Not quite sure where this one came from but I think my Facebook post pretty much covers it.

The sleeper

  My name is Paul Harrison

  I’m a creature of habit.  You should know that about me.  I get up at 6.45 every morning.  No snooze button.  What’s the point of purposely disturbing your sleep when you can get more going straight through?  I put on my dressing gown, have breakfast, brush my teeth, get dressed drive to work (at Lester, Lester, Grout & Lester, the accountants), actually do some work, have dinner while keeping up-to-date with all the changes in the high-flying world of accountancy, work some more, come home have dinner watch my television shows (or TV if you prefer!) shower, cover myself in baby oil, masturbate, shower again, get my jammies on and am asleep by 10:10, usually.

  That’s my routine.

  Nothing disturbs it.

  Ever.

  I like that.

10:21.

  I open my eyes.  My boss (Grout jnr) is slumped at his desk.  A neat round bullet hole sits Squarely in the middle of his forehead.  It seems to be in direct contrast to the gigantic fragmented hole in the blinds and window behind which are matted with everything that contained Mr Grout junior’s consciousness.  The blood, assorted brain matter and skull fragments which are currently coating the blinds behind my former boss resemble a gory children’s collage.  In life he was an awful man, a bully and a sweaty liability who had three out-of-court settlements for sexual harassment on his CV, but, as we’re supposed to say nice things only about the dead I suppose I should say something pleasant myself and obey the convention ...He always had a perfectly trimmed moustache.  

  There are screams from behind me.  I hear them as if far off.  Must have been the noise of the shot.  Yes, I definitely have some ringing in my ears.  As I move my head to shake off the noise I catch a glimpse of my hands.  The gun rests neatly in them.  There’s a small amount of blood there as well.  How the hell did that get there?  The screaming is getting louder now.  I turn to face it and try to calm everyone down but they merely duck down and scream some more.  Oh, of course, the gun.  I drop it to the floor and head out of the office walking past Mr Grout senior and one of the Lester’s, in my current state I couldn’t tell you which one.  I need to get my head together and work out what happened?  

  As I walk down the central aisle to the elevators people try and speak to me.  I see their mouths move but it’s a far-off noise like the screams.  I press the button and wait for it to come, and wait and try to figure out what happened and wait and try and figure ...and wait ..and try ...and wait ...

12:35

  I open my eyes and immediately wish I hadn’t.  I’m outside my work building now.  London may have the Gherkin and of course it gets all the headlines, but here we have the pepper, a three sectioned whole that’s a bit of midget at 20 storeys.  Designed with a slant as a supposed deterrent to suicides, that’s the idea anyway, I think for many of my colleagues inside they see the building as more of a reason to actually commit suicide, but I digress.  Due to the curved nature of the building it means that the usual lowered boxes method of cleaning windows is undoable.  Therefore they have these bars, while I say a bar, it’s four-bar horizontal that you can walk on, three lots of them, this is what the window-cleaners click their harnesses to.  It’s also what I’m holding on, like my life depends.  

  The metal bars are hard to hold onto and as my legs flail in the air I can recognise without sight that I am about fifteen storeys up.  I hold on tight to the bars ledge and wonder how the hell I got here from my late boss’ office.  A few feet away a man is trying to help me by holding an outstretched hand.  I reach mine up so he can pull me back inside.  The wind up here even on a sunny day is noticeable even if you’re indoors.  Why was I out on the ledge in the first place?  

  He’s reaching over, his face a picture of fear as he holds onto the window frame with his left hand and stretches out with his right.  I wrap my right arm round all the bars and grip hard, stretching out as far as my left will let me.  I’m about a foot away.  I thrust myself up so my body rests on the bars and I get a further six inches nearer.  Stretching further I get two more inches and then another inch.  The bar makes a yawl and a squeak that is never good and the bar that holds one side of the bars sends me dropping about twenty feet.  I close my eyes and wonder if I’ll be able to get inside, in where it’s safe ...Back inside ...In where it’s ...back.

