Flash Fiction – prompt is Frankenstein’s Wish

Dr Frankenstein goes a’courting.

“Seriously Victor, did you really think it would impress me?”

Actually Victor had, a sentiment he attempted to eloquate to Elizabeth.

“But my darling I have worked for so many months, at every hour of the day to create life afresh where there was none, to resurrect the spirit from the grave, to bring back the dead! And all for you my darling,” he beseeched.
Elizabeth regarded the creature that sat awkwardly on one of Victor’s dining room chairs.

“It’s ugly.”

The monster, due to Victor’s less than celebatory sewing skills, was unable to form much of an expression but there was, Victor thought, a gleam of hurt in his one eye.

“And it smells.”

“Maybe a little,” conceded Victory through the almost visible pong. “But that is because I was unable to secure a living specimen to fashion him from. Apparently that would constitute a ‘murder’ or so I am informed. I had no choice but to use the newly dead for his components.”

“Ewwww,” winced Mary and then after a moments pause dared to enquire, “Where did you get them from?”

“I’m sorry my darling?”

“The components for this thing Victor!”

“Oh. I have a contact at the prison.”

“The prison???”
“Yes, he retrieves the newly dead from the gallows for me.”

“What????”

“But Elizabeth my dear there is no need to fret. He keeps them refrigerated for me. There’s no danger of purification for at least another 72 hours.”

“Let me get this straight, Victor Frankenstein. The present you have brought me for my birthday is a zombie convict who is likely to melt into a puddle of putrid liquid by the end of the week?”

Put like that Victor was forced to recognise that he probably should have followed his first instinct and brought her a bunch of flowers.

“Oh you really are the pits!”

And she flounced out with a swirl of her crinoline.

Victor sagged onto the chair. The monster reached over and put a scaly, rotting hand round him, patting Victor’s shoulder consolingly. over his
Victor leaned into him. “Thanks mate. I appreciate it.”

At least it hadn’t gone as badly as the time he’d given Dorothy Mileau a white mouse with a human ear sewn onto it for Christmas.
She’d squealed throwing Monty the Mouse into the air. Monty disappearing down a drain whilst Victor was distracted by Dorothy’s bashing parasol.

Women! Why could he never get it right with them?
At this rate he would never receive his dearest wish; to lose his virginity.

Flash Fiction – prompt is Breakfast

THE S WORD

I swirl my bread in the yolk breaking the membrane, the orange liquid released pools round my fried tomato.
“Top breakfast, Laura.”

“Breakfast? Have you seen the time?”

“Brunch then.”

“More like lunch,” she complains clearing away my mug even though there’s still a mouthful of tea left in it.

“I had a heavy night,” I admit. “But this has helped enormously. Don’t have any nurofen do you?”

“I can’t keep them in the house.”

A statement of sufficient mystery to entice me, despite my thumping headache into asking, “Why?”

Perhaps my sister is in one of her anti pharma quests again, the cupboards stuffed with natural remedies that naturally do nothing.
Or maybe her husband, Alan has a secret codeine addiction, this is a far better prospect for I refuse to believe that he really is as dull as he appears. He tells people he works in the city, in banking. Which is perfectly true, he works in a branch of HSBC in Reading city behind the counter.

That’s how he met Laura, she used to bring in the takings from the sandwich shop she worked in and he’d pay them in. Alan tells me they struck up a flirtation, a phrase that makes me shudder imagining all kinds of gruesome plays on words such as bap, dosh and rubber stamping.
I tried to talk her out of their first date pointing out that her knowledge of him was purely based on the parts of him she could see above the counter.

“For all you know he’s wearing culottes and kitten heels.”

In retrospect I rather wish he had, it would have given us more to talk about, I have a wicked collection of kitten heeled shoes.

Anyway I digress, partly because Laura’s answer to my question is her answer to everything these days, “Because I’m pregnant.” She tries to take my plate away, I wrestle it back from her.

“There’s still the tomato left.”

“Fine.”

As I slice into the tomato I tell her, “Could have done with a sausage though, its not a proper fry up without a sausage.”

