Accord.

The river pawed at him, its great, greedy fists pummelling, pulling him away from the shore. When he finished sawing at the straps with his dagger both armour and blade were swept away into the churning water. It felt as though he was being spat upwards as his frantic clawing was finally repaid. He hauled himself onto the bank and lay there, suddenly shivering and shaking, aware just how cold he actually was as the brisk wind buffeted his quivering body.

"Charles?" The voice exploded trees filled with birds in his head.

"Steady, sirrah!" Charles said, spitting the last of the water from his mouth in the process. "My men are close behind me and, on my word, will treat harshly with you."

"Hah!" the voice replied. "I have a veteran company ready to fall upon you at my single word."

Charles recognised the voice now. "What single word? Charlatan? Liar? Thief?"

There was a sigh. "So it is you, Charles. Do come a little closer. I can barely see you from here."

"What sort of fool do you take me for, Henry?" Charles asked. "Do you really-"

"It's is drier here, and sheltered, somewhat, from the wind," Henry said. "Don't be a ninny."

Charles, aided in no small part by his bull-headed nature, stood and after teetering on his feet a while, took step after shaky step towards the voice. He moved, slowly and deliberately, from the riverbank to a small copse of trees not far from the water. The owner of the voice lay here with his back against the trunk of a tree and his hand pressed to his side, ineffectually staying the flow of blood that soaked his shirt.

Charles slumped to the ground, opposite. "Is it bad?" he asked.

Henry raised his hand to show the bloody palm, but winced and quickly pressed it back again. "Bad enough."

Charles snorted. "But for your trickery, I might have laid a heavier blow myself and decided the matter for sure."

"But for your stupidity," Henry replied, "you might not have charged your cavalry across a bog."

"It was green grass, as far as anyone could tell," Charles said.

"Aye, and a bog it became, after the previous week's rain and your horses churning it to mud at a gallop."

Charles snorted again. Then, after a while, he asked. "So... you won the day then?"

Henry raised his bloody palm anew and laughed. "Hard to say. The day is not yet done, but I may be."

"Pah, it'll take more than that paltry nick to finish you, Henry."

"While I value your opinion, I... well, anyway... there was another matter."

"Speak your mind," Charles said. "I welcome the distraction after this debacle."

"Quite," Henry replied. "I just wondered whether I should have sent young Catherine some token last week."

"It was her birthday." Charles shrugged. "Despite our disagreement, she is still your niece. Oh, she is with child."

"That young dolt finally figured out what he was doing then?" They both laughed.

"You're quite the favourite uncle, you know," Charles said. "She became ever so cross when I told her I intended to have your head."

"Sweet child," Henry said. "And such a doting daughter for thinking you capable of achieving the deed."

"I could yet..." Charles slapped at his empty scabbard. "If I only..."

"Why not come over here and finish me off with your bare hands?" Henry asked. "As father would have."

Charles barked a laugh. "With his bare hands? Why the merest glance would have shrivelled you to ash, the way he told it. Anyway, it would be undignified. Suppose we were to be found out, rolling around here, attempting to slap and pinch the life from each other? It wouldn't do."

Henry nodded his agreement. "You know, of course, who will benefit most from this? Your man, Le Croix. I expect he is already back at your castle, digging your grave."

"As if Penningham will let this opportunity go to waste," Charles said. "You may hope to leak away completely from that pinprick, for you can be sure he will squeeze some advantage from whatever else is left."

"He is an ambitious man," Henry agreed.

"As is Le Croix," Charles acknowledged.

The wind howled over the river. The sounds of battle were distant now, and growing quieter as the sky darkened.

"I shall be going now," Charles said. He stood and stretched, shook the blood back into his limbs and turned away.

He had walked just a few yards when he heard: "Stop, Charles. Lend your brother some assistance."

Charles sighed. He retraced his steps, then went over to his brother and helped him to his feet, choosing not to comment on the pained grunts he heard as he hauled the other upright.

"You know, brother," Henry said, "much of the trouble between us would be settled if you were to wrest Penningham's estates away."

