About the Author

Martin Read is a retired self-employed businessman from the

motor industry, who is using his retirement to explore the
previously suppressed artistic and imaginative side of his
personality. This includes painting, sculpture, design,
invention, and now the writing of short stories.
At 59, life for Martin has never been busier or more
enjoyable.

Dedication

A short thank you to Stephen King, whose easy, natural

and magnetic style kept me reading and inspired me to
hope there might be a storytelling future for me.

Martin Read

FLIGHTS OF FANCY

Copyright Martin Read (2015)

The right of Martin Read to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 78554 078 3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78554 079 0 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents

LONEWULF THE TROUBLED

THE A TEAM
BAREBACK
WARHOL'S REVENGE
DUST TO DUST
BROKEN DREAMS
JUMPER
WASP
TIME FLIES
SWALLOWS AND AMAZONIANS
SMILE PLEASE
PAY THE FERRYMAN
BACK TO BLACK
NEXT TIME AROUND
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
THE LIQUID COMES

PRIVATE SAM SMITH

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10
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63
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124

TOM S GONE

Through the historic military circus that is Colchester, its

barracks home to gladiators, centurions and fighting
soldiers for thousands of years we entered the battle arena
of Afghanistan. Two weeks here and no armed combat. Our
time here is taken up with training exercises and grid
mapping seemingly identical villages distinguishing safe
sites from killing fields.
Live combat is all around us and tomorrow, we have
been promised, will be our first venture into uncharted
territory and the probability of hand to hand skirmishes. It
seems days not years since we both met and joined up on
the same day. As soon as I saw him and heard Tom's voice
I knew that we were destined to be the best of friends. We
were the same height and build, same sporty background,
same sense of humour even had a tattoo on the same leg
although Tom's was by his own admission a bit gay
compared to my raging bull.
Our progress through the proving ground of the
academy was measured more between the two of us rather
than just by our superiors. We were extremely competitive
and if one of us showed a weakness in any discipline no
leniency would be given by the other. Our friendship came
second place only to winning but as soon as victory was
celebrated or acknowledged the bond was reformed. Pick
on Tom and you had me to deal with, pick on me and you
were as good as dead.

Both of us passed tests with flying colours and gained

respected commissions within the British fighting machine.
We enjoyed every element of our development and
training; the more grizzly the task the grittier our
determination. This led to record after record being won
elevating the status of our regiment to nestle among the
historic greats of our predecessors. Our abilities did not go
unnoticed and we were both awarded leadership status just
prior to our dispatch for foreign duty. Afghanistan a word
that hushed the talk of many in our ranks but Tom and I
were ready we wanted ruck for real and now came our
chance. We had been trained by the meanest and taught by
the elite. We were ready. Not trigger happy conscripts but
highly skilled in the art of combat and art it was. Every
manoeuvre was carried out like the best rehearsed play,
there was no place for mistake or footfall in front of our
unforgiving and clinical audience.
Now in Afghanistan, Naziem was one of eight new
interns brought into our regiment. Local boys with local
knowledge trading information on local activities and
gossip for food, lodgings and uniforms. Training for them
was basic at this stage but invariably they would only trail
us whilst out on assignment, not confident of their
commitment they carried no arms. These would be issued
later when trust had been earned.
Our route planned we had been told not to expect
contact with the enemy until we reached our target, a deep
fresh water well which we had to take and secure. A prize,
we were told, that would be aggressively defended. Our
approach through a complicated network of buildings and
compounds was mapped showing areas in red, classed as
uncertain, and areas in green, cleared ok. This intelligence
given by the eight. Naziem, being the only competent
English speaking member, was our closest contact.
The night before our first op I had read a heartfelt
letter from my mother. She was feeling the relatively recent
loss of my father badly since I had left the country and her