It wasn’t a criticism, more of a helpful suggestion so her response is way over the top. Her hand flies up to her mouth and she turns away, hanging over the sink taking in deep gulpfuls of air.

“Don’t mention that word.”

“What word?”

“The ‘s’ word.”

Laura disapproves of my language, “But I didn’t say shit, or shag or shaft or sex _ oh you mean sausage.”

That propels her back to the sink.

“Do you need some water” I ask seeing the distinctly green tinge of her usual flawless complexion.

She nods and sits back down or rather sits up on the breakfast stool. My sister doesn’t so much as veer towards shortness but rather limbo dances straight under it with inches to spare.

“It’s the morning sickness,” she explains in between taking careful sips of her water. “Or all day sickness I should call it. It’s awful, Tess, the strangest things set it off.”
“Like the ‘s’ word.”

She nods, cautiously. “And any of its fellow animal products. Just the thought of them, let alone the sight sets me off. Stupidly I decided to cook Cottage pie for Alan’s supper last night, it’s his favourite.”
It would be, no doubt his nan cooked it for him when he was a little Alan in a knitted tank top and shiny red sandals.

“So I went to Tesco’s to get the mince and Oh Tess it was dreadful!” Her hand shooting up to her mouth again. “All that meat, that raw meat, all bloody and bleeding. Shelf after shelf of it. I couldn’t bear it, I just couldn’t bear it and I…….oh this is so embarrassing.”

I place down my knife and fork, “What happened?” I ask trying to keep the gleeful anticipation out of my tone.

“I knew I was going to be sick, I couldn’t hold it in, it was bubbling up my throat so I just grabbed the nearest receptacle.”
Only my sister would use the word receptacle.

“Which was?”

She looks at me with distraught eyes. “The shopping basket.”

I pondered, thumb on my chin. “That’s quite a holey receptacle. In fact I don’t think it could really be classed as a receptacle given the holes.”

Laura hands her head down in shame, “It went everywhere. They had to do a tannoy announcement for a cleaner to come and mop it up.”

I’m laughing, I can’t help it, but it’s a silent gasping sort of laugh so Laura doesn’t notice. Thankfully.

“Then the cleaner came and he put his yellow wet floor sign right by my feet. Oh it was so humiliating!”

I manage to wipe away my tears of mirth before she looks up, pressing my lips together in what I hope is a suitably sympathetic line.
I pat her hand, “I’ll do the washing up. You sit down and put your feet up.”

“Thanks, Tess.”

“Tess!”
“Who’s that?” hisses Laura.
“It’s Devan. He stayed the night.”
“Devan? Who’s Devan?”
“We met last night and he needed somewhere to crash.”
“So you brought back a complete strange into your pregnant sister’s home?”
“Actually I told him it was mine.”

Which retrospectively was a terrible idea since Devan strides out of the bedroom and thinking he was in my flat didn’t think about throwing any clothes on.

“Tess,” he grins, cheeky as a bum pinching vicar. “There you are. Fancy going back to bed?” He gives a chortle that stops mid innuendo laced hohoho as he spots Laura perched on the stool.

“Ah,” he says following her eyeline downwards to his _

“Chipolata!” squeaks Laura and heaves up her stomach contents all over the breakfast bar.

Flash Fiction – Prompt is Snake in the Grass

My historical fiction author brain has to label this alternative history. The bitter ruler of the title is the emperor Tiberius and though he was married to Julia they had divorced by the time he became emperor.

The Bitter Ruler

I seem to sign nothing but death warrants these days. Sejanus brings them in each morning; one scroll, two scrolls, three scrolls, sometimes more.

He has an apologetic pained expression as he places them on my desk. He knows what’s in them, he knows how those words will hurt his emperor.

Sometimes I refuse to sign so that I can express clemency.

It’s an important attribute of an emperor; clemency. For though I have the power to have you killed, I also have the power to let you live.

I prefer do to the latter but Sejanus implores me to be careful, too much clemency and it will signal that I am weak.