"I expect so," Charles said. "And I fancy you might help me with that, in exchange for some land on my western borders."

"I expect so," Henry echoed.

With their arms about each other they made slow progress away from the river.

"Doesn't Le Croix have his lands on your western border?" Henry asked.

"Do shut up, brother."

Sung.

Ruth didn't want to brush the tear from her eye, afraid it would attract the attention of her other sister. Miriam was holding court in the centre of the trailer, looking so slim and elegant in her tailored black jacket and skirt. It wasn't supposed to be about her coming back with her stories about offices and pensions.

Vladimir, Ruth's husband appeared by the chair she was sat upon and swapped her tea for a fresh cup. His hand reached out and stroked her hair, and with sleight of hand that would have pleased his father he rubbed the salty tear off her cheek. He looked so handsome in his black tails. They exchanged sad smiles before he slipped back into the crowd. She took a sip from the cup. It was far too sweet again, but she so appreciated the gesture.

"Sorry for your loss, Ruthie." she clasped the long bony hand that was offered to her. Poor Marco, forced to stoop inside the confines of the trailer. Such a sweet young man, but already he had to use a cane to support his frame.

Vladimir returned, set a plate of buns on the arm of her chair, squeezed her hand and was away. He had spoken such beautiful words about her sister. His rasping accent painting an aching portrayal of her love for live, love for her friends and for her work.

Lolo and Bolo both tried to hug her at once, bounced off each other and settled for patting her shoulders, an arm around each other's waist. Sad, nonsense words burbled from their quivering lips and their beady eyes in their tiny heads looked so miserable, though they probably didn't quite grasp what was going on. They knew their friend Ruthie was unhappy, so they were unhappy.

Vladimir came and steered them away, gently shoving them towards Miriam, who he knew detested them. He handed Ruth a heaped plate of biscuits. With her free hand she pulled his head down to kiss him on the check, making him wriggle. He put his hand over her hand, pulling himself free, fingers trailing off against her fingers until just their tips were touching and then he was gone again.

"She was a fine, fine woman." Henry's eyes were level with her own and she recognised the moist redness of genuine grief. There had always been stories, rumours about Henry and her sister. He was a decent man, but she wished they had been more open. People would have been happy for them. The opportunity to be a couple was lost for fear of ridicule. Faint heart.

Vladimir reached down to rest a hand against Henry's back, exchanging a silent nod of understanding with him. With his other hand he placed a plate bearing a whole coffee cake on Ruth's lap.

Ruth looked at the cake, stared intently at it for several long seconds. Her whole upper body fell forward, curled into a ball of sobs, her beard bunching in the the cream topping of the cake. She stood suddenly, sending the plate to the floor and the cake with it. She swept biscuits and buns after them, charging through the mourners to collide in a desperate hug with her sister Miriam, who stared daggers over her shoulder at Vladimir.

Her husband started towards her, but Henry's grasp on his coat tail stopped him short.

"Give her a minute," Henry said. "We've all taken Two Ton... I mean... Tessa's death pretty hard" He looked at the pile of food on the floor. "But you have to remember, Vladimir, there's no getting her back."

oh no doctor lies

He threw out his chest, tossed his unruly mane of blond hair and roared, "No, Doctor Lies, YOU are mistaken! Do you think I am so easily duped? I, who saw through the String-Tingler's insidious plot to replace the world's currency with blood-sucking mimics? Do you think I will be so easily defeated?  I, who single-handedly stopped a swarm of meteors from crashing into the earth and destroying all of civilization? When there wasn't even anything WRONG with my other hand! Do you think I will crumble under the pressure? I, who so silently, and with admirable nobility, bore the heartache of my lover's betrayal with Maximus Slime, the details of which you can read in my best-selling autobiography? Oh no, Doctor Lies, inform your wicked plan that it has a mighty foiling in ITS future!"

The man behind the desk pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Captain Awesome, first of all it's 'Doctor Silverman'. Secondly, I really appreciate your positive attitude, and believe me it will be a boon in the coming months, but the tests are conclusive. I'm afraid it's definitely cancer."

