Today is my birthday. I did consider some kind of full-length blog post on the subject, but I am not sure I have much to say beyond that. Life is decent, I am well, so I am posting a regular Friday short story instead. It is birthday themed, and I am very proud of the pun in the title.

As ever, you can see more short stories here, and I hope you like the new one.

Birthday Presence

By Nick Bryan

‘So, how old are you next week, Astrid?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ Astrid looked weary, although perhaps she was putting it on a little. Samantha could never tell. ‘I’m worried this might be the end of my mid-twenties.’

‘No, it’ll be fine!’ Just in case it was a genuine crisis of confidence, Samantha made her voice very concerned. ‘You can say it’s your late-mid-twenties. People will believe you!’

And Astrid laughed. ‘You’re very sweet, Sam, but that sounds too desperate. I don’t really mind. I mean, I’m alive, I’m happy, I have people, I don’t need to desperately cling on to everything.’

‘Oh.’ Sam nodded thoughtfully. That seemed like a good attitude. Fearless. Why couldn’t she be more like that? Not worry so much all the time, or look like a fussing mother hen.

Whilst Sam was hanging back pondering, Astrid stepped fearlessly out to cross the road and was immediately knockd down by a passing motorcyclist. Sam could have taken it as a parable, showing her why it was good to have a little caution sometimes.

But she didn’t see it this way. She just saw it as watching her good friend getting messily run over. If God intended that as a morality play, he was a bastard.

****

It was a week later, and more poignantly, Astrid’s birthday. By midday, Sam had almost risen from bed once, but it had been a false start. She had taken the day off work to celebrate; her flatmate suggested last night that she could go into the office, simply because it might stop her moping.

Enraged, Sam had shouted that Astrid wouldn’t have wanted her to do that, but said flatmate had simply shrugged and said Astrid probably wouldn’t have wanted her to lie in bed feeling shitty all day either.

She had lain there for some time regardless, but this logic had stayed with her. And so, finally, Sam groped around her bedside table until she came across her glasses, then sat up. Her duvet followed.

Her flatmate, Jan, who often dispensed sensible yet brutal advice, also had the bright idea that she take Astrid’s presents to a charity shop. This hadn’t gone down any better.

The funeral was tomorrow. Sam thought it might be nice to hold the funeral on her birthday, eat cake and do the whole “celebrating her life” thing, but Astrid’s family had not agreed. In fact, her characteristically gentle suggestion had ended in being screamed at by a crying mother.

Which had upset Sam a little too. At last, she got up and walked over to the door, intending to make her way slowly to the bathroom and get the day started in her own time. As she emerged from her cave, blinking, she was met with the severe features of housemate Jan, raising her fist to knock on the bedroom door.

‘Hi Samantha,’ Jan waved, not at all comfortably, ‘I was worried you might spend the day wallowing, so I got the afternoon off and came to keep you company.’

‘Oh.’ And after a minute, Sam remembered she never offended anyone. ‘That’s lovely of you, thanks. I’m just going to…’ And she trailed off into a stammer, jabbing her finger at the bathroom.

Once the door had safely closed behind her, enveloped by the smell of clean things, only then did Sam allow herself a couple of small sobs.

****

‘So, do you want to go out for some lunch?’

‘No, thanks very much.’

‘Okay, sure.’

It turns out, Jan’s plan for cheering Sam up amounted to little more than coming home, ushering her into the living room and switching the television on, then making inane suggestions to take her mind off it all. There was cash in the attic, bargains in the basement, probably a deal in the dining room, Sam just didn’t care. But she didn’t want to make Jan feel bad, so stayed put.

And when Jan opened her mouth shortly later, Sam would find herself wishing she’d had the guts to leave long ago.

‘Look, Samantha, I don’t think this is doing you any good. Don’t you want to at least go for a walk? I’m not even saying I have to come with you,’ she hastened, ‘but you should do something. I could make us some food, then we’ll watch a movie?’

