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Martin Read-Flights of Fancy

Aug 07, 2018

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    About the Author

    Martin Read is a retired self-employed businessman from themotor industry, who is using his retirement to explore the previously suppressed artistic and imaginative side of his

     personality. This includes painting, sculpture, design,invention, and now the writing of short stories.

    At 59, life for Martin has never been busier or moreenjoyable.

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    Dedication

    A short thank you to Stephen King, whose easy, naturaland magnetic style kept me reading and inspired me to

    hope there might be a storytelling future for me.

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    M arti n Read

    F L I G H T S O F F A N C Y  

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    Copyright © Martin Read (2015)

    The right of Martin Read to be identified as author of this workhas been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

    the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

    form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

     publishers.

    Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

    for damages.

    A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the BritishLibrary.

    ISBN 978 1 78554 078 3 (Paperback)ISBN 978 1 78554 079 0 (Hardback)

    www.austinmacauley.com

    First Published (2015)Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

    25 Canada SquareCanary Wharf

    LondonE14 5LQ

    Printed and bound in Great Britain

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    Contents

    LONEWULF THE TROUBLED 10 

    THE A TEAM 14 

    BAREBACK 26 

    WARHOL S REVENGE 27

     

    DUST TO DUST 36 

    BROKEN DREAMS 38 

    JUMPER 46 

    WASP 52 

    TIME FLIES 63 

    SWALLOWS AND AMAZONIANS 64 

    SMILE PLEASE 70

     

    PAY THE FERRYMAN 76

     

    BACK TO BLACK 78 

    NEXT TIME AROUND 82 

    TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 86 

    THE LIQUID COMES 107 

    110 

    121 

    PRIVATE SAM SMITH 124

     

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    TOM S GONE

    Through the historic military circus that is Colchester, its barracks home to gladiators, centurions and fightingsoldiers for thousands of years we entered the battle arenaof Afghanistan. Two weeks here and no armed combat. Our

    time here is taken up with training exercises and gridmapping seemingly identical villages distinguishing safesites from killing fields.

    Live combat is all around us and tomorrow, we have been promised, will be our first venture into uncharted

    territory and the probability of hand to hand skirmishes. Itseems days not years since we both met and joined up onthe same day. As soon as I saw him and heard Tom's voice

    I knew that we were destined to be the best of friends. Wewere the same height and build, same sporty background,same sense of humour even had a tattoo on the same leg

    although Tom's was by his own admission a bit gaycompared to my raging bull.

    Our progress through the proving ground of theacademy was measured more between the two of us ratherthan just by our superiors. We were extremely competitive

    and if one of us showed a weakness in any discipline noleniency would be given by the other. Our friendship came

    second place only to winning but as soon as victory wascelebrated or acknowledged the bond was reformed. Pickon Tom and you had me to deal with, pick on me and youwere as good as dead.

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    Both of us passed tests with flying colours and gainedrespected commissions within the British fighting machine.We enjoyed every element of our development and

    training; the more grizzly the task the grittier ourdetermination. This led to record after record being won

    elevating the status of our regiment to nestle among thehistoric greats of our predecessors. Our abilities did not gounnoticed and we were both awarded leadership status just

     prior to our dispatch for foreign duty. Afghanistan a wordthat hushed the talk of many in our ranks but Tom and Iwere ready we wanted “ruck for real”  and now came our

    chance. We had been trained by the meanest and taught bythe elite. We were ready. Not trigger happy conscripts but

    highly skilled in the art of combat and art it was. Everymanoeuvre was carried out like the best rehearsed play,there was no place for mistake or footfall in front of our

    unforgiving and clinical audience.

     Now in Afghanistan, Naziem was one of eight new

    interns brought into our regiment. Local boys with localknowledge trading information on local activities andgossip for food, lodgings and uniforms. Training for them

    was basic at this stage but invariably they would only trailus whilst out on assignment, not confident of theircommitment they carried no arms. These would be issued

    later when trust had been earned.