Snap.

As Alice pushed her battered tartan shopping trolley towards the mall she watched a child playing hopscotch in the distance. The blonde girl, in her red duffel coat reminded the old woman of Little Red Riding hood.

Sitting on a low wall, bordering the car park, was a young man who must be her father. The little girl would throw her stone, then hop, skip and jump the course, running to hug her father's leg when she succeeded and letting him lift her onto his knee and bury his face in her neck when she failed, kissing and snuffling and sending her squealing back to the course.

Drawing nearer, Alice could see the toy shop carrier bag next to the man's foot, and next to that the discarded MacDonald's wrappers, stacked ready for the bin. The man looked at his watch, and though she was still too far away to hear it, Alice sensed how wistfully he sighed as he called his child over for another hug, just because.

He caught Alice's looking at him, chin resting on the little girl's head and he gave the old lady a shy smile.

When she was level with him Alice looked at the hop scotch course the little girl had drawn on the paving slabs. Each chalk line neatly intersecting the middle of the block's edge. With every hop and jump the little girl's feet landed where the corners of four blocks met.

"Oh, love, doesn't she know?" she asked the man. "Step on a crack-"

"She knows," he replied. "She won't let me draw it any other way."

Late Shopping

He stopped in the doorway, fearful of entering. Early sixties, tall and broad, dressed in a heavy great coat over a smart suit and shiny black shoes. He brushed the dazzle from his eyes and inched forward into the shop.

It all looked so delicate, so precious, so perilously balanced on the tiered glass shelves.

“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice.

Pretty, mid twenties, dressed in a plain blouse and knee length skirt, she stood in front of the counter. Behind the counter stood a thin, angular man, arms folded across his chest, coolly weighing up the prospective customer, sneer barely disguised.

“I want to buy a vase. It’s for my wife... I’ve left it to the last minute, as usual.”

“Everything we have is on display,” the man behind the counter said, sweeping a finger in front of him.

The young woman tutted. She took the old man by the elbow, carefully leading him on a circuit of the shop, pointing out thin stemmed crystal, twisted metal and stark ceramic vases every few feet.

They arrived back at the counter.

“Did you see anything you think she’d like?” she asked.

“It’s all very nice, but I was hoping for something more colourful. Something, brighter?”

“There’s a pound store-”

The girl interrupted the man behind the counter. “I think we might have something in the back.”

“We certainly-”

“The old stock that was here when he took over,” she reminded him. She vanished into the back and returned with a brightly coloured pottery vase.

The old man’s face lit up. “Oh that looks perfect. She loves bright things. How much is that?”

“Forty pounds!” the man behind the counter said.

She shot a glance over at him. “It’s old stock. You’re doing us a favour by taking it off our hands. No charge. Special offer, today only.” She smiled at the old gentleman.

The thin man reached out to pull the vase from the girl’s hands. “At least let me wrap it up. Christ knows, I don’t want anyone seeing you leave here with that.”

As the old man was about to leave, the wrapped vase in a carrier bag in his hand, he turned and said, “Thank you. Thank you, both, very much. I was ever so afraid I’d left it too late, but I promised her I wouldn’t let them put her in a plain old urn.”

Twenty Seven and One Quarter Inches.

On that particular night I was closer than ever to giving up my volunteer job at the homeless shelter.It was hot out, hotter inside and the smell of stewed vegetables combined with the sweat and alcohol fumes coming from the clientèle had my stomach turning somersaults.

My initial enthusiasm and romantic notions had long since abandoned me, nudged off the sofa by the fat-assed dichotomy of monotony on the one hand, and the constant threat of violence on the other. We have no truck with the gallant knights of the road, those picaresque rogues with their tall tales and hearts of gold. They do not exist. Instead we deal daily with the psychotic, the miserable, those who have slipped through the cracks and those who use the cracks for cover. The drug addicts, the delusional, those who hear the whispering and those who whisper.

It's not much fun.