This wasn’t going to stop, was it? Sam sighed irritably, not out loud of course, and decided she would have to concede eventually. And this was Jan’s least annoying suggestion so far.

‘Okay, let’s do that.’ She even managed a bright smile and enthusiasm, as she started to leap to her feet. ‘We’ll watch Love Actually! It’s Astrid’s favourite!’

And the grin on Jan’s face froze like death. ‘Oh, do we have to? I hate that thing.’

And she’d been doing so well. Samantha, having successfully risen, turned around and glared down at Jan on the sofa.

‘You were the one who wanted me to do something! It’s Astrid’s birthday and she is dead and I am sad and we’re going to do her stuff.’ That had come out as a long, high-pitched sob. She squeaked in another breath, before turning to leave.

For emphasis, Sam slammed the nearest door, even though she didn’t go through it. That would have left her in the kitchen, and there was nothing to do in there. She’d have ended up pretending she wanted a glass of water, then slinking straight back into the living room, past Jan, to get to the stairs and her bed.

So instead, she’d grabbed the door with an outstretched hand and wrenched it shut. It had flown into its frame with a mighty crash, making them both recoil. Near the door was a shelf of DVDs, attached to the same wall that Sam had just unleashed her fury upon.

The combination of the door rushing home, as well as Sam herself shoulder barging it as she jumped, send a mess of plastic cases falling over themselves. One particular specimen bounced off Sam’s head, provoking a coo of pain, before crashing downwards into Jan’s foot, dangling nonchalantly off the sofa. She clutched it up to herself, swearing less gracefully.

Whilst Jan massaged her toes, Sam picked the DVD up. Without even looking, Jan growled ‘It’s Love Actually, isn’t it?’

Grinning wider than she had for some time, Sam nodded. ‘That’ll teach you to be mean to my dead friend.’

Jan shook her head, still wincing. ‘I don’t think it was Astrid’s ghost that dropped a terrible movie on my foot, Samantha.’

But Sam didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, she put the DVD carefully on the table and headed for the other door.

As she opened it quietly, she nodded calmly but firmly at her flatmate. ‘I am going for a walk now. I believe you have some cooking to do?’

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal it or anything, it’d be a horrible thing to do on my birthday. Requests to use this (or any of the others) elsewhere, or general birthday wishes, can be directed to me by email. And yes, today I become the same age as Astrid would have in the story.

Good morning. Today’s story was inspired by a brief Twitter interaction I had with pleasant authoring chap Nick Harkaway. Do read his book The Gone-Away World, it’s pretty fun.

I would write more pre-amble, but I am quite tired and have to put some trousers on and go to work in a minute. More stories are available. Thank you.

Underground Angels

By Nick Bryan

It was late at night. So late that the train driver had stopped bothering to tell his passengers about the delays. They stopped, started, slowed, and Jemima was seriously regretting staying out so late.

She didn’t even drink, for christ’s sake, so didn’t even have the excuse of being judgment impaired. Usually, she’d have left at a sensible hour. And the one time she didn’t, she was stuck in a metal box. This unsettlingly empty late service, bombing from one end of rural Kent to the other.

It was a little after midnight; where were all the drunks? You could normally rely on late services to contain at least one City Boy trying his best to be subtle as he puked into his briefcase.

But no-one. No-one at all. Jemima thought she spotted a person in the next carriage along, and had half a mind to leap out at the next station and move along. She hated feeling weak, but knew she’d feel better if there was a more innocuous member of the public in her eyeline.

Before she could make that move though, the train came to another juddering halt, minutes before the next station. Jemima had stopped trying to focus her eyes on the outside world long ago, as it was one long mass of black with intermittent flashing lights. But with movement ceased, she stared harder and a texture began to come into focus. It was that a rough stone wall.

And after getting this line a hundred times before, Jemima knew where she was: inside a tunnel. With a few feet of rock between her and the outside world, she waited for the driver to finally say something.

Or the train to move.

Or anything to happen.