    Our route planned we had been told not to expect

    contact with the enemy until we reached our target, a deepfresh water well which we had to take and secure. A prize,we were told, that would be aggressively defended. Ourapproach through a complicated network of buildings and

    compounds was mapped showing areas in red, classed asuncertain, and areas in green, cleared ok. This intelligence

    given by the eight. Naziem, being the only competent

    English speaking member, was our closest contact.The night before our first op I had read a heartfelt

    letter from my mother. She was feeling the relatively recentloss of my father badly since I had left the country and her

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    tears smudged the words that prayed for my safety. I tookthe letter and walked alone to a wadie within the camp, theslow water rippled around an obstructing rock and the

    agitated rapid sparkled in the late sun gripping my gazewhilst I contemplated her words.

    I was overcome with emotion partly through notshowing my mother due sensitivity and love at mydeparture and partly because of a deeply hidden fear of

    what tomorrow would bring. My eyes filled and the tearsran. Sitting with my head on my knees I hadn’t noticedTom's arrival, he sat beside me.

    “Are you ok Jake,” his only words.

    “Yep sure, I’m fine Tom.” 

    Hearing the waiver in my voice and the obviousavoidance of wanting to make eye to eye contact hereplied:-

    “Come here you big woose.” 

    He put his strong arm around me and pulled me closeinto him, with my head on his chest I sobbed like a baby. I

    hugged him back and sensed what may have been thesoftest kiss on the crown of my shaven head. He whispered

    “We’ll  be ok me and you kid, this combo is going backhome in one piece.” 

    We sat in silence for some time comforting, reassuring

    and strengthening one another without a word being spokenuntil at last we rose, unsteady with the emotion of it all, andreturned to the solitude of our cramped bunks.

    The early morning was torn open with an explosion.The outer perimeter of the eastern block of our camp cameunder heavy mortar attack, retaliation was instant and

    effective. Our job was still on despite the delay. We readiedourselves for our departure through the Northern wall

    defences, with one last run through Naziem confirmed ourroute. We geared up and were off. Every step calculated,every member alert and professional. Within four blocks

    and still well inside the green zone the atmospherics

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    changed. Silence, eerie silence, nothing moved human oranimal. Tom turned and called time out, we slunk downagainst the wall we had been tracking. I instructed new

    lookouts fore and aft and we bunched to reassess anddouble check our position.

     Naziem was called forward and he duly confirmed thesafety of the area that we occupied, no danger registered byour spotters the decision was made to continue. Now back

    in line Tom led us out. We followed the compound wall toa bisecting road junction. Tom moved straight out of coverto cross the road when all hell was let loose with rapid

    automatic machine gun fire coming in from our left, I sawTom lifted and thrown two to three metres to my right I

    dropped into cover and bellowed instructions.

    I cleared my automatic assault rifle and turned thecorner with anger and fear tensing my body, I opened fire

    arcing bullets the width of the street then back, a dogyelped and ran, a goat dropped silent and lifeless. I could

    not make out human movement I just kept on firing backand forth; dust exploded from walls, doors splintered andmetal tore with eerie screams.

    I pulled back in and replaced my spent magazine.Silence had returned. I barked for covering fire and wentout for Tom, boots first I hauled Tom to cover and noticed

    the unusual response of his torso to my dragging him. Tom

    had been practically cut in two by the short burst of enemyfire and it was largely his equipment harness that kept him

    whole. Two tapes that exited Tom's back could have beenmistaken for broken harness, later confirmed as being theend of his lower intestines. His eyes were open wide with

    surprise and shock. This was not supposed to havehappened here. This was a green zone, we should have

     been safe. I called back for Naziem wanting answers, word

    came back NO SIGN they had disappeared all fucking eightof them.

    Had they just run in fear or had we been set up. I hadmy own views on that one and I was not in the mood to

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    give the benefit of doubt because if not for that triggerhappy Taliban we could have lost many more. No trace wasfound of Naziem or the others. The gun was found built

    into a facing compound wall but so was a small child ofabout eight years, dead from a head wound, he was not the

    assassin but the bullet was traced back to my gun. Despitemy training and boasted professionalism I had lost ittemporarily at the loss of my best friend. In no mental state

    to defend myself I took what was coming to me withoutargument, we were returned home on the same aeroplane.Tom with honours me with charges hanging over my head.

    It took months of confinement and medical assessment before I was allowed home on indefinite sick leave. My

    mother was happy to have me home despite thecircumstances, she knew how close I had been with Tomand she shared my pain at his loss. She gave me space, she

    gave me time and an understanding that only someone thatclose can.