16:30

  I open my eyes.  I’m at the bank.  The counters and general ambience tell me that immediately.  The various people looking down on the ground in tears is not a good sign today though.  There is no-one behind the counter they’re all in front of it.  The other worrying thing are the five people with bombs attached to them.  They are also in tears.  As I look in my hand I can see why?  I’m holding a hand-trigger device.  If I let go the pressure will trigger the bombs going off.  What have I done now?  Today I’ve killed a man, nearly got another killed and now am holding five people hostage.  What kind of bastard have I become in the space of one day?  I was a creature of habit and yet look at me now.  What the hell has happened to me?  The only question I’m left with as people tremble at the sight of me is can I live with it a moment longer?  And the answer is no.  I look out of the glass doors and can see police cars waiting outside, presumably for me.  I head for the door and there are a number of screams.  Why are they trying to stop me from giving myself up?  I hear footfalls of someone running behind me.  I’m not trying to flee the scene merely stop the monster in his tracks that has taken over this suit I wear.  I break into a sprint to the door and head out into the glorious sunshine.  Whoever was behind me has stopped in their tracks and is screaming at me.  I open my arms and wait for the bullets to fly and save me from the evil that courses through my ever fibre at the moment ...

  “Hello, Paul,” said the Doctor.

  Paul opened his eyes.  He wasn’t dead.  He was in hospital.  There was a policeman at the door.  No doubt he’d been arrested by now.  He looked down at his wrists and was surprised to see that no handcuffs were attaching him to the bed.  Paul pushed himself up, even more confused than he had been all day.  

  “Where am I?” he asked.  Although the answer seemed obvious he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “You’re at Saint Grimshaw’s Royal hospital,” replied the Doctor.  “I expect you’re feeling quite confused about everything that’s happened today.”

  “Just a little,” said Paul.  as the buzzing in his head was hurting his eyes and grating against his throat.

  “I’m not surprised.  You are quite the unique individual.  It’s not everyday that one discovers a new disorder,” the Doctor smiled as he flicked over the details.  “At least that’s what we think it is.  Just need to run through a few questions first.”

  “A new disorder?” asked Paul.  The buzzing in his head was growing almost incessant now .

  “Yes, seemingly,” said the Doctor, consulting his chart, the smile still not leaving his face.  “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure,” Paul continued, clasping his forehead.

  “Is your job quite boring?” asked the Doctor.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say boring...” replied Paul.

  “Good, good, good,” said the Doctor.  “Would you say that you could do your job without really much effort?”

  “Well, I do put some effort to erm...” Paul replied.

  “Right, right, right,” the Doctor went on, while making further notes on his chart.  “And finally would you say your life is quite routine?”

  “Yes,” replied Paul.  “Definitely.”

  “Splendid, splendid, splendid,” said the Doctor.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” asked Paul as the buzzing was now so bad he wanted to send a toilet brush into his ears.

  “I take it today has seemed like an episodic nightmare for you?” said the Doctor, finally putting his notes down.

  “Yes,” said Paul.  “I don’t know what’s been going on?  I seem to wake up in these nightmare moments that don’t seem make any sense.  At the bank when I came to and saw the trigger I just, I just don’t know how I got there?”

  “All seem chaotic and disjointed?” asked the Doctor.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “There is a reason for that,” said the Doctor.  “You seem to be suffering from inverted narcolepsy.”

  “Inverted narcolepsy?” asked Paul.

  “Yes,” replied the Doctor.  “It would appear that the routine of your life has created a situation where you’ve been wandering through your day-to-day activities in a largely unconscious state, said routine creating little reason for your conscious self to ever ...Wake-up as it were.  Today during these truly horrifying moments your conscious self has woken up in order to protect you.”

  “But what was I doing at these moments today?”

  “Nothing,” said the Doctor.

  “Nothing?” asked Paul.

  “Nothing.”

  “But my boss,” said Paul.

  “Your boss was about to be arrested for embezzlement,” the Doctor continued.  “He pulled a gun and was going to kill you.  Upon seeing his father and another partner outside he knew the game was up and so turned the gun on himself.  After he shot himself the kick-back from the blast threw the gun to you and you caught it.”

  “Oh,” said Paul as his brain throbbed from what, he still wasn’t sure.  “And the window ledge?”

  “Ah, well there was a man on the ledge trying to kill himself,” the Doctor explained.  “In your unconscious state you didn’t recognise the danger and so went out to bring him back in, slipped and that’s when you woke-up again ...as it were.  The man who was trying to help you was the one who you tried to save.  When the bars broke the people at a lower window pulled you in, when the danger was over you lapsed back into your unconscious state.”