tears smudged the words that prayed for my safety. I took

the letter and walked alone to a wadie within the camp, the
slow water rippled around an obstructing rock and the
agitated rapid sparkled in the late sun gripping my gaze
whilst I contemplated her words.
I was overcome with emotion partly through not
showing my mother due sensitivity and love at my
departure and partly because of a deeply hidden fear of
what tomorrow would bring. My eyes filled and the tears
ran. Sitting with my head on my knees I hadnt noticed
Tom's arrival, he sat beside me.
Are you ok Jake, his only words.
Yep sure, Im fine Tom.
Hearing the waiver in my voice and the obvious
avoidance of wanting to make eye to eye contact he
replied:Come here you big woose.
He put his strong arm around me and pulled me close
into him, with my head on his chest I sobbed like a baby. I
hugged him back and sensed what may have been the
softest kiss on the crown of my shaven head. He whispered
Well be ok me and you kid, this combo is going back
home in one piece.
We sat in silence for some time comforting, reassuring
and strengthening one another without a word being spoken
until at last we rose, unsteady with the emotion of it all, and
returned to the solitude of our cramped bunks.
The early morning was torn open with an explosion.
The outer perimeter of the eastern block of our camp came
under heavy mortar attack, retaliation was instant and
effective. Our job was still on despite the delay. We readied
ourselves for our departure through the Northern wall
defences, with one last run through Naziem confirmed our
route. We geared up and were off. Every step calculated,
every member alert and professional. Within four blocks
and still well inside the green zone the atmospherics

changed. Silence, eerie silence, nothing moved human or

animal. Tom turned and called time out, we slunk down
against the wall we had been tracking. I instructed new
lookouts fore and aft and we bunched to reassess and
double check our position.
Naziem was called forward and he duly confirmed the
safety of the area that we occupied, no danger registered by
our spotters the decision was made to continue. Now back
in line Tom led us out. We followed the compound wall to
a bisecting road junction. Tom moved straight out of cover
to cross the road when all hell was let loose with rapid
automatic machine gun fire coming in from our left, I saw
Tom lifted and thrown two to three metres to my right I
dropped into cover and bellowed instructions.
I cleared my automatic assault rifle and turned the
corner with anger and fear tensing my body, I opened fire
arcing bullets the width of the street then back, a dog
yelped and ran, a goat dropped silent and lifeless. I could
not make out human movement I just kept on firing back
and forth; dust exploded from walls, doors splintered and
metal tore with eerie screams.
I pulled back in and replaced my spent magazine.
Silence had returned. I barked for covering fire and went
out for Tom, boots first I hauled Tom to cover and noticed
the unusual response of his torso to my dragging him. Tom
had been practically cut in two by the short burst of enemy
fire and it was largely his equipment harness that kept him
whole. Two tapes that exited Tom's back could have been
mistaken for broken harness, later confirmed as being the
end of his lower intestines. His eyes were open wide with
surprise and shock. This was not supposed to have
happened here. This was a green zone, we should have
been safe. I called back for Naziem wanting answers, word
came back NO SIGN they had disappeared all fucking eight
of them.
Had they just run in fear or had we been set up. I had
my own views on that one and I was not in the mood to

give the benefit of doubt because if not for that trigger

happy Taliban we could have lost many more. No trace was
found of Naziem or the others. The gun was found built
into a facing compound wall but so was a small child of
about eight years, dead from a head wound, he was not the
assassin but the bullet was traced back to my gun. Despite
my training and boasted professionalism I had lost it
temporarily at the loss of my best friend. In no mental state
to defend myself I took what was coming to me without
argument, we were returned home on the same aeroplane.
Tom with honours me with charges hanging over my head.
It took months of confinement and medical assessment
before I was allowed home on indefinite sick leave. My
mother was happy to have me home despite the
circumstances, she knew how close I had been with Tom
and she shared my pain at his loss. She gave me space, she
gave me time and an understanding that only someone that
close can.
Loose leaf tea was one of the things I missed most
whilst I was away, now I drank pot after pot, some say you
cant taste the difference, I say bollocks. Suddenly the
mundane mattered. Silence and mood swings had come and
gone. Reasonable and enjoyable conversation had replaced
altercation with my mother. Mind and body were settling
into this new life. Lethargy had been a problem since my
return, I had put on weight and, feeling stodgy, training and
fitness would be another step in the right direction. Healthy
body, healthy mind or is it the other way round either way
this new positive approach was making me feel a whole lot
better.
An early morning run six thirty a.m. Id been up three
hours already, not much sleep these days. When I close my
eyes the loud noises and stark and shocking images return.
Dark outside and the wet street and damp atmosphere did
not make this the easiest start to my get fit program. Five
minutes running hard and I slowed to a jog my lapse in
exercise was telling on my heart rate and breathing, another