For five minutes, this went on. For the first time in her adult life, Jemima considered a sincere tug of the red emergency handle, but that seemed futile. Surely the driver had noticed they were not moving?

Unless, of course, he had suffered a massive heart attack and was now slumped over his levers, choking out his last breath. Well, pulling the communication lever would be equally useless in that scenario.

Finally, she tugged her mobile phone from her pocket. No signal, not a single tiny pixellated bar. It said “Emergency calls only”, but that was merely a teasing afterthought. The mocking remnant of vanished connectivity, hanging in there to remind her that the phone took far too damn long to realise it was dead.

She thrust it away and slumped her head back. Still, at least she didn’t have to worry about personal safety – not when buried under all this stone in an empty carriage. Any potential rapist would need a pneumatic drill, and she didn’t think she was worth all that effort.

So she sat and wished she’d got a book, instead of a tiny handbag containing a mobile phone and some money. Of course, that was when the train caught fire.

Jemima had seen sparks leaping up from the wheels of moving trains before, sometimes as they zapped along at maximum velocity, and other times whilst grinding to a halt. But to her dying day, she didn’t know what happened this time. Maybe something jumped across from the live wire, or trains had moving parts she didn’t know about, even when the whole rig is at a standstill.

Regardless, it started burning at the base of the access door at one end of the carriage. By the time Jemima caught sight of the smoke, the flooring was warmed up, flames licking along underneath her. As the fire began to attack at the end, thick grey licks were wafting in under the main doors in the middle. Maybe it had been burning ever since the train stopped.

Finally, without help, Jemima tugged that red lever. It did absolutely nothing. Either the driver had already fled, or whatever connected the carriage to him had been burnt away. She growled.

So, while she was trying stupid things, she retrieved the mobile phone again. “Emergency calls only” it still declared, with an implied smirk, as surely it wouldn’t work underground? Still, she was now stuck between two advancing flames, and it was either this or hurl herself bodily through the windows. Obviously, that was next.

Quickly, she dialled 999 and waited until this was over with. Her absent signal bars suggested that she should not get her hopes up.

So none were more surprised than Jemima when a friendly male voice answered after a few seconds. ‘Hi there! Last Ditch Emergency Rescue, how may we assist you?’

She wasn’t sure, for a few seconds. So confused was she by the mere presence of the voice, she nearly forgot that she was trapped in a rapidly heating tin can, moments from being oven-roasted to perfection.

But when a bead of sweat formed on her brow, it did come back to her.

‘Hi, yeah, um, I’m in a train near Chislehurst, and it appears to be on fire, so can you… um, help?’

‘Certainly, ma’am.’

The man didn’t ask for any further information, so Jemima decided to inquire instead. ‘Um, who are you? And how am I, you know, talking to you?’

‘Last Ditch, ma’am. Have faith and you shall be saved. You’d be amazed how many people try a hopeful call on their mobiles when they think it’ll never work. Seemed a good market to move into.’

She fell over her words at that, but finally came up with: ‘So this is about religion?’

‘Good lord, no. We pulled a Satanist out of a lake in rural Cornwall once. Nice chap, but strange piercings.’

Jemima wasn’t sure what to say to that. Suddenly, a burly man with a large hosepipe prised the doors open and attacked the fire with extreme prejudice.

Liked this story? Want to steal it and post it somewhere of your own? Please at least email and tell me first. Copyright Nick Bryan 2011, or whatever the cool kids say.

On a suggestion from my Creative Writing MA tutor, I seem to be writing about schools a bit at the moment, and I see no reason you guys should escape. So this is a story about teachers and, yes, it is ridiculous.

However, I sent it to my little sister, an actual primary school teacher, for fact-checking, and she approved it, so there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere. Well, maybe half a grain.

And if you liked this, more small stories are available.

Crayons

by Nick Bryan

Over there! The poster little Liam made! The paints were daubed all over the place, because he hasn’t worked out colouring between the lines. Bless his little cotton motor functions. Maybe one day he’ll re-invent impressionism.

