiat 500 instead of a scarlet Ferrari.
However, for the moment he was safe. If she had a Beretta, he could quite clearly see, it was not strapped to her thigh. Therefore, it had to be in her handbag on the back seat.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, nervously raising his voice above the rattling of the car.
‘Just somewhere quiet where we can talk in private. [He had heard that one before.] Why?’ She glanced away from the road and at him. ‘Have you got any preference?’ At least he was being given a choice of where he would receive a bullet in the head.
‘No.’ He shrugged, ‘I don’t know anywhere. Couldn’t we have just gone to the beach?’
‘And what about your friends? Would there be any guarantee against them interrupting us? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘this is my day off and I want to do something with it.’ For one moment he thought she’d pressed the ejector seat button, when the car hit a bump in the road that nearly shot him through the roof.
‘Sorry.’ She smiled a smile that suggested she was on the side of good against evil, but she followed it up by saying, ‘D’you know, you showing up like this has made things very awkward for me?’
That, he knew from the films, was a classic prelude to an execution.
‘Of all the gin joints in all the world, or whatever that line is from Casablanca,’ he joked to make light of the situation.
‘Exactly! It is incredible, isn’t it?’ She smiled that smile again, ‘So, how much has Manuel told you about me?’
‘I’ve heard your invented biography of being a language graduate polishing up on her Spanish,’ he replied as the tiny Fiat squealed in protest at being forced up a steep incline in second gear.
‘Don’t be so sceptical. As a matter of fact, I have got a degree in modern languages and, while I’m here, I suppose I am polishing up my Spanish.’
‘But we both know that’s not the whole story, don’t we?’ he countered. ‘For instance, I don’t even believe that your name is really Connie.’
Her reaction suggested he had touched a nerve.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you don’t look like a Constance.’
‘You’ve got too many preconceptions,’ she laughed.

