Short stories......

A tear coursed down his cheek, rapidly followed by a drip cascading from the tip of his nose. Waiting for a bus at 7am,in Aberdeen can be quite a chilling experience.
Don stamped his feet, to keep them warm and to create sufficient heat to stop his inside from fibrillating. He would have wiped the bodily fluids away but that would have meant exposing a pocketed hand to the elements. Instead, he huffed expertly, sending the offending liquid off into the wind. He realised the bus wasn’t due for another ten minutes but being early was a habit instilled by a lifetimes indoctrination, living with his old-soldier dad.
It began to rain... rain, being the word used by Highlanders, for anything that regularly fell from the sky, that wasn’t actual snow. It hit Don’s face like ten thousand very blunt needles. He grimaced and pulled his coat collar higher round his crimson and blue cheeks. After what seemed an age, the bus appeared through the misty darkness. He hopped onboard, almost flattened by the wave of moderate heat within, generated by a clutch of workers huffing words at each other.
Why on earth he had agreed with Andy, to go on a fishing trip in March now non-plussed him. Yet in the warmth of the Bridge bar, fuelled by several single malts, it seemed like a wicked idea. His wife Heather had asked him to do a couple of jobs round the house, however she didn’t grudge him his fishing trip and muttered a ‘good bye darlin’’, from the depths of the duvet and ‘make sure you bring back some fish!’
Settled in a corner seat, at the rear of the bus, he cupped his hands and puffed newly warmed breath into his stiff digits,before extracting a large hanky from his coat pocket, to get rid of any remaining drips on his nose and wipe the remnants of tear, lurking at the corners of his eyes. The bus trundled on down the main road, its headlamps glowing gold and silver in the reflecting mist. Still beaming street lamps made individual halos of hazy golden lights. If there had been one, it would have been sunrise.
When Don’s bus reached the Market Cross, Andy’s car was already there. The lime green Ford sat by the roadside, its windows veiled by hot breath and cigarette smoke. Don wasn’t looking forward to the oft experienced trip with his mate, in the Ford Fog-us, as he had nicknamed Andy’s car. Like all reformed smokers, he was extremely anti and nagged his chum constantly about his habit.

“Christ, you took your time!” wheezed Andy.
“I’ve been as quick as I could “, choked Don, through a blanket of smoke, escaping through his open door.”Bloody awful day, we’ve picked’ to go fishing”
“Nah, it’ll be fine later on.”, assured Andy stubbing his filter in the overflowing ashtray.
That said, he fired the Fog-us into life and headed for the waiting shoals.
Don surreptitiously cracked his window open, just enough to let the rest of the carcinogenic fumes to stream out into the drizzly skies.
By the time they had travelled a couple of miles, the fumes had abated though the smell was everywhere and offended Don’s now hypersensitive olfactory kit. It was worth suffering however. He and Andy had been bosom pals since Ashley Road school, where the two six year-olds first fought a pitched battle with air-swords.
Their wives, Heather and Fiona, were also close friends and were no doubt getting ready to meet at the Bon-Accord centre and do girly things, like shop and drink spitzers.
‘There it is ‘, said Andy , indicating the sign post to Pinehead, pointing out a small turning off the main road. The road to Pinehead was definitely of the unadopted variety and after a half mile of pitted tarmac gave up the road status and became a beaten track. Just beyond a stand of Scots pine it took a sharp right by the riverbank and fetched up in front of a log cabin.
‘Not bad’ enthuised Don,in approval, ‘a nifty little spot.
The watery sun was breaking through and the hut , surrounded by trees looked quite splendid.
‘Belongs to Old Craig at work,he’s let us have it for the weekend’
‘Neat’ said Don.

Before even unpacking the fagmobile Andy unlocked the door to the chalet and entered. It had all the mod cons one would hope to find, including electricity.
The large room had two single beds ,placed either side of the room in macho fashion, a table, two chairs and off to the right two doors leading to a tiny kitchen and an even smaller loo. Andy removed the safety bars from the windows, opening a couple to release the foosty smell. Then the chums unpacked their few things from the car and by midmorning were on the riverbank ‘drowning worms’ as Heather cheekily called it. They sat there till lunchtime but nothing bit bar the midgies. Don was briefly pleased his partner had a serial smoking habit ,as it kept the little demons at bay, when he lit up.
They took a break around one , and broke out the sandwiches their wives had made for their midday snack.
‘I expect you’ll get something more substantial for later on’ ,Heather had said, whilst buttering Don’s egg mayonnaise sandwiches.
The sandwiches were soon scoffed, washed down with a couple of cans of gassy Scots beer. Then back to the riverside with renewed vigour.
After a long period of unnecessary silence Andy tied his line to his leg, lit a gasper and questioned his friend,
‘So who are you backing for the World Cup? I can’t see anybody put it past Brazil, can you?
Don pondered for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
‘ You know, I have a sneaking fancy for the Netherlands and I wouldn’t write England off either’
‘Speak sense’, choked his companion,’ England? Shite all have a pint of what you’re drinking. Cameroon have a better team than them!’
‘Oh, you, you’re just prejudiced, there not so bad’
The storm raged on for some time before the subjected changed to the new girl at Andy’s factory.
‘Aye ,she works in the office. A real honey. Legs all the way up to her arse and tits like melons’
‘Would you give it one’ asked Don,rhetorically
‘Let’s put it this way’ smiled Andy’ I’d rather go to bed with her naked ,than you in your best suit’
The laddish conversation continued in much the same vein and as more beers were cracked ,fishing was taking a back seat.
Andy felt his ankle twitch.
‘I’ve got one’,he shouted and pulled on the line still attached to his leg ‘a big one ,I’m telling you.
He played the line, in what he thought was a professional manner, until Moby Dick gave up the struggle,
‘Quick, the net,’ he hailed triumphantly at his partner.
Andy hovered expectantly , net poised as Don eventually brough t to shore something more the size of Nemo than Moby.
‘Call that big’ scoffed Andy,’ bung it back!’
‘No way’ said Don’,I’m taking it home. That’s the first I’ve ever caught.
They laughed merrily .
It was rapidly getting dark and they decided it was time to call a halt , anyway tomorrow promised to be a much warmer day and ‘they’ll be leaping on the line, they fantasised.

