A Flash in the Pan Read online

  Flash in the Pan

  by

  Lilian Kendrick

  ISBN 1481182676

  EAN 978-1481182676

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  ‘A Flash in the Pan’ is published by That Right Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

  http://www.thatright.com

  http://ninwriters.ning.com

  ‘A Flash in the Pan’ is the copyright of the author, Lilian Kendrick, 2012. All rights are reserved.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  1. Word Power

  They have never met, and yet the words he writes are enough for her. When they are ‘together’, she knows ecstasy, perhaps Nirvana. She is transported.

  The first time, she could not believe it was happening. The words had a life of their own, a body of their own – his body, his face, his talent. She caressed his image with her fingertips and returned her attention to the text, her breathing erratic and heat spreading through her veins.

  This isn’t real. Words on a page can’t do this, but … oh, the power of those words!

  She ran her fingers across the page and read the words aloud, imagining his voice; a voice she’s never heard. She imagined that the words were written for her alone and not for the whole world. Shivers ran down her spine and she licked her lips and half-closed her eyes.

  He is with me now. I can feel his presence. He is reading to me. He puts the book down.

  “I knew you would be beautiful,” he says.

  I want him to touch me. He strokes my hair. His hand is on my cheek and his thumb traces the outline of my lips. I want him to kiss me.

  Then he was gone. That was the first time. Now he comes to her every time she picks up the book and looks at his photograph. His words entice her, seduce her, reduce her to a trembling, helpless creature awaiting the fulfilment that she knows will follow. He never fails to satisfy her need for more of his words. He brings her an endless stream of them and she swims in their warmth and beauty. It always starts with the gift of words and ends wherever the Writer takes her. She is powerless in the face of such weaponry. He controls her thoughts, her dreams, and her fantasies. Watch and listen as the Writer takes possession of the Reader.

  I know you’re here again. I can feel you.

  “Close your eyes, my love, and you shall see me.”

  I see you. What have you brought for me tonight?

  “Tonight, I bring you a sonnet. No other eyes shall read it, no other ears shall hear it and no voice but mine shall speak it. It is my gift for you.”

  Let me hear it.

  “I shall whisper it. Come closer, lie down with me and I shall hold you in my arms as I give you my poetry.”

  The gift is given and received. The words are shared.

  You are all I need, my fantasy.

  “Without you, I am nothing but words on a page.”

  Reader and Writer – two halves of one soul.

  2. Stairway to Heaven

  Friday afternoon and she is alone again. Well, maybe not truly alone. He is upstairs, sleeping and dreaming whatever dreams he has locked her out of. There was a time when they shared those dreams; a time when he would have asked her to join him for this afternoon nap.

  She closes her eyes and remembers the time when he used to laugh – so long ago.

  He took her hand and said, “Shall we take a trip to Paradise?”

  Then, taking the stairs two at a time, he raced to the bedroom and she followed, discarding her clothes on the way. She found him sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for her and their union was sweet and fulfilling, and afterwards they slept – curled up together as the afternoon sun streamed through the lace curtain bathing their bodies in its warmth.

  She shakes her head and wonders what went wrong. When did love turn to indifference? When did passion disappear?

  “You were so restless last night,” he complained. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

  “My back’s bad. I couldn’t get comfortable.”

  “Well, I need my rest! Take some painkillers and sleep in the spare room.”

  At first it was just occasionally that she was banished from the master bedroom, but as time went on the gulf widened.

  “I can’t sleep if you’re sitting up reading. Why don’t you go to your own room and leave me in peace?” So it was now her room – not the spare room anymore. Sometimes he would invite her to visit his room, but she was not allowed to invite herself, or to overstay her welcome.

  She finishes her coffee and opens the laptop. Two more chapters and the book will be finished. Another bestseller, she has no doubt. The last five have been extremely successful and her e-book sales are still going through the roof. The market for erotica is as healthy as ever on the internet.

  She has an email from her agent.

  “You’re being translated into Italian. We’ve sold the rights to #3”

  She smiles as she types her reply. “Cool. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  A beep signals a Facebook message; she clicks.

  “Are you ‘live’? I’m ready to help you …”

  Sighing, she looks towards the door beyond which lies the Stairway to Heaven and almost certain disappointment. She chooses the chat window.

  “Good to see you, babe. Chapter 18 – we’re hiding in the broom closet and I’m so cold – warm me up, slowly …”

  Upstairs, her husband snores and rolls over.

  3. Penance

  “This is the one!”

  Christine sighed as she entered the church. She’d been all over town trying to find one with old-fashioned confessionals. The modern face-to-face ones wouldn’t do at all. She couldn’t look into anyone’s eyes as she spoke of her sins – not this time, anyway.