They pulled off the road and drove along a narrow sand track that terminated on a cliff top overlooking the sea. Connie brought the car to a halt, jammed on the handbrake and switched off the engine. This was it - this was where he was sure to get a bullet in the brain before being pushed over the edge. The Fiat was ideal - small enough for her to manage on her own.
Full of trepidation, he watched, warily, as she removed her sunglasses, so that when she swivelled to retrieve the handbag off the back seat he beat her to it. By fumbling the bag through his fingers he was able to ascertain that, although it contained several hard objects, there was nothing in the shape of a gun.
‘Thanks.’ She eyed him suspiciously as she accepted the bag from his grasp and sank her hand into its depths. ‘That bloody dust gets everywhere,’ she said, producing a packet of Handy Andies. Then, with the driving mirror tilted to an appropriate angle, she dabbed her eyes with a corner of a tissue.
‘D’you know,’ he said, ‘You look a lot younger and not a bit like you did on the bus.’
Her face broke into a broad mocking grin.
‘Then, how the hell did you recognise me?’
‘Mainly by your perfume.’
‘God!’ She slapped the steering wheel. ‘I don’t believe it! I know I have a weakness for decent perfume but Chanel isn’t that unique. There must be hundreds of women who use it.’
‘Well, don’t they say the fragrance varies with the wearer? Anyway, it wasn’t only that - it’s your eyes as well.’
She betrayed a hint of embarrassment.
‘You should be in this job instead of me. Come on.’ She wrenched the door open and swung her legs over the sill. ‘It’s stifling in here. Let’s see if we can find some breeze.’
He hesitated, momentarily, until the sight of the keys left in the ignition eased his anxiety. If she intended bumping him off she would not have given him the opportunity of escaping in the car. Nor would she have given him the chance of legging it while she casually ambled towards the edge of the cliff.
He followed her path to a clump of rocks, a short distance from the car, where he sat down beside her and took in the panoramic view of the sea.
Refusing his offer of a Rothman’s with a wave of her hand, she studied his face as he lit one for himself.
‘You’re still not sure of me, are you?’
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, blowing smoke into the air.
‘I saw the way you handled my bag. You thought I had a gun in there, didn’t you?’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ she chuckled, ‘but I can tell you, I’m not some sophisticated secret agent with a licence to kill. I’m just here to observe - nothing more than that.
‘Observe what?’
She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts.
‘Look, Ian, you must understand I can only tell you so much. And, God knows I’ve had enough trouble getting authorisation for that much.’
‘I’m listening,’ he told her.
‘Well, I’ve been with the police since finishing university. I happened to be on secondment to CID when I was assigned to a surveillance operation. Apparently, a certain national security service had been tipped off that a suspected member of an extremist organisation was renting a house on our patch. Unknown to us, the local plod, they had been watching the premises for some time. But the operation was scaled down when the tenant suddenly upped and left for Spain.
‘When the hitchhiker moved into the house, soon after it was vacated, the national lot were caught flat-footed. So, at short notice, we were given the job while a check was run to find out exactly who the hitchhiker was.
‘By the time the information came through, confirming he was a suspect, the hitchhiker was already on his way with that rucksack . I was given the job of following him. Arrangements were made for a national security officer to join me, just in case I was rumbled, or, if necessary, to effect an arrest. I was to identify myself to the national officer at the bus stop by asking him the time, while making it obvious I was wearing a watch. You made this difficult by being between us. I mean it would have looked suspicious if I’d sidestepped you to ask him. So I decided to ask you loud enough for him to hear. You didn’t notice I was wearing a watch but he was able to acknowledge the message behind your back.
‘Our information did not suggest it would be a suicide bombing. We didn’t even have a reason to suspect the rucksack actually contained a bomb. Our only task was to keep him in sight, only taking action if he did something suspicious like leaving the rucksack somewhere.
‘We still have no clear idea of what his intended target was. We know it wasn’t the bus. It would seem a fault in the timing mechanism, or the lateness of the bus or, more likely, a combination of the two was responsible for the device being activated prematurely. Whatever the cause, we all know how tragic the results were.’
Ian was not impressed.
‘So, that’s what you do for a living, is it - play with people’s lives? Surely, if you had the slightest suspicion that lives might be at risk, you should have taken the necessary steps and arrested the louser before he could cause any harm?’
‘Ian!’ She almost spat at him, ‘I understand what you’re saying. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. We all wish we knew then what we know now. Don’t you think I’ve run through all the alternative scenarios a thousand times? The situation was: We suspected he was up to something. We had no indication of what it was. Our objective was to find out, not only what he was up to, but also who else was involved. If, as you suggest, we’d have given him a tug, say for walking on the cracks in the pavement, and he’d have come up clean, we’d have blown everything.
‘We couldn’t afford that. Everyone else involved would have gone to ground, only to regroup again in some other place to carry out a similar atrocity. We need them in the net to make sure they never get another chance. I know this sounds terrible but, with the information we had at the time, I can’t see how it could have been handled any differently.’
She stared at him hard from behind her sunglasses. ‘Honestly, Ian, I do regret not being able to do more to prevent all the awful suffering of that day. I’m no hero, so do you think if I’d had the slightest notion of what was about to happen, I’d have been on that bus? Her eyes followed his as he looked down to stub out his cigarette on the side of a rock.
‘You must think I’m an awful, inconsiderate sod,’ he almost whispered.
‘Why?’
‘Because I haven’t once asked how badly you were hurt. I see that cut on your head left a scar.’
A self-conscious reflex brought her fingers to her forehead.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No,’ he assured her with an ardent shake of his head, ‘I only noticed it a few minutes ago. But you didn’t look to be in very good shape that night in the hospital. When I tried to find out how you were, it seemed somebody had pulled down the shutters. How bad was it?’
‘Your concerns were passed on to me at the time,’ she smiled. ‘And now I hope you can understand why you were kept in the dark. Anyway, I guess I was lucky. Because the hitchhiker bore the brunt of the blast, I got away with a few lacerations, some concussion, bruising and shock. I suppose, in a way, I was more fortunate than you. Being stunned, I missed the visual horror of it all.’
‘Yeah,’ he winced, ‘it wasn’t something I find easy to come to terms with. ‘So,’ he said in a way that indicated he was keen to move the conversation on, ‘who’s the subject of your surveillance? Is it Manuel or that artist bloke?
‘Roger Greaves?’ She laughed. ‘No it’s neither of them.’
‘So, who is it?’
‘Hey, come on, Ian, you must know I can’t divulge that sort of information.’
‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘but tell me; how come you got the job? I should have thought that nearly being blown to bits once would be enough for anyone.’
‘I did have problems convincing the powers that be of my suitability to remain on the investigation team. They thought my personal involvement would compromise my objectivity.’
Ian was flabbergasted.
‘So you actually volunteered for this assignment?’
‘I’m a professional. I do take an interest in my work. I like to see things through to a conclusion. So, with my knowledge in languages and my previous experience of the case, I satisfied all concerned that I was the best person for the job. The only fly in the ointment, so far, is you turning up.’
He gave an awkward little shrug.
‘Sorry for being an inconvenience. But, if I’m that much of a pain in the arse, why did you admit who you are to me?’
‘It was a difficult decision. I clocked you as soon as you walked into Manuel’s yesterday afternoon. That’s why I made my escape to the market. It gave me time to think. As I saw it, I was left with two choices; either I told you and gambled on you keeping it to yourself or I denied it. I reckoned the latter was more of a risk. If you pursued your doubts publicly, there was a good chance of you blowing my cover and jeopardising the whole operation.’ She swung her eyes away from him and fixed them on the distant horizon. ‘It was then I considered a third option.’
A moment or two passed. When she showed a reluctance to continue, he asked quite innocently, ‘And what was that?’
She twisted around to face him full on again and, in a calm, clear voice, told him,
‘I considered eliminating you once and for all by spiking your drink.’ He could not detect so much as a blink behind the sunglasses. She held him cruelly transfixed while the hairs bristled on the back of his neck and the blood drained from his cheeks. After what seemed an eternity her mouth curved into a mischievous grin that split her face from ear to ear.
‘Bloody hell, Ian, you should see your face! I really had you going there, didn’t I?’ She laughed out loud. ‘You swallowed that one hook, line and sinker.’ Before he could respond she gave his leg a playful slap and sprang to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she giggled, ‘lets do a bit of sightseeing.’