Ben "Lost Dog" Burling is one of the quiet ones and reputedly harmless. Scarecrow hair, scrawny body buried under multiple layers of patched clothing, his boots are as scuffed and worn as his grimy, tanned face. He approached the line, a plate in one shivering hand, a twist of trailing string wrapped around the other.

"Still no sign of your dog, then?" I joked, just as I'd joked with him every Tuesday for the last two months. The frayed end of the piece of string hung limp from his hand, quivering slightly as his decrepit body shook.

He mumbled something in reply. I reached out for the piece of string. "Why not give me that to look after while you get some grub in you."

He snatched the string away, the plate slipped from his other hand, smashing on the floor. "No!" he screamed. "I mustn't let go or the world will get away. Where will we go?"

The supervisor, Gloria, pushed past me, waving her arms to keep everyone away from the broken shards of plate. The glance she assaulted me with told me squarely who she blamed for this calamity.

But there was worse to come as from the line Doug Catterly decided he had to help me. He was one of the worst of the creeps, fawning and obsequious, bubbling enthusiasm that swiftly turned to frustration and rage. He'd taken it into his head to help me with the recalcitrant Burling, grabbed the old man by the scruff of his jackets as he tugged and pulled at the string wrapped round the old man's hand.

Gloria looked at them, tutting as though they were children, but I could see old Ben's fingers squashed together as the string tightened on them. I rushed to his aid, grabbed at Catterly's arm and instantly remembered the warning from my first day's training. Never touch anyone. The results can be unpredictable. Spectacularly so.

Catterly had the strangest look on his face now. I dropped his arm and pointedly turned away, helping old Ben up from where he had fallen. The piece of string was no longer in his hand and there were tears in his eyes.

I turned to Doug and said, "Give him back his string. He's only an old man."

Catterly shook his head. "I must not let go or the world will get away."

Confused, I turned to look at old Ben, staring at his reflection in a darkened window, hands on his hair, on his beard, looking at himself as if for the first time in decades.

Loopy

I was in the park buying an ice cream when he approached me.

"Excuse me, my good man, might I interest you in an aeronautical display?"

He was in his seventies at least, a little stick of a man, dressed in an over-sized world war two RAF uniform, complete with leather skullcap and goggles. A white silk scarf, wrapped around his neck, completed the ensemble.

I didn't say anything at first, craning to look behind him. He could see what was troubling me.

"They won't let me have a plane any more. Not since the incident with the Germans."

"You were in the war?" I asked.

"No..." he said. "What do you say? A ten minute aeronautical display. Only five pounds!"

I looked through the change I'd received after buying my ice cream. "I'll give you a quid."

"I used to get a thousand pounds a performance you know," he said.

"You used to have a plane," I retorted.

"Very well," he said in a dejected tone. "But you get five minutes and no loop the loop."

"Agreed!"

He began by running a hundred yards back and forth in front of me, humming engine noises, with his hands on an imaginary joystick, the left occasionally working the throttle. Then he was twisting off to the right in a lazy turn that gradually became a graceful figure of eight.

And so it went on, with him at one point rolling on his side along the ground, before leaping back to his feet, looking very spry for a man of his age, and running two hundred yards directly away from me, turning and running back at me as fast as he could manage. Before he barreled into me he stopped, hunkered down, wrapping his arms around his legs before throwing himself backwards, ankles over head. Once again he leaped back to his feet, then sauntered casually back over to me.

He pulled his monocle out, winked at me, then replaced it. "I threw in that last loop for free."

I fished the one pound coin out of my pocket and placed it onto his outstretched palm. He wrapped his fingers about it, placed his fist to his forehead in a salute, then stashed the coin in his puffy trousers.

"Well, young man, what did you think?"

I wasn't sure what I thought, but what I said was, "I've never seen anything like it. Can I offer a suggestion?"

"Of course you can, young sir. I value customer feedback."

"When you're running around like that you should stick your arms out, like they were wings."

"Wings?" he exclaimed, his monocle popping out. "My dear boy, I wouldn't wish to appear foolish."