    Loose leaf tea was one of the things I missed mostwhilst I was away, now I drank pot after pot, some say youcan’t taste the difference, I say bollocks. Suddenly the

    mundane mattered. Silence and mood swings had come andgone. Reasonable and enjoyable conversation had replacedaltercation with my mother. Mind and body were settling

    into this new life. Lethargy had been a problem since myreturn, I had put on weight and, feeling stodgy, training and

    fitness would be another step in the right direction. Healthy body, healthy mind or is it the other way round either waythis new positive approach was making me feel a whole lot

     better.

    An early morning run six thirty a.m. I’d been up threehours already, not much sleep these days. When I close my

    eyes the loud noises and stark and shocking images return.

    Dark outside and the wet street and damp atmosphere didnot make this the easiest start to my get fit program. Five

    minutes running hard and I slowed to a jog my lapse inexercise was telling on my heart rate and breathing, another

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    runner joined me out of nowhere a dark lithe figure hoodedup and seemingly keen to jog with me. We continued insilence for about half a mile then I picked up the pace, he

    matched me and then took the lead slightly:

    “Morning Tom,” I say.

    “Morning fat boy,” Tom's reply.

    “Race you to the bridge,” his challenge.

    We sprint, he wins, we jog, there’s talk, all sorts of

    stuff. Weather, family, the job.

    Although the hoodie hid his handsome face, this was

    Tom. Don’t ask me how I just chose not to question it , I’mhappy with his being here, with me, for me, we jog on. Weturn after the bridge back towards home, his tales make me

    laugh, they always did. His foul language hasn’t changedeither but right now I would forgive him anything.

    “EYES ON ENEMY,” he blurts out.

    Training clicks in, we drop to the floor motionless but

    our senses on full alert. Within seconds I had scanned thescene ahead of us taking in everything logging distances,

    movements and sounds. The only person on the street was aforeign male one hundred and ten metres ahead of us height

    approximately five feet ten inches weight one hundred andfifty pounds light on his feet he disappears into a shopcarrying a bundle of newspapers.

    “IT’S THAT BASTARD NAZIEM, IT’S HIMJAKE.” 

    Tom’s words stir up the past. Turning I notice that

    Tom had gone, no trace. I stay low, still tense, stillassessing. Things are changing fast, birdsong, carmovements, headlights wash across the side streets the

     place is coming alive. Rolling into the shadows I curseTom’s absence but promise him revenge, that bastard

     Naziem is going to get his and get it soon.

    Once home I go straight to my room, lock the door andsit on my bed facing the mirror on my wardrobe door. As I

    stared things became clear to me. Tom had returned to lead

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    me to Naziem. That spineless bastard had as good as killedmy best friend and now hides here, seeking a new life but Ihave different ideas, no new life for you here Naziem. In

    fact no life at all.

    The day and night to come were going to be a lonely

    and personal vigil. My mother’s attempts at communicationwere ignored but I heard her sobbing feeling, I’m sure, thatI was slipping away from her again but right now I needed

    to focus on the task ahead. My combats were clean andnow laid out ready for the next mission; kit checkedincluding weapons, my hunting knife was the weapon of

    choice, nice and personal. My attack was planned andreplayed in a mind that was clear and sparking with

    anticipation. Twelve hours and no food or drink but I feltstrong and in control. I will attempt sleep but if it doesn’tcome no matter.

    Six a.m. I meet the street in darkness, painted face,dark combats moving stealthily I am invisible. Taking

    lungfuls of cold morning air it aids to spark the firesmouldering in my brain, I am aware of everything, incontrol of everything. I’m buzzed up and ready for action.

    This is what I’m good at, this is what I was trained for. Thealley way at the rear of Naziem's shop is my chosen attacksite, lots of cover, maximum surprise element and multiple

    escape routes.