(To be continued...)
 
I'm having another run at it today - that's if there's anyony still interested...


POPPY (Part 6)

By the time Ian had crumpled himself into the car, Connie had the engine buzzing and was ready to go.
‘You’ve got an awful weird sense of humour,’ he said, slamming the door.
‘Got to, in this job,’ she told him, ramming the gear lever into first, ‘otherwise you’d go barmy.’

Everything was moving too rapidly. For months he had been plagued by the need to find out more about what happened on that fateful day. Now, all of a sudden, he was being buried in an avalanche of information that he found just as hard to cope with. Connie’s diversion from the immediate topic to act as a tourist guide while the Fiat rattled its way to some vague destination came as a welcome relief. It gave him a chance to arrange the facts into some sort of perspective.

Their next stop was San José, a beautiful little village set in the mountains. Over a fresh seafood salad and a couple of bottles of ice-cold beer, they chatted about their respective backgrounds - nothing too heavy - mainly amusing anecdotes. Relaxed and refreshed, it was there, for the first time, Ian felt completely at ease with Connie and was able to leave aside all the complications surrounding her.
When the bill was presented, Ian’s attempt to grab it was blocked by Connie’s hand coming down firmly on his.
‘My treat,’ she smiled, ‘I must owe you that, at least.’

With the car refuelled, they set off for some more sightseeing. By the time they turned back in the direction of San Antonio Bay evening was drawing in. It was then Connie suggested there was someone else she would like Ian to meet.