runner joined me out of nowhere a dark lithe figure hooded

up and seemingly keen to jog with me. We continued in
silence for about half a mile then I picked up the pace, he
matched me and then took the lead slightly:
Morning Tom, I say.
Morning fat boy, Tom's reply.
Race you to the bridge, his challenge.
We sprint, he wins, we jog, theres talk, all sorts of
stuff. Weather, family, the job.
Although the hoodie hid his handsome face, this was
Tom. Dont ask me how I just chose not to question it, Im
happy with his being here, with me, for me, we jog on. We
turn after the bridge back towards home, his tales make me
laugh, they always did. His foul language hasnt changed
either but right now I would forgive him anything.
EYES ON ENEMY, he blurts out.
Training clicks in, we drop to the floor motionless but
our senses on full alert. Within seconds I had scanned the
scene ahead of us taking in everything logging distances,
movements and sounds. The only person on the street was a
foreign male one hundred and ten metres ahead of us height
approximately five feet ten inches weight one hundred and
fifty pounds light on his feet he disappears into a shop
carrying a bundle of newspapers.
ITS THAT BASTARD NAZIEM, ITS HIM
JAKE.
Toms words stir up the past. Turning I notice that
Tom had gone, no trace. I stay low, still tense, still
assessing. Things are changing fast, birdsong, car
movements, headlights wash across the side streets the
place is coming alive. Rolling into the shadows I curse
Toms absence but promise him revenge, that bastard
Naziem is going to get his and get it soon.
Once home I go straight to my room, lock the door and
sit on my bed facing the mirror on my wardrobe door. As I
stared things became clear to me. Tom had returned to lead
6

me to Naziem. That spineless bastard had as good as killed

my best friend and now hides here, seeking a new life but I
have different ideas, no new life for you here Naziem. In
fact no life at all.
The day and night to come were going to be a lonely
and personal vigil. My mothers attempts at communication
were ignored but I heard her sobbing feeling, Im sure, that
I was slipping away from her again but right now I needed
to focus on the task ahead. My combats were clean and
now laid out ready for the next mission; kit checked
including weapons, my hunting knife was the weapon of
choice, nice and personal. My attack was planned and
replayed in a mind that was clear and sparking with
anticipation. Twelve hours and no food or drink but I felt
strong and in control. I will attempt sleep but if it doesnt
come no matter.
Six a.m. I meet the street in darkness, painted face,
dark combats moving stealthily I am invisible. Taking
lungfuls of cold morning air it aids to spark the fire
smouldering in my brain, I am aware of everything, in
control of everything. Im buzzed up and ready for action.
This is what Im good at, this is what I was trained for. The
alley way at the rear of Naziem's shop is my chosen attack
site, lots of cover, maximum surprise element and multiple
escape routes.
Lights on in the shop, I throw stones at the rear door
glass a young girl exits and returns quickly inside. Second
throw harder this time and the glass breaks. Seconds tick by
then he appears, calls out abuse and slowly, slowly
descends the steps. Come to me Naziem, come and get it
I whisper. Now down on my level he stalls, sensing
menace, but its too late. I lock his left arm and head with
my left and my right swings hard with a strike to his right
lung. Knife in deep to the hilt. Twist, tear and exit releasing
a pungent odour. Not stopping my right arm swings again
and draws the polished razor sharp blade across his throat.
His head pulls back into my shoulder as the blade cuts deep