And dangling nearby, Alice’s mobile, I’ve no idea what all that stuff hanging off it is meant to be. Well, except the paper dinosaur, I definitely recognise that. I quite like dinosaurs, you see. I may have suggested it to her.

And the toys, scattered across the room, varying stages of decay. Bite marks, stitched repairs and coloured stains. It was seven at night, and they were by far the most intimidating presence in the reception classroom. They threw shapes across the wall, armless men and half-gutted foam shapes.

Even though it was my classroom and I spend hours every day in here teaching the reception kids, I had to admit, I was unsettled. Partly because of the dark, but mostly because I had no idea what was coming. Miss Dalston had asked me to meet her here, after a prolonged awkward spell.

First, she’d glared at me after I took the last cucumber sandwich that time. It had seemed an intense look, all things considered. After all, there was always cheese and ham. And then I’d re-organised my class’s schedule to book the main hall for a different time. No big deal, I had just gotten sick of five year olds vomiting because P.E. was directly after lunch.

But the secretary, a vacant, constantly-tranquilised woman, had either not noticed it clashed with Miss Dalston’s booking or simply not bothered to tell her. Either way, it had ended in more sharp looks.

Things came to a head this morning, when I spotted one of my kids beating a little girl with a branch he’d torn off a nearby tree. That kind of behaviour would not be tolerated, I’d said. Knocking your fellow students about is not permitted, and nor was vandalising the school scenery. Although he was the kind of pint-sized thug I’d have expected it from, to be frank.

Anyway, he kept protesting, but since he was one of my students, I felt there was no reason not to send him home immediately, pending a curt conversation with his parents concerning not beating other students around with saplings.

Unfortunately, in my disciplinary fervour, I forgot that the child in question had an identical twin. His brother was in Miss Dalston’s class, and it was he whom I had just sent away from school. To be honest, in light of the severity of the offence, I felt my decision remained reasonable anyway.

However, Miss Dalston did not see it that way. Her eyes raked into me as she stormed back from the secretary’s office, no doubt having failed to discern much of use. Since the secretary probably thought the twins were the same child and she was seeing double.

It was lunchtime when a scrap of used receipt appeared in my pigeon hole, a message scrawled on the back. She still had not spoken to me in person about any of this. Apparently I was to meet her in my classroom at seven for “a word”. Seven wasn’t particularly convenient for me, to tell the truth, since school was done by three, but I didn’t want to provoke her any further.

So myself and another, saner, teacher went for a pint to kill a couple of hours. He did suggest that perhaps I’d misconstrued the subliminal messages of her terrifying dark stares. Perhaps she was secretly attracted, and wanted me at school after dark for a thrilling illicit liaison.

When seven o’clock rolled around and the door slowly opened, that option dissolved in moments. There was no sex for me here. There was some disappointment there, but mostly fear. In fact, the only good news was that she was not wielding a knife.

She let the door drop shut behind her, and suddenly I wished I’d been bright enough to turn the light on. The lighting outside may have let me move around freely, but now it was creepy.

‘Hello,’ I waved, stupidly, ‘what did you want to see me about?’

Finally, she replied. ‘I’ve heard that bullying in schools isn’t just for students. I believe you are trying to force me out of here by undermining my authority and stealing my sandwiches.’

Unable to think of a rational response, I stared blankly. Suddenly, I realised that she was weaving through the tables towards me. I tried to keep one of them between us, but it didn’t work.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a handful of crayons shoved into your face, but it’s a horrible experience, not to mention quite waxy. For a moment, I felt myself drowning in bright green slippery gunk, like some garish oil slick.

Fortunately, I was able to grab one of those partially dissected foam cubes and smack it into the side of her face, before rolling to one side, spitting out crayon and impaling my own legs on discarded action toys. Was this how she disciplined the children?

She was also on her feet, whilst I was still swearing on the carpet. I wasn’t sure if I was the bully or the bullied by now, but regardless, I was not enjoying it. I’d been expecting a rude conversation at worst, not a beating. I was left with no choice but to run away, unheroically.