  The interior was dimly lit and furnished traditionally with dark wooden pews. The main altar was flanked by two alcoves housing smaller shrines, honouring Our Lady and the Blessed Sacrament. The once-familiar aroma of incense permeated the atmosphere and Christine inhaled deeply and felt a little less nervous. She made her way to the side of the church where the confessional booths stood and took a seat next to the only other penitent waiting for forgiveness. Easing herself into a kneeling position, she began her preparation by examining her conscience. Not that she needed to. She knew exactly what she had come to confess. At last, it was her turn to go in.

  She knelt with her face close to the grille as the priest spoke.

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit …”

  Christine made the Sign of the Cross and began her confession.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession and these are my sins …” She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “I’m afraid I’ve gone off the rails in the last two weeks, Father. I don’t know if even God can forgive me.”

  Behind the screen, the priest spoke softly.

  “Our Lord is a merciful Father and forgives all our human frailties, my child. Confess your sins and be freed from guilt.”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I think I’ve broken all the commandments in the last two weeks … hang on a minute, I’ll just look at my list.” Rummaging in her handbag she pulled out a notebook. “Ah, here it is. I can’t remember what order they should be in, because I was going through the commandments from memory so I may have them out of sequence.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you deliberately set out to break the Ten Commandmen
ts?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose I did … but some of them were easier than others. Should I just go through my list? Let’s see, I started off with some coveting. I didn’t realise that’s what it was at first. I’d never really ‘coveted’ before, so it was all new to me.”

  “What did you covet?” The priest was fascinated.

  “Oh, yeah, I suppose you need to know. My neighbour had this really nice tablecloth hanging on the washing line and I coveted it, big time, last Monday. Anyway cutting a long story short, when she went shopping, I climbed over the fence and took it. So I guess that’s two for the price of one, isn’t it?”

  “Thou shalt not steal, and thou shalt not covet. Commandments eight and ten. Carry on.”

  “Well, then she came round for coffee and I forgot to hide it. So she said ‘You stole my tablecloth!’ and I said ‘Jesus! It’s only an old rag, for heaven’s sake,’ and she stormed out.”

  “Hmm! Taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain – that’s number three.”

  “Mum rang and asked me to go over and take her shopping and I told her to get lost.”

  “Honour thy Father and thy Mother – number five”

  Christine took out a pen and ticked off the items on her list as she continued.

  “I didn’t make it to Mass on Sunday. So I didn’t keep the Sabbath holy.”

  “Number four – but it doesn’t count if you had a good reason.”

  Christine smiled as she recalled Sunday morning.

  “I’m afraid I was … er … committing adultery, Father. You see, my neighbour’s husband came round to ask me about the tablecloth and er … one thing led to another.”

  “What? That’s number seven, then.” He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “So that’s six down. You can’t really have broken all ten?”

  “I haven’t finished yet. I told the woman at the corner shop that my neighbour was having an affair with the postman.”

  “And is she? No, let me guess – bearing false witness? Number nine. What about the first two? You clearly haven’t lost your faith entirely, so I can’t believe you’ve been worshipping false gods or making graven images?”

  “Um … er … I made a shrine in my bedroom with a bust of Stephen King at the centre, and every night I pray for inspiration. Does that count?”

  “If you insist. Hero worship is a kind of idolatry, I suppose. So you have broken nine commandments.”

  “Only nine? That’s not so bad then.”

  “Bow your head now, and make a good Act of Contrition.”

  “O my God, because You are so good, I am very sorry that I have sinned against You and with the help of Your Grace, I will not sin again.” As Christine said the words she had learned by heart as a child, the priest recited the prayer of absolution.

  “Your sins are forgiven, go in peace and for your penance say three decades of the Rosary.”

  Christine got up from her knees, but turned as she was about to leave.

  “Father, which one did I miss out?”

  “Number six – Thou shalt not kill.”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention that one? I don’t know how I could have forgotten. It was on Thursday …” She returned to her knees.

  4. Memories

  I called you today and got through to your voicemail. I can’t talk to those things, so I thought a quick email to explain would be in order, even though I said I wasn’t going to contact you again. Well, that’s what I said to myself anyway; I don’t think I actually said it to you. I’ve forgotten so much. It was all so insignificant.

  I thought you might have called me back, but … well, you didn’t and I didn’t want to leave things hanging in the air unfinished.

  Oh, wait … you didn’t know I’d called, did you? I didn’t leave a message; silly me! I told you I keep forgetting all the stuff that isn’t important.

  Would you believe, last night I forgot that I gave up smoking two years ago? Yes, I actually forgot and bought cigarettes. When I got home, I realised I didn’t have a lighter. Well, I don’t smoke – so why would I have a lighter? I ended up lighting the cigarettes from the gas cooker. I smoked five that way. Boy! Was my throat sore. That was when I remembered I don’t smoke any more. Scatty, or what?