Roger Greaves’ residence was a fair sized single storey building, faced with white stonework and a large open porch, supported by several arches along the full length of the frontage. Connie brought the car to a halt on the hard red clay driveway in front of the house.
‘His moped is missing,’ she mused, ‘so he must be in town.’ She checked her watch. ‘He shouldn’t be too long now.’ Reaching into her bag, she drew out a bunch of keys. ‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable while we wait. I’ll see if I can rustle us up something to eat.’
Having let herself in, Connie made her way through the house towards the open doorway of the kitchen.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she told Ian, ‘while I see what he’s got in the fridge.’
There was a sense of organised chaos about the place. The main living space consisted of two separate areas, divided by an archway. The lounge area, at the front of the house, was sparsely furnished with a well-worn, deep upholstered, leather three-piece suite and a coffee table. A large, brightly patterned rug was spread on the red ceramic tiled floor in front of the grey stone fireplace, which had bookshelves fitted into the alcoves on either side.
Through the arch lay the engine room of the plant. Alongside an artist’s easel, a sturdy work table stood cluttered with the tools of his trade - an assortment of brushes stored upright in jars, with tubes of paint, bits of rag, bottles of turpentine and linseed oil scattered around his palette.
While Connie busied herself in the kitchen, Ian inspected the various canvasses and sketches strewn around the place.
‘This Roger must have some trust in you, if he’s given you the run of the house,’ he called out to her as he thumbed through a large sketchpad left on the coffee table.
‘I suppose you could say we have a pretty good working relationship,’ she called back.
‘I can see that.’ He had paused at a study of Connie posed in front of the lounge window.
‘I’m afraid Roger isn’t much of a shopper,’ she called to him, apologetically, ‘there’s only boiled ham or eggs. Which would you prefer?’
‘Ham’ll do fine,’ he called back.
By the time she appeared, bearing a plate of sandwiches, he had found the finished work relating to the sketch - a 24’x18’ oil painting, stacked in a corner behind a landscape. He was no expert but to him it did seem a well executed work.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, sliding the plate onto the table beside the sketchpad.
‘Nothing. Just this painting of you, don’t you think it’s a bit risky?’
‘Nah,’ she grinned, ‘A girl’s got to make a living. How much do you think I earn as a waitress? You’d be surprised how common this sort of work is amongst students trying to eke out a living on a grant.’
‘Yeah, but I’m thinking about the security aspect. What if someone recognises you from one of these?’
She took the painting and leaned it against the far wall. Flopping onto the settee beside him she said, ‘Now tell me what you see?’
‘You.’
‘Yeah, now describe the me in that picture.’
‘A young female with short red hair and hardly any clothes on.’
‘Not the one you saw at the bus stop?’ He realised what she was getting at and shook his head.
‘Well,’ she chuckled, ‘I don’t think my looks are that distinctive. And, even if they are, I don’t think anyone could recognise it from that.’
‘Probably not,’ he smiled, ‘unless there’s anything like it in England to make a comparison with.’
‘I can assure you there’s not!’ So, there’s no chance of anyone recognising me as Poppy, the copper-top copper from round the corner.’
His eyes lit with the revelation.
‘What did you say?’
She knew she’d gaffed.
‘Eat up and I’ll put the kettle on!’
‘No!’ He put his hand in her shoulder to restrain her in her seat. ‘You said Poppy, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she confessed sheepishly.
‘I knew it!’ He laughed. ‘I knew your name couldn’t be Constance. But Poppy! Then again, I suppose, it’s pretty close to Pussy - Pussy Galore. I had you down for something like that.’
She was on her feet in a flash.
‘You breathe a word to anybody and I really will kill you!’ she scowled, ‘Just keep it to yourself.’
‘Oh, come on.’ He looked up at her. ‘What do you take me for? Do you think I don’t know better than to go gobbing off?’
‘I hope you do!’ she glared down at him, ‘’cause it’s your bloody fault for making me feel so relaxed.’
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘D’you know, Poppy, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day?’
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked, steaming off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Either,’ he said, snatching up a sandwich to trail after her.
‘What’s the big deal?’ he asked over the clatter of the kettle being slammed down on the stove. ‘Of all you’ve told me that I have to keep quiet about, why should your name matter?’
‘Because,’ she rounded on him, ‘I told you as much as you need to know. I didn’t intend letting that slip. It’s unprofessional of me.’
‘But even professionals are human,’ he tried to reason with her.
‘I don’t care!’ she glared, ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Look,’ he tried again, ‘I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but I imagine you are under a lot of pressure. It must be difficult stuck here alone with no one to confide in.’
She banged two cups down on the worktop.
‘Don’t patronise me, Ian! That only makes it worse.’
He gave a disgruntled shrug.
‘Oh well, suit yourself.’
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled in a more civilised tone as he made for the doorway. ‘I didn’t mean to take it out on you.’
Further conversation was suppressed by the resounding “putt-putt-putt” of a small motorcycle engine outside the kitchen window.