“Too little clemency and the emperor is too harsh, too draconian,” I counter. “Look what our history tells us about tyrants!”

He smiles in that way he has of showing he doesn’t countenacnce my view but he will let it pass.

Of course he’s right, he’s always right because whenever I bestow my clemency, the next month the scroll returns thicker with ever more evidence. And I am played a fool once more.

It used to make me angry, now it just saddens me. It saddens me that so many of my friends hate me so much. Why do so many want the crown from off my head?

If they truly knew what it was to be emperor! To sacrifice all your own wishes, your own desires for a realm that seemingly despises you.

If it were not for this accused crown I would be married to Vipsania still. We would have been happy.

Instead I am tied to Julia, my empress. She wears her crown well enough, a stately presence on my arm at banquets. She chatters away to the King of Judaea and the Indian trade ambassador. They find her charming.

They don’t know her like I know her.

I know what she gets up to at night, Sejanus brings me scrolls on that too.

He suffers greatly, says he cannot bear for me to be made a fool of like this.

What pride have I? What do I care about wearing the cuckold’s horns when I have worn them since my wedding night.

Her lovers are too numerous to list, suffice to say I know them all. I considered them friends once. Now they bow their deference and I find myself wondering if that is the position my wife takes before them. Does she stand there bowed to the waist, arse thrust up in the air ready to submit to their lusty thrustings? Or do they stand before her and gargle with their spit as she takes their putrid members into her lying mouth?

They make me sick, all of them. Those fawning courtiers with treachery in their minds and fingers that dabble between my wife’s thighs.

I suppose they are waiting for me to die so that they may marry her and take my crown.

We have no children, how could we when we have mated but the once. And from that one rutting I grew such a disgust of her that I have never touched her since.

It used to pain me this childless state. I used to imagine a smiling boy who I could teach to ride, an ally in my fight against them.

But now I am glad. For why would I want to  leave this cesspit of a city, this sewer of an empire to my own blood.

No, I have a far better plan. I have a snake for Rome, an emperor it truly deserves.

I’ve told no one of my plan, not even Sejanus, for I’m not as stupid an old fool as he thinks I am.

If I were to reveal my snake then the next morning his name would be in the first scroll placed on my desk. He thinks I don’t know. I play along because it suits me. Why wouldn’t I take the opportunity to remove Julia of her lovers?

I once thought Sejanus was one of her admirers. But no, apparently he has some wine boy who submits to his foul desires with but the faintest of resistance.

But that sodomite will learn soon, as they all will learn just how much I truly despise them. For only such hatred would compel me to leave them my snake, to name Caligula as my heir.

Flash Fiction – Prompt is good/bad day in the city

Definitely over ambitious for this one. It’s a hybrid ghost story/locked room mystery which needed more than 1000 words to give it justice.
Maybe one day I’ll expand it.

The Ghost Hunter

I’m a ghost hunter by trade. My natural habitat is draughty stone castles, creaking timber squire houses, wretched little workers cottages. It’s rare I venture even into a town let alone a city and certainly never London before.

I endure a cramped forty minute tube journey pressed against the doors and a young girl who I feel compelled to apologise to despite my inability to place myself anywhere else. I hump my equipment up the station steps and then twenty minutes along a never ending road of newsagents, fried chicken shops and outlets that can apparently transfer my money to anywhere in the world.

By the time I reach number 43 I am no longer surprised by my lack of work in London. The unquiet spirits would have to make a hell of a din to be heard above all this racket. Number 43 is a three story Victorian terrace. I give the door a quick rap and it opens almost immediately.

It is not till we’re sat on one very squashy pristine white sofa in a blanched room that I get to scrutinise my client.. Early forties, slender too slender in my opinion for her collar bones are sharply defined above he scoop of her neckline, blonde hair and hands that refuse to stop moving.