As she picked whiteboard pens from her pocket and threw them like darts, I scrabbled upwards for the door, knocking my head on the side of a table in my haste. This was simply too British for words. Store it up in your mind for weeks, then have a breakdown.

I finally made it out of the classroom, the relief beating in my head and a hurled jack-in-the-box beating against the wall. Outside was a plastic school chair, ropes dangling from its sides and a small knife left near it.

Had someone tied up a child? This was downright strange.

Miss Dalston, a moment later, emerged from the classroom looking dazed and rubbing the rope burns that were suddenly incredibly prominent on her wrists. I just stared, as a small group of police came around a corner, expressions none too sympathetic,

The officer in charge was shouting something about lowering my weapon, and I suppose it did look like I’d been in a fight. Also, one of them said they’d found the child I’d locked in the cleaner’s cupboard.

This was one hell of a set-up. I didn’t think we teachers had this much free time. I was so transfixed that I forgot to release my grip on the foam cube, so one of the policemen shot me with a taser.

Copyright me, don’t steal without emailing, peace in our time, prayers for Japan, hope you are well, etc.

Time for the final part of my slightly childish action trilogy. Next week, I promise I’ll write something thought-provoking about the relationship between a father and son, or whatever the cool writers do. Part one is here, part two here and the original appearance of these characters from last summer is here.

And while you’re here: I might use one or two of these Friday stories for a thing I have to submit writing for. If you have read a few of them in the past, do you have any favourites? Any that particularly stand out? If opinions exist, leave them in the comments below, or email me if you’re shy.

To remind yourself of all the previous stories, you can look at my exciting archives. Anyway, let’s get on with this dramatic ending.

Bombs Away – Part 3

By Nick Bryan

‘Any ideas yet, Ellie?’

‘Why do I have to have the bloody ideas?’

‘Well,’ Edward shrugged, ‘I had one and it isn’t working?’

To emphasise the failure of his only strategy, he banged his iPhone into his fist, failing to spark even a single bar of reception from it.

Eleanor just sighed. She could hear the men with guns advancing from either side. If only she had learned kung-fu, rather than relying on the combat tactic of distracting people with conversation until Edward could punch them in the face.

Alas, she didn’t think that would work here. These people were not confused elderly security guards, they were prepared for all kinds of enemies. Perhaps if she’d worn a more revealing top or had a knife.

Meanwhile, Edward had gotten as far as pulling the battery out of his phone, in order to replace it and restart. So she really was on her own then. Pressed against the back of a large, circular bin, about to get arrested by anonymous men in black.

And Edward and Eleanor didn’t have magical powers, nor were they aliens, so she doubted they would be taken to a secret base and anally probed. More likely, they’d just be executed on the spot for being inconvenient.

In a slight panic, she glanced at the floor. Not only could she see the shadows of their pursuers about to move into her eyeline, she also spotted the cable that had been clipped to Edward during his rubbish-diving adventure. It wasn’t much, she thought, but she could probably do something with it.

One end was still attached to the wall of the warehouse. So, dragging Edward with her by the arm, she managed to clip the other onto the huge towering bin that they cowered behind. For ease of emptying and transportation, all the bins were on wheels. The brakes were on, but as luck would have it, the pedal was right next to her.

Having set the wheels free, the rope in one hand and her husband suspended from the other, Eleanor pulled the bin backwards, getting it rolling between her and the men with guns.

It was a bold move, but one that worked perfectly for a few seconds, at least, until the huge weight became too much for her to pull along by herself, especially with the rope pulling in one direction and the weight of Edward tugging in another.

Finally, Eleanor stumbled over her feet, the rumbling sound grew louder and she fell downwards. The bin rattled away, picking up speed with no brakes, and for a few seconds there was a clear line of sight between the cats and the mice. She really thought that might be it.