  “And the bank?”

  “It was being robbed, you walked passed the police ring oblivious and when you went in knocked the device out of one of the robbers hands and then picked it up.  It had a five second trigger and the robbers realised that if you dropped it with all the explosives they had packed on the hostages then the explosion would’ve taken them with it.”

  “So why does my head hurt now then?” Paul asked.

  “We’ve given you some anti-psychotics that should allow your conscious mind to take over again,” the Doctor began.  “It may cause some discomfort and you’ll need to take about eight or nine a day, but that should cure the inverted narcolepsy and allow your consciousness to re-assert itself.”

  “And what if I don’t want that?” said Paul.

  “Excuse me,” said the Doctor.

  “What if I don’t want it cured?” Paul asked again.

  “Why would you not want it cured?” asked the Doctor.

  “Doc, it hurts.  I’m a creature of habit.  I don’t need to know what is happening.  Most of the time I don’t care to really think about what I do.  And if this pain in my head is the price I pay, then to be honest ...I’ll stick with my unconscious self doing everything with the occasional moment of clarity when needed,” Paul replied.

  “You serious?” asked the Doctor, not really believing what he was hearing.

  “Deadly,” Paul responded.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” the Doctor said.  “Well the medication you’ve been given should wear off in about two hours and then you’ll be back to normal, if that is what you wish?”

  “It is,” said Paul with a smile.

  “Very well,” said the Doctor before holding his hand out.  “Good luck then, Mister Harrison.”

  Paul shook the Doctor’s hand vigorously.

  “You too.”

  In a few short hours Paul knew that he’d be back to his usual unconscious self and clarity and awareness would slip away and routine and normality would be restored.

20:41

  I open my eyes.  The woman behind the counter is jumping upside down excitedly.  The woman next to me is smiling joyfully.  The lottery machine is ringing with the number eight hundred and fifty thousand flashing on it.

  After the day I’ve had I’m not gonna worry.  It’s probably not even my ticket.

Fin.


For those new to the blog please feel free to check out the previous posts, short stories, forgotten film assessments and various other things.  Also I would like to point out that my first book FREE AT LAST: A NOVEL by MIKE LAMBERT & ZOE LAMBERT is still available on Amazon Kindle for £2.09.

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Kitchen Sink Drama

The powder in the back rooms floated in the air like unwanted magic as the brushes whisked just as much into the atmosphere as it did onto the actresses faces.  The make-up artists worked their craft with a fury, spreading all manner of potions and concoctions across the faces of the assorted talent so they would look “normal” in front of the cameras and under the fiery halogens that fried as much as it lit.  Their wardrobes had already been selected, both their characters and mood for the scene at hand. They knew their lines well having rehearsed the previous week and needed no prompting for what they had to say.  The only thing left to the actors was the interpretation, how they read the scene, but Letitia, Tradisha and Brett had been here so many times before that they all knew just how the game was played and how to make the cameras do their bidding ...mostly.

  “Hello, Angels.  How are we all today?” asked Antoine, the Director, mincing his way into the room.

  “Fine,” “Hi,” replied the girls as they managed to fake a smile while still keeping their heads completely still.  Brett ignored Antoine and instead chose to work on his glower while the make-up women moved seductively round him.

  “Okay, people.  Now we are doing episode 3, scene 24 today, okay?” asked Antoine, although it wasn’t really a question.  Antoine wiggled off to today’s set and began barking orders, getting marks laid on the floor so the actors knew where to stand and lighting crew knew how to light the scene.  The start time of today’s scene was 10am and so the crew had been on set from 7am to prepare.  The actor’s turned up an hour later and the uncalm nature of the set became even less calm as Antoine started shouting even more fiercely than he had before.  Eventually however, at around 10:20am a hush came upon the set and that seemed to act as a silent acknowledgement that the first shot of the day was about to take place.

  “Okay, places, people,” whispered Antoine as loudly as he could while Letitia and Brett stood patiently on their marks. “And ACTION!”

LETITIA:  SO, BRETT.  THIS BOY’S HOLIDAY YOU’RE GOING ON ...WHO ELSE IS GOING?

BRETT:  (WHILE PACKING HIS CASE) JUST ME AND THE GUYS.  THAT’S ALL, BABE.

LETITIA:  WHO ELSE IS GOING, BABE?