    Lights on in the shop, I throw stones at the rear doorglass a young girl exits and returns quickly inside. Second

    throw harder this time and the glass breaks. Seconds tick bythen he appears, calls out abuse and slowly, slowlydescends the steps. “Come to me Naziem, come and get it” 

    I whisper. Now down on my level he stalls, sensingmenace, but it’s too late. I lock his left arm and head with

    my left and my right swings hard with a strike to his right

    lung. Knife in deep to the hilt. Twist, tear and exit releasinga pungent odour. Not stopping my right arm swings again

    and draws the polished razor sharp blade across his throat.His head pulls back into my shoulder as the blade cuts deep

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    once more. The blood comes quickly and warms my glovedright hand. Now limp I lower him to the floor silently, stillin control, measured movements I drop once again into the

    shadows. Two seconds to scan, choose my exit and I leaveunseen.

    Back home and I notice the kitchen light on but nosigns of my mother. I go straight to my room, clean up,shower and break open the whiskey in my bedside cabinet.

    Clothes bagged up and warmed from the long shower I laynaked on my bed the whiskey having the desired effect Iwas glowing, happy with my work. Waking with a start at

    the slamming of the front door, I must have dosed off butnow I could hear my mother wailing in the hallway. Robed

    only in my dressing gown I rushed to her aid.

    “What’s wrong Mum?” 

    She was on her knees with her empty shopping bags

    around her, now almost hysterical.

    “He’s dead,” the only words she could manage.

    She was overheating in her winter coat, the upset and

    an obviously rushed journey home was bringing her closeto collapse. Her clothes loosened I lifted and took her to the

    kitchen where I sat her down and ran a glass of cold water.She drank thirstily and calmed after a moment or two.

    “That poor Mr Hussian, I just can’t believe it.” 

    “What is it Mum, what’s  happened?”  Genuinelyclueless.

    “He’s been killed, murdered they say. His throat cut. I

     just can’t understand he is such a lovely man he alwaysasked after you while you were away in Afghanistan.” 

    Taking hold of my mother’s arms I dropped to one

    knee, now face to face and the penny having dropped.

    “ No Mum, his name is Naziem not Hussian. Tom saidit was Naziem.” 

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    My mother must have seen the lost expression in mynow watering eyes; she pulled my head to her bosom andhugged me tight. Tearfully she whispered in my ear.

    “Tom's dead Jake. Tom's gone. What have you donemy poor sweet boy?” 

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    LONEWULF THE

    TROUBLED

    He stirs unsettled from a fragmented sleep born fromthoughts of the ensuing battle in the day ahead; no fear in

    this sleeplessness only excitement and an impatience todisplay his considerable skills as a warrior. The cold, crispair of this late autumn morning alive with the sound of

    hacking Pheasant fowl enough to clear his mind, a staterespectful of the Gods to whom he offers prayer. “Odin

    greatest God of war give strength to my sword arm that Imight make thee proud.” Time too to prepare his weapons,

     both trusted blades. Wasp Sting a short spiteful dagger

    worn on his wide leather belt perfect for close shield wallfighting and Viper's Spit a massive flat blade worked bycraftsmen from the finest hardened steel, at a weight that

    only a toned warrior can wield. Other weapons around himappear as children’s playthings in its presence and cause

    him to question the seriousness and professionalism of hisallies. The blades are polished and sharpened they ring inuse satisfied with their edge, Viper's Spit has a life of its

    own and in use on the battle field will pull and bate towardsits prey as would a tethered hawk hungry for blood. The

    double handed grip has been moulded over the years to hismighty fists a coupling which (in battle) only death willrelease. An Emerald, his birth stone, decorates the pommel

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    and the cross bar that protects his hands carries his oathinscribed.

    War and battle is in his blood he was born a warrior

    and bred to kill. As a relative child he had tasted the life ofa farmer and a cleric but that life was not for one such as

    he. His path was cast early in his years when a shearedimplement tore deep and jagged across his face, theconsiderable damage made worse by the unskilled

    corrections of a drunken surgeon. His hideous scars set himapart from others, those that met his eyes would soon lookaway shocked, the strongest of men and the fairest of

    women alike. This instant in time had left him disfiguredand his life forever cursed with loneliness.

    The battle ground had been chosen and prepared, hefought with men that were not his kinfolk but they werehappy to have him and his reputation at their lead in battle.