But even the slowing of time whilst Eleanor waited to be shot couldn’t stop the moving bin smashing hard into another. Namely the one containing the bomb. Even Edward, his phone finally back on, looked up in horror.

All he could muster in time was ‘shit Ellie it’s going to’, before both of them began to fall over. The two men from the security services dived for cover, but Edward and Eleanor only had time to leap into each other’s arms on the ground, as the rubbish spilled out with an almighty clang.

Everyone was ready for an explosion that would kill the lot of them, but it never came. And, helpfully, the archaeologists were still upright, whilst the government men quivered on the floor.

Finally taking control of the situation, Edward grabbed Eleanor’s arm, taking her with him as he leapt over the spilled waste. He glanced at his phone, and murmured briefly to his wife that ‘worryingly, that bomb might be better made than I thought,’ before punching at the touchscreen.

The armed interlopers had almost gotten themselves up and in pursuit, but Edward and Eleanor were well clear by now. And, finally, there was a short silence, followed by an almighty bang as the garbage exploded. Metal and plastic shrapnel flew in any direction, but Edward had already pointed them both at the floor.

All that remained was a ringing in their ears. Slowly, they sat upright, shaking their heads, until Eleanor broke the silence by looking at her phone.

‘Edward, you sent me a text just now saying “Good evening, dear”? Was that really the best time?’

‘No, no,’ Edward nodded cheerfully, ‘that’s what set off the bomb. I thought it might have some kind of mobile phone detonator. One so terribly made that I could set it off just by texting nearby.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Bloody well done, Edward. You get a raise.’

She leapt up and dusted herself off. ‘Now, best get out of here before anyone comes looking for those two.’

Quickly, they squeezed through the gates. Eleanor considered whether they needed to cover their exit, but with the charred plastic, loud explosion and scattered body parts of government agents, it was a little redundant.

Edward, meanwhile, was checking the pulse of the security guard they’d knocked out. ‘Good, he seems fine,’ he observed, seeming genuinely relieved, ‘it’d have been sad if he’d been blown up.’

‘I suppose so, honey,’ Eleanor shook her head, before sweeping to the car. ‘We must try and make ourselves scarce now, I don’t think I’d do well in prison.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Edward sighed. ‘This was quite exciting, at least.’

She glared at him. ‘For that, you pay for dinner.’

‘Oh, Ellie. You know I’ll just charge it to the joint account again.’

And so they drove on their merry way, another adventure complete.

This disclaimer feels more redundant every time I type it, but don’t steal, copyright me, email me and mention it if you want to use these anywhere for whatever reason. And don’t forget to comment with your favourites! (If you have favourites.)

Last week, I posted the first part of my attempt at a big, not-very-serious action adventure featuring some characters from one of my first few Friday stories. This week, the story continues. I’m not sure I can say much more.

Oh yes: More stories are available if you finish this sequence and want more.

Bombs Away – Part 2

By Nick Bryan

Things looked bleak for Edward. After all, he was trapped in a large, hollow bin, alongside a ticking bomb. But he’d been in worse situations, for example he had once been locked in a cage alongside a sleeping tiger with diarrhoea.

So this wasn’t the time to sit there, flashing his life before his eyes and worrying about telling his wife he loved her. After all, she was right there on the radio, shrieking at him to “stop gawping and get a bloody move on”, so that was un-necessary.

It was now certain: the bomb in question was no elderly relic. Which meant he didn’t need to remove it in one piece, or touch it at all. It looked like it had been constructed by a terrorist last week, and they could hardly sell it to law enforcement for money. They would be laughed at, then arrested.

So Edward’s only concern was escape. He pulled his rope tight, aiming not to disturb any more of the assorted junk. He had successfully clanked his way down here without setting the bomb off; it should be possible to put this motion into reverse.

His foot braced against the side, and he lifted himself clear of the dirt.

‘Edward!’ Eleanor’s ever-patient voice appeared to berate his lack of momentum. ‘What’s going on in there?’