BRETT: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?  (BRETT BEGINS TO LOOK SHIFTY)

LETITIA:  THAT SLUT, TRADISHA IS GOING, ISN’T SHE BRETT?

BRETT:  LETITIA, HONEY, IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK.

(DOOR OPENS.  TRADISHA ENTERS)

TRADISHA:  WHO YOU CALLING A SLUT, YOU F****** SLUT?”

LETITIA:  IF YOU THINK YOU’RE GETTING YOUR HANDS ON MY MAN YOU CAN THINK AGAIN YOU F****** B****!

TRADISHA:  HE CAN DO WHATEVER AND WHOEVER HE LIKES, B****!  YOU’RE NOT MARRIED TO HIM!

LETITIA:  YOU F******, C******, B****!  I’LL F****** KILL YOU!

(THE TWO GIRLS BEGIN TO FIGHT AND SCREAM WHILE YANKING THE HELL OUT OF EACH OTHER’S HAIR)

  “And CUT!” shouted Antoine.

   “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” said Letitia, wincing in pain.  “Your rings are caught in my extensions, babe.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Hon,” said Tradisha as she carefully removed her fingers from Letitia’s hair.  “You okay, Sweet?”

  “Fine,” said Letitia as she straightened up and fluffed her hair out.  Letitia and Tradisha began to chat while Brett merely looked in the mirror and admired his naked torso.

 “Okay, okay, very good,” Antoine began, whilst not raising his eye’s from today’s script.  “Brett, darling, you were divine ...ladies you fell out of shot during the fight so we’ll need to go again.”

  Both women could not hide their looks of disappointment knowing the most potentially painful part of their scene had to be re-shot.

  “Also ladies remember, Tradisha has to be seen to winning the fight first, and then, Letitia, you come back and win, okay?” asked Antoine with a wink.  The make-up women came back on set to add more blusher and lacquer down the hair again whilst the crew tested the light levels.

  “God, I hate working on TV,” said Letitia as everyone fussed around her, attempting to do 15 minutes work in 30 seconds.

  “At least you don’t have to kiss Brett today,” said Tradisha with a smirk.  They both looked back at the “hunk” as he flexed himself in front of a full length wall mirror.

  “God, look at the state of him,” Letitia whispered.  “He looks like they selotaped some pumpkins, mangoes and satsuma’s into a man shape and then sprayed it with even more orange fake tan!”

  “Ha-ha-ha!” chuckled Tradisha with her hand over her mouth.  “It’s even worse kissing him you know.  He’s so Mister body-beautiful that all he eats is Tuna, and his breath ...stinks!”

  “I know.  I left some tic-tacs in his room one time.  He came on set and said he’d got them for ME as a gift!” replied Letitia.

  “Cheeky shit!” said Tradisha.

  “Do you know he’s gay?” asked Letitia.

  “Brett?  No!” replied Tradisha, before being shushed by Letitia.

  “Uh-Huh!  Apparently that’s why he’s Antoine’s favourite because he and Brett are...” said Letitia raising her eyebrows.

  “You serious?” said Tradisha.

  “Mmmm,” replied Letitia.  “They also like to play Priest and Choirboy together.  But that isn’t the worst of it here.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Tradisha.

  “Well, you know the Producer, Greg?” asked Letitia, but even before Tradisha started to nod she had carried on talking. “Well it’s got out that outside of here the Producer is one of those execs that attends certain special adult baby clubs, shitting in nappies and having his arse wiped and stuff.  Yeah, someone saw footage of this on his phone and so that’s why he doesn’t show his face round here anymore.  He’s gay too!”

  “When were you gonna tell me all this?” whispered Tradisha.

  “Well, to be honest it completely went out of mind,” said Letitia.

  “Jesus, Letitia, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this.  When did you find all this out?” demanded Tradisha.

  “Only before.  I found out from the make-up woman,” said Letitia.

  “Really?” asked Tradisha.

  “Honest,” said Letitia.  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” replied Tradisha, uncertainly, before turning back to look at Antoine fawning over the shirtless, Brett.  “Dirty bastards!”

  “Yeah.  Just glad I like girls really,” said Letitia.

  “Not as glad as I am!” giggled Tradisha, mischievously.  They both smiled secretively at each other as Antoine screamed positions and they went back to their initial marks.

  “And ACTION!” 