  Anyway, why am I writing to you? I seem to have gone off the subject a bit. Okay, yes, back to the point. I thought you should know I’m not going to be bothering you any more. In fact, after I’d struggled to remember your name, I realised there’s a whole list of things I’ve completely forgotten. I’m sending it to you as proof that it’s finally over from my side too.

   I’ve forgotten about pizza and cartoons on Friday nights.

   I can’t remember that ghastly after-shave your mother gave you.

   I have no recollection of your weakness for strong coffee (with three sugars).

   Your taste in music escapes me completely. (Hey, did you know Bon Jovi’s touring in March?)

   If I could remember anything, I’d tell you to renew your prescription; you must be running out of Ventolin by now.

   I never even think about the electricity of our first kiss or the ecstasy of lying naked in your arms, or the touch of your hands, or the taste of your body, or the many other joys of our lovemaking.

  You see, I do know it’s over, and I’m okay with that, at last. So, I guess I’m writing to set you free.

  I’m sure there was something else I wanted to say, but right now I’ve forgotten what it was. Perhaps I’ll call you when I remember. (Not that it’s important, or anything.)

  Okay, well, that’s about it from me. Have a nice life.

  Love you lots! (Just a figure of speech – between friends, you know …)

  5. Night School

  Schools are just fine in the daylight. Wide corridors, huge plate glass windows and lots of people; children mostly, but people nonetheless. Around midnight, in winter it’s a totally different matter, but usually no-one’s there to notice.

  George had been head caretaker at Park Road Primary for thirty years. He’d seen a lot of kids and teachers pass through its doors. He loved the place. The work wasn’t too demanding and he had a good team of cleaning staff. He was respected, even loved, by the school community and next year he’d be retiring on a comfortable pension. His savings would pay for a retirement home in a local complex where he would live out his days in peace and maybe write his memoirs. Life was full of promise.

  At nine-thirty on Friday night, George walked through the building, checking all the locks, making sure that his beloved charge was safely tucked up for the night. He set the alarms, locked the outer door and walked across the playground to his house. Free on-site accommodation was a definite advantage.

  The phone woke him just after eleven. It was an automated call from the security console informing him that movement had been detected in the main building. He figured it was probably a glitch in the new system, but he had to check anyway. He pulled on a track suit, slipped his bare feet into his training shoes and sprinted across the yard, letting himself in through a side door and disabling the alarm system. Everything seemed to be in order as he patrolled the corridors, flashlight in hand. He made his way to his office in the basement. The ‘intruder’ light was flashing on the console panel, highlighting the science lab. He switched on the monitors and selected the appropriate camera to view the room.

  “Nothing there,” he muttered. “Bloody motion sensors probably caught a draught or something.”

  Resetting the system, he remembered there was no coffee at home, but there was always some in the staff room. He locked the office and climbed the stairs. The staffroom was next to the science lab, so George tried the door as he was passing. It was unlocked.

  “Uh oh! I must have missed this earlier.” He shivered a little as he took out his keys to rectify his error.

  The moan from inside froze him to the spot. Should he call the police or had he imagined it? Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he keyed in
nine-nine, listening all the time, his thumb hovering, hesitating to make the call. The moaning had stopped, if it had ever been there. Keeping the phone in his hand and cursing himself for leaving the flashlight in his office, he pushed the door open and reached for the light switches to his right.

  The stench of putrefaction assaulted his nostrils at the same moment as the fluorescent lights dazzled his eyes and a piercing scream caused him to spin to the left in search of its source.

  “Amanda?” he whimpered, as his vision cleared and the little girl came into view. “It can’t be!”

  Her once blonde hair was matted with dried blood. Her blue eyes, dull and lifeless, were fixed on George. He wanted to go to her, to hold her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her, but the stench was overpowering, causing him to gag and vomit, emptying the contents of his stomach in a foul stream onto the classroom floor. The child screamed again and George fell to his knees, helpless and hopeless in his desire to reach her. Her arms were reaching out to him, but it seemed that the gap would not be closed. George buried his face in his hands and wept.

  The headlights were coming towards them.

  “He’s on the wrong side of the road.”

  “No, George, we are!! Pull over, I told you to let me drive. For Fuck’s sake, pull over!!”

  “Daddy, Daddy! The truck’s coming at us! Make it stop!”

  He swerved. The truck hit the passenger side. He escaped unhurt, physically.

  He never drank these days; didn’t drive anymore either.

  He raised his head and looked at Amanda.

  “I’m sorry, honey, so sorry.” He reached out to her and felt her ice-cold hand grasp his.

  “It’s okay, Daddy. Mummy and I have been waiting for you.”

  6. Coming Home

  “You’d rather be somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”

  Tom was shaken out of his reverie by the voice from the past, a voice he would recognise anywhere. He turned towards her.

  “Is it that obvious?” She’d hardly changed at all. A little silver was barely noticeable in her dark hair, and the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth were slightly deeper, but she was still a knockout. “Lucy Rogers! You haven’t changed a bit.”