On reaching the cabin they each sprawled on their beds and exhausted by their days exertions’fell into a deep slumber.
It was quite dark, when Don awoke. He squinted at his wristwatch focussing in the sudden light of his bedlamp.
‘Gosh 8 o’clock’, he hazily muttered ‘ Hoi ,Andy ,are we going to get some supper?’
Andy blinked into reality and the office blonde was gone.
‘What? Oh yeh....what time is it?’
‘Just after eight’ said Don
The pair slung their legs from their beds, almost in sequence and sat on the edges wiping sleep from their eyes and focussing their brains. Andy went outside for a much needed smoke ,whilst Don relieved himself , had a cursory wash and combed his hair by the water and finger method. Ten more minutes and the cabin safely secured they were headed for the car. Old Craig had told him that there was a pub just a couple of miles down the road at Bantry ,that did evening meals. They headed for Craigmyle’s Hotel.
By the time the old Ford reached the inn it was pitch dark and once again pelting down a sleety rain. Craigmyle’s twinkled like a thousand prisms through the airborne spray and lent it an air it could not equal in light of day. Andy found a spot in the fairly full car park and the mates entered the welcoming pub.
Inside was full of warmth and jolly chat. Even more enticing for the boys was the delicious smells of freshly fried food. Not for them the niceties of salad bars and crudities but hearty steaks and chips.
Soon they were at a window table tucking into their preferred main course, with the obligatory onion rings and lashings of tomato sauce. They followed this with apple tart and ice-cream, demolished the remainder of their pints and headed to the crowded bar for more.
Although the bar was crowded they managed to secure a small table away from the bar and proceeded to get kale-eyed, as the local euphemism had it. They continued to argue vociferously over their football predictions.
Eventually, they had had a surfeit and non too steadily wove back to the car, in the now half empty car park.
Several white knuckle minutes later they stalled to a halt outside the cabin. Don fell over in the darkness before struggling to find the allusive keyhole. Eventually with the aid of his cigarette lighter, he cornered it and they poured in. Andy produced a half bottle of whisky from his back-pack and suggested a nightcap. Don grinned and nodded and they continued to argue loudly but not violently over football, girls and work until the bottle was dry.
‘I’m for bed’ slurred Andy throwing the bottle across the room and miraculously finding the small wastebin.
‘Did you gut your goldfish ?’ Don enquired
‘No’ ,replied his sleepy friend and hesitatingly ‘I don’t know how’
‘Amateur’ , coughed Don,’gimme yor knife, I’ll do it for you.’
Andy searched the depths of his bag and brought it out, passing it to his mate, with thanks.
As Don headed for the little kitchen , Andy slipped off his trousers and poured himself into bed.
‘Night mate’, he mumbled into the pillow ,before tumbling head first into the lap of Morpheus.
Daylight can be so cruel. Non so cruel as that which glares into the bloodshot eyes of a boozer, the morning after. The beam in question streaked through the cabin window straight into the waking face of Andy. He gradually came to and realised the pain felt in his brain was not caused by an anvil perched there but was coming from his tortured brain. Andy fished blindly in his bag till he found the Alka-Seltzers.
He delicately rose and headed for the kitchen to get the tumbler and water necessary to aid his cure.
It was there he found Don. At first he thought he had passed out on the floor but on trying to arouse him turned over the recumbent figure to discover simultaneously that his mate was cold and stiff and had his knife protruding from a gash in his chest.
Shock has a sobering effect and he immediately searched in his pocket , found his mobile and dialled 999.
The nearest police,at Bantry, were there in less than fifteen minutes . The two of them surveyed the scene , took a statement from the shocked Andy and after phone calls to the more experienced constabulary in Aberdeen locked the cabin and took Andy to the Craigmyle, where they set up an incident room, in the function room.
Andy went to the bar,where he ordered a coffee and a whisky both large and unadulterated.
Eventually the detectives from Aberdeen arrived. They questioned Andy in the function room and had him wait there, whilst they made further enquiries.
The day dragged on he had phoned his wife and she had broken the news to Don’s unknowing widow.
The elder and presumably superior of the three detectives entered the function room accompanied by a uniformed policeman.
Andy was invited to sit at the bare table which the police had co-opted as a desk, whilst the poker-faced Detective and constable sat opposite. The officer opened his file,
‘Andrew George Allen,I am charging you with the murder of....’ Andy couldn’t take in the rest of the “Miranda”. How could they think he had killed his friend. Sure ,they’d been arguing a lot but it wasn’t serious. OK, it was his knife but that didn’t mean he’d killed him. His head swam even more than when he’d woken of this arse-hole day.
Have you anything you’d like to say, Mr Allen?
‘Yes’ said Andy ‘have either one of you got a fag!’