  The rest of the day passed with one scene after another, commentaries, bloopers and DVD extras all being filmed for the UNCUT release that would eventually litter shelves of charity shops across the country.  Afterwards all Letitia wanted to do was get the grease off her face, slip into her PJ’s and drink red wine while watching “Casualty” but that lifestyle was no longer her choice, instead she hustled over to E4 to be interviewed by some gormless music journalist.  Yet more make-up was plastered on and she was squeezed into an even more ridiculous, supposedly-glamourous outfit.

  “So, Letitia,” began Froydon Ratchet, with a come-on grin that she wanted to punch off his face.  “You’re in the hit reality TV show “Sex In Man City”.  What do you think is the key to its success?”

  “I think it’s because it’s just so real,” replied Letitia, her fake triangular smile flashing perfectly.

Fin


The first book FREE AT LAST: A NOVEL by MIKE LAMBERT & ZOE LAMBERT is still available on Amazon Kindle for £2.29.

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More Christmas treats.  Darn tooting!

Black Night

  As spring warmed the land, winter faded from the memory like recollections of an illness once normal health had resumed.  Longer evenings blessed warmth and sunlight on the days and a once uninviting landscape had been replaced, by a welcoming climate and gamey hospitality to tempt all-comers to take to the streets.  On those streets wandered Michael Howarth and his girlfriend Ellen enjoying the new sensation of freedom from the oppression of winter months.  They could already feel the potential promise that summer was already starting to bring.  

  They were at what was arguably the sweet spot of any burgeoning relationship, which was the four month stage; the time when the excitement is still running through you, making you giddy every day, but long enough to feel safe within the confines of said relationship; although you’re learning new things all the time you also know enough to feel comfortable with each other.

  Ellen held on to Michael’s arm tight and he looked down at her head pressing firmly against his shoulder, her brown ringlets cascading sexily over his shirt.  Just the feeling of her head rubbing against him was making him aroused.  Michael smiled involuntarily. 

  “You look gorgeous tonight,” Michael said to Ellen, feeling her smile before he saw it.

  “You’re just saying that,” she replied.

  “Yeah, because it’s true,” responded Michael, falling for the trap of repeating the compliment so she could hear it again.  In reality women usually got twice as many compliments as men as they always pretend-argued to have it repeated. It was a subtle trick that most men still hadn’t picked up on.  Besides, Michael still had one eye on getting some tonight.  Until he appeared.

  He seemed to come from nowhere...in reality he came from the traffic lights at the junction between Streatham Road and Dorchester street, a black knight that wouldn’t have looked out of place 6 centuries ago.  The stallion was 20 hands high (and trust me, it was a stallion!) but unlike most beasts of that height this was no shire horse.  It had the muscularity of a race horse but everything about it was amplified.  The huge rider on its back caused it no trouble as it strode majestically through the city street.  The horses black coat seemed to repel light, the only trace at all was around its outline, the rest of it showed nothing, but you could almost feel it in the air, where each muscle and sinew was pulling and pushing effortlessly.  As it turned to face Michael it snorted, sounding almost like a growl.

  “What the fuck,” muttered Michael under his breath.  The horse neighed and shimmied it’s head clearly indicating directionality to the immense rider on it’s back.  The rider was covered in a black armour that shined about as well as his horse repelled light, every surface seeming to pick up and reflect every street, car, office window and the last remaining embers of sunlight and exaggerate them.  On his head was an equally resplendent helmet with a slit across the front that presumably was were it’s owner was looking out, straight at Michael.  The knight leant forward continuing to look at him in an eery silence.

  “WE MEET AGAIN, MICHAEL!” yelled the knight.

  “You know this guy?” asked Ellen, fear evident in her voice.

  “Did we go to school together?” asked Michael attempting to try and place the figure.

  “GIVE ME THE TREASURE, MICHAEL!” the knight shouted.

  “What treasure?” asked Ellen, half-scared, half-thinking he’d been holding out on her.

  “I don’t have any treasure,” said Michael.

  “GIVE ME THE TREASURE, MICHAEL!” the knight continued.  “GIVE ME THE TREASURE OR DIE.”