Although Roger Greaves arrived bareheaded, Ian instantly identified him as the trilby hat man from the bus. It was an uncanny sensation. As in a dream sequence, it seemed Ian had been mysteriously transported to a reunion of bus blast victims. The fleeting notion sent a cold shiver down his spine. Even more unsettling was the lack of surprise expressed by Roger Greaves at finding a stranger in his house. It was as if the whole episode had been stage-managed - it had!
Connie made the introductions and the two men shook hands. Ian had been slow. It had taken a couple of seconds for the penny to drop. This was the operative from the security department, to whom Connie had been partnered with that day on the bus.
It all seemed so blatantly obvious now; by her own admission, Connie was relatively inexperienced in the type of work she was currently involved. It would have been madness to drop her into this situation on her own without any backup.
She had also mentioned requesting authorisation to disclose as much as she had. Greaves must have been the one who sanctioned it. Even the paintings now made sense. They were an excuse for Connie and Roger to spend so much time together.
Connie drew Roger’s attention to the coffee table. ‘There’re sandwiches, if you’re hungry.’
Greaves shook his thick grey mane and smiled. ‘It’s okay, I ate at Manuel’s.’
‘A cup of tea, then? I’ve got the kettle on.’
Again Roger shook his head.
‘Tell you what, lets have a beer instead.’ He turned to seek Ian’s approval. It came without hesitation.

Ian accepted the bottle of San Miguel offered by his host. Then watched the tall, suntanned man settle into an armchair and drop one supple leg across the other.
Roger Greaves was one of those distinguished looking men who, though somewhere in his mid-fifties, appeared to be at the peak of physical fitness. With his silvering hair, long enough to fall into a vague, natural centre-parting and sharp features, betraying deepening laughter lines, Ian guessed, Mister Greaves must have been quite a lad in his time.
That day on the bus, in his suit and hair cut so short it was barely visible below the brim of his hat, Greaves had given the impression of being an insurance salesman for the Co-op. Now, in his light cotton, green check shirt, beige linen trousers and Jesus sandals, he fully reflected the image of an artist. The transformation was so profound, it left Ian marvelling at his ability to recognise the man so easily. It was, he concluded, a measure of the indelible imagery imprinted on his subconscious by the events of that day.
When Roger Greaves spoke it was in the clear-cut tones of someone who had received the benefit of a public school education.
‘I believe Connie has given you an outline of what we are up to over here.’
‘Yeah.’ Ian nodded.
‘So you will realise how important it is that it is kept under wraps?’
‘Yes!’ Ian nodded again. ‘But, what puzzles me is, if the Spanish authorities don’t know what you’re up to, when you’ve got the evidence you need, they’re not going to be very co-operative about extradition, are they?’
Roger cleared his throat and exchanged glances with Connie before explaining, ‘You’re quite right. There would be complications with the Franco government regarding extradition under any circumstances. The opposition are aware of the situation, that’s why they’re here. Fortunately we have better relations with other European countries that have a vested interest in the operation. Our aim is to gather sufficient intelligence to warrant arrests in one of these countries.’
Ian gave a shake of his head. ‘But what if these bandits decide to stay here, tucked up all safe and sound?’
‘They won’t!’ Greaves replied with absolute confidence, ‘they rely on criminal activities, such as bank robbery and extortion for funding. They can’t afford to blot their copybook while they’re here. So, sooner or later, they will have to make a move.’
‘That makes sense,’ Ian conceded, ‘But what are their motives for blowing up innocent people?’
‘Terrorism.’ Greaves replied, casually pouring beer into his glass. ‘We are dealing with an extreme right wing group with its roots in fascism. They target anything connected to Jews, or virtually anyone who doesn’t come from a white, Christian, Anglo-Saxon background, living in tolerant democracies. You see the violence is aimed as much against the state, as against the individual victims.’
‘Something like the Baader-Meinhof lot then?’ Ian offered.
‘Mmm… sort of,’ Roger mused. ‘but the other side of the coin. Baader-Meinhof are pulling to the left, our lot are pulling the other way.’ He gave a worrisome shake of his head. ‘The results are exactly the same, whichever side they represent; innocent people are killed or maimed.’
‘So you’re still not certain of the intended target in Birmingham?’
Greaves shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not.’
Satisfied with the information he had gleaned, Ian moved on to the secondary issue, which had been fuelling his curiosity. ‘The paintings - are they really yours?’
Connie released a stifled snigger. Greaves lifted an indignant eyebrow.
‘They most certainly are!’
‘Oh,’ Ian responded apologetically, ‘It’s just that I didn’t expect someone in your line of business to be into that sort of thing.’
Greaves waved a finger at him. ‘Preconceptions, old chap - you should be wary of them.’
‘Yeah,’ Ian agreed, ‘I’m beginning to learn that. Would you believe, at the outset, I had Connie pegged as a school teacher?’