    Their reasons and methods to fight very different but thiscontest would aid his personal crusade. The site of their

    choosing would give them slightly the advantage of heightwhich would speed their attack and favour his work. Themisted air is heavy and thick with the smoke from early

    morning fires, drums beat and music plays, women cookand children play. He prepares alone not wanting to be partof this theatre, wanting only to fight. A successful warrior

    can win favour and affection even with disfigurement nayeven more so with disfigurement. He will display his skills,

    kill, please the Gods and win hearts, for even a scarredwarrior has need of company.

    Song and music abates and only mesmeric steadydrum beats remain for here they come, metal plate and

    armour clang in time with their orderly march. They are animpressive rank but he looks for their eyes and their eyes

    tell him all; they have no heart for this battle beneath those

    fashioned breast plates of steel and it is their eyes that tellhim that. Animal fur and soft leather his clothes allow him

    to breath, allow him to move his only armour are his scars.He roars to the Gods to fight with him and favour his band

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    of ragged heathens who’s will to win is greater than that oftheir pretty foe. He has drunk greedily and secretly whichnow sharpens his anger, burns his throat and fires his belly.

    As he strides at the front of their slowly advancing linehe shows off Viper's Spit to the enemy, they will get to

    know her much better. Steered by expert hands she singsthrough the air and accompanies their course Gaelic taunts,she senses blood and as a diviners aid points the way

    forward to the enemy. On his command they run he has pre-empted the choreographed move to a shield wall, theyare not locked when he strikes their line, Viper's Spit

    descends with speed and weight slices through a mockhelmet as if it were fat and halves a brain that still questions

    “how?”. His sandaled foot with the kick of a mule behind itstrikes the man’s chest and he is in amongst the enemy. A

     battle cry torn from the bottom of his gut stuns those about

    him and in those few brief seconds he severs the sword armfrom one then hammers the pommel of his sword to destroy

    the face of another, teeth and sinew string away as he liftsViper's Spit to strike again.

    In a frantic beautiful rage he welcomes the joy and

    energy of battle, he laughs and curses aloud and his maniais feared by all around him even his own. Three turn to flee.He drops low and the angled sweep of his blade pops

    tendons in the legs of all three; they drop and squirm.Viper's Spit rises up before our warrior like a crucifix but

    no compassion from this blade's religion only hate and punishment. She falls and slices easily through rib cage andheart, dead. Turning a tight circle and swinging his blade atarm’s length gathering speed and pitch until the neck of

    another dulls her song, for this he pays with his life. Bloodcomes fast and colours and covers the scene causing our

    warriors feet to temporarily loose purchase. The third still

     prone scrambles for a shield, playing, Viper's Spit takes offhis hand, turning over onto his back he faces our warrior,

    he knows his fate and opens his mouth, nothing comes out but Viper's Spit goes in.

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    With one foot on this man’s stilled chest our warriorhas time to take stock. The enemy temporarily stunned and

     beaten, only one brave trouper comes hard to wage war, he

    advances yelling his intent with a threatening lance heldlevel. Too easy to read this strike he drops to one knee

    making smaller the target, he faints right and with lightningreactions deflects the lance left Viper's Spit is upturnedfrom ground level to skewer the gut of the still advancing

    now dead, brave trouper. Our warrior stands tall face toface with his dead opponent, Viper's blade buried deep inhis gut angles low and allows him to slide off to crumple

    onto the torn turf of the battlefield the blade snagging onexit. Its burred edge trailing gut and gore.

    At this last action an eerie silence surrounds him onthe field, a bloody peace; he stands central to the carnagethat he alone is responsible for. The spell is broken and

    screams ring the perimeter of the field, he raises his face toa troubled sky to give thanks for his safe passage, the

     prayer is interrupted by the sound of a mechanical horn.Annoyed by this distraction he glares in that direction andalthough his eyes still blur from battle fury he sees lights.

    Bright flashing lights and the enemy now clothed in blackcome again. He is not done and Viper's Spit will drink

     plenty more blood. He notices a shaft of light in the smog

    casting a red spot on his chest, a sign from the Gods theyare with him. He salutes the skies and with an ear piercing

     battle cry holding Viper's Spit aloft he runs at them withtotal belief in himself, after all he has no one else andnothing to lose.

    “THIS IS ONLY A RE-ENACTMENT YOU UGLY

    MAD BASTARD. WE ARE ARMED POLICE, LAYDOWN YOUR WEAPON OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE.”