  At that the knight stretched his left arm behind him and unsheathed a sword at least four and a half feet long.  The horse snorted aggressively at Michael again.  Michael tried desperately to rack his mind for the answer as to what treasure the knight was referring to but he had no idea.  Michael was only a computer tech from Bury.  He had no inkling or desire to find treasure and after seeing the knight brandishing his sword at him he had even less inkling than before.  

  “I don’t have any treasure,” Michael stammered.

  “LIES!” screamed the knight, and as he did his horse reared up, it’s front legs pounding the air fiercely in front of it.  Michael turned to Ellen.  Whatever was happening it was not looking good for him, but if he only lived for another few minutes the least he could do was protect her.

  “Ellen, run!” said Michael turning her to face him to make sure the instruction was understood.  Ellen just nodded and ran.  Michael turned back to the knight whose horse had now regained it’s hoofing.  As Ellen darted down a backstreet full of smoking waiters and vents from steaming kitchens, Michael darted in the opposite direction searching out an alleyway with sufficient obstacles as to slow down the gargantuan animal.

  “Shit, shit shit!” spat Michael as he ran through a narrow alleyway zigzagging through a maze of plastic bins containing a mixture of recycling and refuse.  He allowed himself the quick luxury of a look back and saw the knight and the horse stop as it reached the mouth of the alleyway.  Michael allowed his run to slow as the knight halted for a second, the knight then geed up the horse and headed through the alley leaping over the bins, hurtling them in all directions, as the thought of the treasure bypassed any consideration for safety.

  “GIVE ME MY TREASURE, MICHAEL!” the knight fumed as he and his horse made short shrift of the flimsy plastic obstacles.  

  “Why do these things alway happen to me?’ asked Michael as he ran across the street searching out a place where the horse could not go, each alley he went down the horse stopped briefly but then stepped it up a gear down the straight.  Every time he heard the horse’s hooves get closer his heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest, it was then that he noticed it...the suspension bridge. 

  The bridge was designed so two people could pass across it but the weight and power of the horse would make it impossible for the horse to travel across it.  Michael pushed himself to the limit, his legs feeling like they were filling with lead but somehow he had to keep going.  He was fifteen feet away.

  CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK!

  Ten feet away.

  CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK!

  Five feet away.

  CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK, CLA-CLACK!

  He made it.  Behind him, Michael heard the horse’s hooves screech to a halt against the pavement.  Michael breathed a sigh of relief.  There was no way that the horse could make it across such a narrow bridge without risk of falling into the river below. And there was no way that the horse and rider would get out if they fell in.  Michael allowed himself to go from a balls-hard sprint to a light jog as now the need for speed had definitely diminished.  

  CLER-CLANK!

  Michael stopped at the hard metal sound behind him.  There, off his horse and sword in hand, stood the black knight.  Sword outstretched pointing directly at Michael.  Michael shook his head.  This all felt like some cosmic nightmare but he knew it was not a dream.  The knight, six foot five in his black lacquered metal suit began to jog, then to a canter and finally to a sprint towards Michael.  Michael turned and ran.  He didn’t know where he knew the knight from or how, but he didn’t care.  All he wanted was to get away.  He ran over the bridge past startled pedestrians who looked like they offered no support, only sympathy.  None of them would stop the black knight.  Would you?  

  “THE TREASURE, MICHAEL!  THE TREASURE!” the knight yelled again.  Michael darted over Lancaster Road and headed back into the city centre, he had to lose the knight through a combination of knowledge of the centre and awkwardness of terrain.  He was going to lose the knight through the car park, jump from the third floor, onto the elevated walkway and jump down on the split level roofs down to ground level, it was his only chance.

  He ran through the town square and up the main road to the multi-story car park above the bus station.  The fast paced clanking behind him showing no signs of abating.  “This guy’s got muscles like Captain America!” thought Michael as his own breath started to come in shorter bursts.  He ran across the bus lanes and into the station making the steps in seconds, but only after three flights of stairs he heard the same door fling open and that merciless pounding of metal on concrete.  Michael pushed his body as far as it would go.  The third floor beckoned, and Michael dived through the door and onto the ledge.

  In his mind the drop didn’t seem so bad, till he looked at how thin the walkway was and that he would probably fall and break his legs, hips and spine if he missed.  

  “Still, probably hurt less than a sword through the guts,” he countered as he closed his eyes for a second, then jumped!

  His legs connected solidly with the walkway and he rolled like they do in the movies, unfortunately he’d not taken time to take his surroundings into account and rolled straight off the walkway.  