Once the conversation had opened up it drifted from one diverse subject to another. It continued to flow even after the supply of beer had dried up. It was then Roger produced the spirits.
That brandy was Ian’s downfall. His last recollections of the night were of Connie making up the spare bed and helping him off with his shoes.

(To be continued...)
 
I have only managerd part one so far..............it'll probably be near the W/E b4 I can catch up...............I best get some bottles in >:D
 
... and this morning's installment...



POPPY (Part 7)

He was roused by the morning sun piercing his closed eyelids, and the sensation his tongue being fused to the roof of his mouth. Turning to face away from the direct sunlight did nothing to ease his discomfort. Instinctively, he squinted at his left wrist. He never took his watch off. He’d been robbed!
Opening his eyes wider, he peered around through a misty red haze. In fitting with the living quarters, the bedroom was sparsely furnished. On his right-hand side a wardrobe and a dressing table lined the wall between the corner and the door. In the opposite corner he spotted his watch nestling on top of his neatly folded clothes left on a ladder-back chair. He immediately checked beneath the sheets for his underpants. To his relief, he was still wearing them.
Taking a deep breath, he set himself, jerked back the sheet and threw his legs over the side of the bed. On reaching the perpendicular he hesitated momentarily to steady himself before setting a course to the chair. As he ventured from the bedside mat, the tiled floor sent a chill through the soles of his feet. And then:
‘Shite!’ he stubbed his toe on a leg of the bed.

He had stumbled to his objective and established that it was twenty-to-ten, when Roger Greaves stuck his head around the door.
‘Good morning,’ he called out too cheerfully, ‘I thought I heard you up and about. Oh dear!’ he exclaimed at the sight of his guest’s pallor, ‘I think the shower might be your best port of call. I’ll put some coffee on.’
‘Is Connie still here?’ Ian delayed his host’s retreat.
‘No,’ Greaves called over his shoulder, ‘She had to get the car back to Manuel last night.’

The shower revived Ian enough for him to realise he was still a living after all. Over the dregs of a second cup of coffee, he was sitting at the kitchen table pondering the probable consequences of a three mile journey on the back of a moped, suggested by Roger, when Connie arrived.
‘I see you’ve surfaced then?’
The clarity of her tone and the freshness of her appearance caused him a severe degree of annoyance.
‘God! You look like shite!’ she consoled him. ‘Come on and I’ll take you back to town. Your friends are looking for you. They seem a bit concerned at me being about while you’re still missing. I got the impression they suspect me of doing you in.’
‘So what did you tell them?’
‘The truth, of course.’ She smiled, ‘I told them I’d left you in a friend’s bed.’
‘That’ll give them something to chew on.’ Roger joined in the fun while Connie snatched a piece of toast, intended for Ian, and took a fair sized bite out of it.
‘Well, are you going to shift ass, or what?’ she urged, ‘I’ve only nipped out for a bit. If I don’t get me and the car back to Manuel soon, he’ll be pulling his hair out.’
‘Just one thing before you go,’ Roger addressed Ian in a less than frivolous tone, ‘I have to remind you again that everything we have told you, regarding our operation here, is a matter of sub judice. If you divulge any relevant information, you could face a prison sentence.’
‘Or worse.’ Connie added, shaping her hand into an imaginary gun and pointing it at Ian’s head.