once more. The blood comes quickly and warms my gloved

right hand. Now limp I lower him to the floor silently, still
in control, measured movements I drop once again into the
shadows. Two seconds to scan, choose my exit and I leave
unseen.
Back home and I notice the kitchen light on but no
signs of my mother. I go straight to my room, clean up,
shower and break open the whiskey in my bedside cabinet.
Clothes bagged up and warmed from the long shower I lay
naked on my bed the whiskey having the desired effect I
was glowing, happy with my work. Waking with a start at
the slamming of the front door, I must have dosed off but
now I could hear my mother wailing in the hallway. Robed
only in my dressing gown I rushed to her aid.
Whats wrong Mum?
She was on her knees with her empty shopping bags
around her, now almost hysterical.
Hes dead, the only words she could manage.
She was overheating in her winter coat, the upset and
an obviously rushed journey home was bringing her close
to collapse. Her clothes loosened I lifted and took her to the
kitchen where I sat her down and ran a glass of cold water.
She drank thirstily and calmed after a moment or two.
That poor Mr Hussian, I just cant believe it.
What is it Mum, whats happened? Genuinely
clueless.
Hes been killed, murdered they say. His throat cut. I
just cant understand he is such a lovely man he always
asked after you while you were away in Afghanistan.
Taking hold of my mothers arms I dropped to one
knee, now face to face and the penny having dropped.
No Mum, his name is Naziem not Hussian. Tom said
it was Naziem.

My mother must have seen the lost expression in my

now watering eyes; she pulled my head to her bosom and
hugged me tight. Tearfully she whispered in my ear.
Tom's dead Jake. Tom's gone. What have you done
my poor sweet boy?

LONEWULF THE
TROUBLED

He stirs unsettled from a fragmented sleep born from

thoughts of the ensuing battle in the day ahead; no fear in
this sleeplessness only excitement and an impatience to
display his considerable skills as a warrior. The cold, crisp
air of this late autumn morning alive with the sound of
hacking Pheasant fowl enough to clear his mind, a state
respectful of the Gods to whom he offers prayer. Odin
greatest God of war give strength to my sword arm that I
might make thee proud. Time too to prepare his weapons,
both trusted blades. Wasp Sting a short spiteful dagger
worn on his wide leather belt perfect for close shield wall
fighting and Viper's Spit a massive flat blade worked by
craftsmen from the finest hardened steel, at a weight that
only a toned warrior can wield. Other weapons around him
appear as childrens playthings in its presence and cause
him to question the seriousness and professionalism of his
allies. The blades are polished and sharpened they ring in
use satisfied with their edge, Viper's Spit has a life of its
own and in use on the battle field will pull and bate towards
its prey as would a tethered hawk hungry for blood. The
double handed grip has been moulded over the years to his
mighty fists a coupling which (in battle) only death will
release. An Emerald, his birth stone, decorates the pommel

10

and the cross bar that protects his hands carries his oath
inscribed.
War and battle is in his blood he was born a warrior
and bred to kill. As a relative child he had tasted the life of
a farmer and a cleric but that life was not for one such as
he. His path was cast early in his years when a sheared
implement tore deep and jagged across his face, the
considerable damage made worse by the unskilled
corrections of a drunken surgeon. His hideous scars set him
apart from others, those that met his eyes would soon look
away shocked, the strongest of men and the fairest of
women alike. This instant in time had left him disfigured
and his life forever cursed with loneliness.
The battle ground had been chosen and prepared, he
fought with men that were not his kinfolk but they were
happy to have him and his reputation at their lead in battle.
Their reasons and methods to fight very different but this
contest would aid his personal crusade. The site of their
choosing would give them slightly the advantage of height
which would speed their attack and favour his work. The
misted air is heavy and thick with the smoke from early
morning fires, drums beat and music plays, women cook
and children play. He prepares alone not wanting to be part
of this theatre, wanting only to fight. A successful warrior
can win favour and affection even with disfigurement nay
even more so with disfigurement. He will display his skills,
kill, please the Gods and win hearts, for even a scarred
warrior has need of company.
Song and music abates and only mesmeric steady
drum beats remain for here they come, metal plate and
armour clang in time with their orderly march. They are an
impressive rank but he looks for their eyes and their eyes
tell him all; they have no heart for this battle beneath those
fashioned breast plates of steel and it is their eyes that tell
him that. Animal fur and soft leather his clothes allow him
to breath, allow him to move his only armour are his scars.
He roars to the Gods to fight with him and favour his band