  “AAAAGGHHH!” Michael screamed before his backside hit the first roof that he had hoped to land on.  “Oh!” he said, as he realised he was still intact but merely bruised.  Michael jumped to the next roof and the next before jumping and hitting terra firma.  He turned and could see the knight looking out still from the third level.  Maybe the knight didn’t fancy his chances, maybe he didn’t want to jump, in reality Michael cared little why he was still standing there, merely feeling relief that he was.  Michael turned to head for home and then out of town but then...

  In front of him was the black knight’s stallion.  Holding Michael with his stare.

  CLER-CLANK!

  Michael moved to head down the street to freedom, but the horse darted in front of him and snorted into his face.  

  CLER-CLANK!

  The horse moved closer to Michael and butted him over with his nose

  CLER-CLANK!

  Finally as Michael made a move to get up the horse held him down with it’s left hoof.

  CLER-CLANK!

  “SO, MICHAEL,” began the knight.  “THE CHASE IS OVER!  GIVE ME THE TREASURE AND I WILL SPARE YOUR LIFE.  DENY ME ONCE MORE AND YOU WILL DIE!”

  “I don’t have any treasure, I swear.  I...I don’t know what you’re talking about!” stammered Michael nervously.

  “IF YOU WILL NOT HELP ME, THEN YOU WILL DIE, MICHAEL BANNERMAN!” screamed the knight.

  “Michael Bannerman?” repeated Michael.  “I’m not Michael Bannerman.  I’m Michael Howarth!”

  “A WELL THOUGHT RUSE, MR BANNERMAN, BUT I AM NO FOOL!” shouted the knight as he drew his sword back.

  “What do you mean a ruse?” asked Ellen as she appeared, out of breath, at the street Michael was trying to escape down.  “Michael’s name is Michael Howarth!”

  The knight removed his helmet, revealing a crop of black wavy hair and beard almost as dark as his horse.  Down his left eye ran a scar that had destroyed the pigment in one eye.  He took a closer look at Michael, holding his face in his hand.  Studying every bone structure, every hair, every blemish and every ounce of skin.

  “MMMM, WELL THIS IS AWKWARD!” began the knight.  “YOU ARE NOT MICHAEL BANNERMAN!”

  Michael let out a sigh of relief as Ellen flung her arms around him.  The knight re-sheathed his sword and scratched his beard.

  “ERM ...SORRY ABOUT THAT!’ said the knight.  “YOU REALLY LOOK A LOT LIKE HIM!”

  “I’m always getting mistaken for other people,” replied Michael.  “I tell you if I did have a pound for every time this had happened I would have some treasure.”

  The knight laughed a hearty laugh as Ellen and Michael joined in.  The tension that their chase had built up finally cracking in that moment.

  “OH DEAR.  SO DO YOU GUYS HAVE ANY PLANS FOR TONIGHT?” asked the knight.

  “Well...” began Michael, when a young couple turned the corner.  The man was wearing a green jacket, just like Michael’s, his hair was similar, but slightly lighter in colour; his green eyes were a touch closer together and he was half an inch taller.  Michael and the doppelganger-ish pointed at each other.

  “You’re Michael Bannerman?” asked Michael as he looked at the slightly warped mirror version.

  “You’re Michael Howarth?” said the other Michael as he held onto a woman who looked just like Ellen, but with red hair.  “Wow!  You look just like me!”

  “MICHAEL BANNERMAN!” yelled the knight.  “GIVE ME MY TREASURE!” 

  “Eeep!” said Michael Bannerman as he ran off down Letcherman Street.  The knight, flung himself onto the horse and headed after him.

Fin.

Well dear reader, I know what you’re thinking now.

  “Tis but fiction”,  “No two people could look so alike in face and be of the same name!” I hear you cry.  But this story is based on a truth!

  I too was once stopped, not by a knight, but by two women who knew of a fellow Michael whose look, manner and voice were all a perfect match to myself.  They were as close to me as you are to this computer screen yet could see no difference in the looks of me or my same named doppelganger!  So beware dear readers your double is most definitely out there . . . In fact they may be more like you than you dare imagine!   

The first book FREE AT LAST: A NOVEL by MIKE LAMBERT & ZOE LAMBERT is still available on Amazon Kindle for £2.29.

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