‘Busy, honey!’ He took another step. ‘Talk soon!’

Edward was now suspended by thick cable above an array of electronic crap and a shoddily constructed explosive. He had been in much the same situation earlier, of course, but not knowing had made it somehow better.

Glancing at the bomb again, the solder was still damp, wires stuck out all over the place and was that something leaking? He had no idea how it was triggered; no sign of a countdown clock to give him a deadline. Maybe someone had to send a text message.

Nonetheless, he wanted to get away from the thing, because it looked like it could go off at any second, just because. He took a few more steps up the side, before his foot almost slipped on some oily stain. Fortunately, his grip tightened in surprise, rather than giving up, so he remained in place, swaying back and forth until he trusted himself to stamp back onto the edge. He knew he should have taken that correspondence course in defusing explosives, it would’ve come in useful eventually.

Although, he comforted himself, the technical learnings would have been useless when confronted with such a amateurish effort.

Forgetting such things, he clambered a few steps higher. Next time, he thought, his wife could do the hard labour. Still, he was nearly at the rim now, nothing had gone bang, his cable was holding. All he had to do was look over the top and then Eleanor would…

Actually, why was his wife being so silent?

‘Ellie?’ He tapped his headset. ‘You’re quiet, what’s happening?’

No response. Returning his free hand to its position on the rope, he hauled one more time, and his head popped over the top. To his slight alarm, there was a man in a crumpled suit holding a gun to his wife’s head. She wasn’t crying, just looking rather cross.

Her radio headset was in his other hand. Edward glanced around, but didn’t see any sign of a full on stake-out. Was this the police?

‘Security services,’ the suited man called out helpfully. ‘Get out of that trash can and place all your equipment on the ground.’

‘Look,’ Eleanor sighed impatiently, ‘we’re archaeologists, not terrorists, we thought it was a…’

‘I don’t care,’ he sneered, and he really seemed not to, ‘just get down here.’

Someone else slid out of the shadows and trained a gun on Edward. Fucking hell, he thought, authentic men in black? He was just a normal bloke trying to earn a living, was this fair?

Nonetheless, they were armed and he was one chap dangling from a rope – hardly in a position to act superior. With a gentle slide, he lowered himself to the ground. Kicking the bin now would only be asking for trouble.

Finally, he let go, and unclipped his harness, letting it fall to the ground. He didn’t carry a gun, because the legalities involved were simply too tedious. So, raising his hands simply above his head, Edward took a few steps towards his waiting public.

‘I’m telling you,’ Eleanor was insisting, ‘we’re only here for the money.’

‘With that accent,’ the man in black smirked, ‘I doubt you need the funds.’

‘Oh, you’re right darling,’ she scowled at him, ‘if only I’d worked down the mines for a few years and leant the real value of money.’

All told, Edward wasn’t sure this was the best approach when threatened with a firearm, but it got both men looking at her. Taking a deep breath, he jumped for the nearest huge bin that didn’t contain an explosive. As his two attempted captors spun around, ricocheting a bullet off the one containing the bomb, he disappeared behind his large metal cylinder of choice.

Seconds later, his wife joined him, which gave him a small start.

‘How did you escape from those two?’

She grinned. ‘They weren’t looking. And it seems they’re quite slow.’

‘Well, there’s two of them, so they’ll probably be coming round both sides of this thing soon.’ He wasn’t entirely focused on her by this point, as he’d pulled his mobile from a pocket and started tapping it urgently.

‘Well, shouldn’t we do something?’

‘I had a plan,’ Edward muttered, ‘but it revolved around sending a text message.’

‘Whoever are you texting at a time like…’ She cut herself off. ‘Actually, I don’t care, just do it.’

‘I…’ He swore. ‘My iPhone’s lost reception. Okay, we’re fucked.’

TO BE CONTINUED

Next week, the last part of this story. Then maybe something a bit more conversational and less explodey. In the meantime, copyright me, no stealing, email me for authorised stealing, etcetera. Usual sort of thing.