11

of ragged heathens whos will to win is greater than that of

their pretty foe. He has drunk greedily and secretly which
now sharpens his anger, burns his throat and fires his belly.
As he strides at the front of their slowly advancing line
he shows off Viper's Spit to the enemy, they will get to
know her much better. Steered by expert hands she sings
through the air and accompanies their course Gaelic taunts,
she senses blood and as a diviners aid points the way
forward to the enemy. On his command they run he has
pre-empted the choreographed move to a shield wall, they
are not locked when he strikes their line, Viper's Spit
descends with speed and weight slices through a mock
helmet as if it were fat and halves a brain that still questions
how?. His sandaled foot with the kick of a mule behind it
strikes the mans chest and he is in amongst the enemy. A
battle cry torn from the bottom of his gut stuns those about
him and in those few brief seconds he severs the sword arm
from one then hammers the pommel of his sword to destroy
the face of another, teeth and sinew string away as he lifts
Viper's Spit to strike again.
In a frantic beautiful rage he welcomes the joy and
energy of battle, he laughs and curses aloud and his mania
is feared by all around him even his own. Three turn to flee.
He drops low and the angled sweep of his blade pops
tendons in the legs of all three; they drop and squirm.
Viper's Spit rises up before our warrior like a crucifix but
no compassion from this blade's religion only hate and
punishment. She falls and slices easily through rib cage and
heart, dead. Turning a tight circle and swinging his blade at
arms length gathering speed and pitch until the neck of
another dulls her song, for this he pays with his life. Blood
comes fast and colours and covers the scene causing our
warriors feet to temporarily loose purchase. The third still
prone scrambles for a shield, playing, Viper's Spit takes off
his hand, turning over onto his back he faces our warrior,
he knows his fate and opens his mouth, nothing comes out
but Viper's Spit goes in.

12

With one foot on this mans stilled chest our warrior

has time to take stock. The enemy temporarily stunned and
beaten, only one brave trouper comes hard to wage war, he
advances yelling his intent with a threatening lance held
level. Too easy to read this strike he drops to one knee
making smaller the target, he faints right and with lightning
reactions deflects the lance left Viper's Spit is upturned
from ground level to skewer the gut of the still advancing
now dead, brave trouper. Our warrior stands tall face to
face with his dead opponent, Viper's blade buried deep in
his gut angles low and allows him to slide off to crumple
onto the torn turf of the battlefield the blade snagging on
exit. Its burred edge trailing gut and gore.
At this last action an eerie silence surrounds him on
the field, a bloody peace; he stands central to the carnage
that he alone is responsible for. The spell is broken and
screams ring the perimeter of the field, he raises his face to
a troubled sky to give thanks for his safe passage, the
prayer is interrupted by the sound of a mechanical horn.
Annoyed by this distraction he glares in that direction and
although his eyes still blur from battle fury he sees lights.
Bright flashing lights and the enemy now clothed in black
come again. He is not done and Viper's Spit will drink
plenty more blood. He notices a shaft of light in the smog
casting a red spot on his chest, a sign from the Gods they
are with him. He salutes the skies and with an ear piercing
battle cry holding Viper's Spit aloft he runs at them with
total belief in himself, after all he has no one else and
nothing to lose.
THIS IS ONLY A RE-ENACTMENT YOU UGLY
MAD BASTARD. WE ARE ARMED POLICE, LAY
DOWN YOUR WEAPON OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE.

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