Compared with the previous day, the aesthetics of Connie changing gear were restricted by the length of her working skirt.
‘What are you thinking now, Mister Taylor?’ She broke the silence as she swung the car onto the tarmac road.
‘I was trying to imagine how you’d look in your police uniform.’
‘I’m not sure I want to indulge your fetishes.’
‘Don’t be daft. I was just thinking it wouldn’t be much different to what you’re wearing now.’
‘Shirt and skirt,’ she replied with indifference, ‘I suppose so.’
‘And I think you should keep your hair that colour - it suits you.’
‘No problem.’ She patted the top of her head. ‘That’s the way it grows. Any other shades have been merely experiments.’
‘So that’s your natural colour?’
She threw a sideways glance at him. ‘We are quick this morning, aren’t we?’
He ignored her sarcasm. ‘Did you have to undress me last night?’
‘I didn’t have to but I think there’s nothing worse than waking up in the morning having slept in your clothes. So I thought you’d appreciate it.’
‘I would under normal circumstances,’ he told her, chancing a rye smile, which she noted but chose to ignore.
‘Anyway,’ she taunted, ‘I reckon you can tell a lot about a man by his underpants.’
‘Who’s indulging whose fetishes now?’ he countered.

By pushing the small car to its limits, Connie had them outside Ian’s hotel in no time at all.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he told her as she wrenched on the handbrake. ‘I must have made a right fool of myself. How bad was I?’
‘Nothing to fret about,’ she beamed reassuringly.
‘Well could you pass my apologies on to Roger for abusing his hospitality?’
‘Ian!’ Her eyes widened with impatience. ‘You got drunk. That’s all! You’re not going to hell for it. In fact Roger said how much he had enjoyed your company. We both did. Now will you get out of the car and let me get off?’
Clasping the handle, he leaned against the door. ‘Will I see you again?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I suppose so.’ She shrugged. ‘You know where to find me.’

His route to the hotel took him around the front of the car. He was about to ascend the steps when Connie called him back. The instant he approached the open window, she stretched out her arm and nearly pulled him through it. The pressure of her lips against his took him so much by surprise that, even when it eased, he was left motionless.
‘That’s just to say “thank you” for yesterday and everything you’ve done for me in the past.’ She smiled generously. Then, reacting to the blank expression on his face, she frowned, ‘Now, what the hell’s the matter with you?’
He gave a twitchy shake of his head, as if to clear it. ‘Nothing,’ he shrugged, ‘It’s just the first time I’ve been kissed by a copper, that’s all.’
‘Well, don’t tell me it was an arresting experience,’ she said, pushing her palm against his chest, ‘I’ve heard it all before.’
The wheels on the Fiat came as close as they ever would come to spinning and it sped away.

Predictably, the other lads were not around when Ian collected the key from reception. So he took himself off to his room, where he lay on the bed to mull over the most recent events. Before too long he began to lapse into one of those, if only and never again, depressions.
If only he hadn’t made such a glutton of himself with the drink, maybe he would have been rewarded with something better than a hangover. Despite Connie’s denial, she must have been disappointed with his conduct.
On the surface, that kiss at the car was all it appeared - a token of her appreciation. But, when viewed in the context of her apathetic response to seeing him again, it could just as easily be interpreted as a well, thank you very much, but don’t bother me again, gesture. One thing was for sure, if he hadn’t already blown his chances of a deeper liaison with Connie/Poppy, he would never again; jeopardize his chances by acting so stupidly.

To give time for the dust to settle, Ian kept well away from Manuel’s and Connie for the rest of the day. However, he did pluck up enough courage to venture down to the beach the next morning and joined her for a swim. All went well and, after walking her back to Manuel’s, he felt confident he had not caused any long-term damage to their relationship (whatever it was).
Not wishing to let the opportunity slip by, he suggested that they go out together that evening.
‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ she said, her eyes reflecting genuine remorse, ‘I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight.’
‘If you’re worried about me getting legless again, I can assure you that won’t happen,’ he persisted.
‘It’s not that,’ she laughed at the thought, ‘It’s a matter of duty calling.’
‘Oh, working in the bar eh?’
‘Yeah, well sort of.’
There was a hint of nervousness in Connie’s tone.
‘Well maybe another time?’ Ian chanced one last attempt.
‘Yes.’ Connie’s eyes appeared to light at the suggestion. ‘I’d like that.’

(To be continued...)
 
I think I'm in love with Roger Greaves.    ;)

We want part 8, we want part 8, we want part 8, we want part 8, we want part 8, Oh yes we do, oh yes we do, yes we do.
 
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