“Now if you can explain what’s been going on Mrs Ludgate?”
She nods, hands wringing together, “It happens every night when I go to bed, a scratching, a scratch, scratch scratching in the walls and the ceiling. It doesn’t stop, it goes on and on and on.”
I close my notebook. “Could it be mice or rats?”
“Oh no, it’s not that. Stewart had Rentokill in and they found no evidence of an infestation. Nothing, not a single dropping.”
“Stewart?”
“My husband.”
I leave a pause for her to tell me he’s at work, instead she says, “He’s left me. For that teenager that rents the top room in Number 49. He wants this house though, apparently it’s the perfect family home because of course she’s pregnant.”
“Is it just the scratching noise?” I ask trying to get back on topic.
“There’s the banging and then and then,” she leans forward, I do likewise and in a hushed tone she says, “Its whispering my name Sarah. Like this Ssssarah, Ssssarah. I feel I shall go quite, quite mad.”

I was pretty sure she was already there and this whole trip had been a complete waste of time. But I dutifully ask to see the bedroom in question, determined to earn my fee legitimately.

It’s a room on the third floor of the house, a king size bed with a gold coloured bed spread, a wardrobe, a dressing table, curtains to match the spread and a ceiling painted white with gold swirls. The glint of the sun off the ceiling blinds me. I walk over to the sash window, try to push it open.
“It’s painted shut,” Sarah tells me after I’ve spent half a minute heaving.
“Are you going to use your instruments?” Pointing to my suitcases.

I know it will be pointless, the drone of the traffic outside will mask any spirit voices I might otherwise record. And the rumble beneath my feet as I waited for her to answer the door confirmed that the house is built over the tube line which rules out any measurements on vibration divulgings.
But she looks so hopeful that I don’t feel I can refuse. So I unpack my stuff and point it purposefully about knowing full well I’m not going to get any useful readings.

After half an hour of this pantomime she asks, her voice cracking, “Have you got it? Does that tell you what it is? Can you tell it that I’m happy for it to stay if only it stops the scratching and the whispering.” Her hand shoots up to her head, “I can’t stand the voices, I just can’t stand them.”
Unnerved I tell her that I’m going to check the rest of the house to compare the readings. I slip out down the first flight of stairs, stand on the landing taking deep breaths contemplating knocking up one of her neighbours to warn them of her mental state.

Its then that I hear it. A scratch, scratch scratching coming from the floor above. Instinctively I hold up my counter, the needle turns a fraction.
Then suddenly from up the stairs, from within the bedroom there comes a bang, then a clattering that shudders the floor beneath my feet.
“Mrs Ludgate?”
A scream, followed by more clattering like the wings of a dozen metallic birds. I run up the stairs fling open the door. “Mrs Ludgate?”
And there she is lying face down on the floor, a knife plunged into her back.

The inspector is struggling with my account.
“And nobody ran past you?”
“No, I was stood by the bottom step the whole time.”
“Could the murderer have got out by the window?”
“It’s painted shut.”
After a good ten minutes of heaving he agrees with me. A thorough investigation of the wardrobe reveals only clothes and nobody is underneath the bed.
Which left?

One visitor from the country who was the only other person in a locked house with a murder victim. Not that the inspector says this, he reels off some tosh about me coming down to the station to help.
It’s as we are getting into the police car that I gaze upwards, the sun blinding me that it hits me.

The two of us gaze upwards at that painted gold and white ceiling, after a good few minutes of study we see it; a single golden ring hidden amongst the pattern.
Using a pole the inspector hooks hold of the ring and pulls. There comes a bang and then a clattering as the metal steps unfold before us.

There’s nobody in the attic naturally. There doesn’t need to be for this is a terrace and there is but one long shared space across all the house of the road. Across Number 49 where the teenage lover lives and where Mr Ludgate is undoubtedly hiding.

Flash Fiction – The Prompt is Broken Mirror

Okay I’m not sure I quite pulled this one off. I think I was just a tad over ambitious for 1000 words.

The Case of the Broken Mirror.

“And so here we all are in the very room where Mrs Fortescue was found,” announced Inspector Johns with a dramatic flourish. “Right here.”
A wide sweep of his arm indicating the dressing table.

Lydia gave a shudder, “Why must we gather here Inspector?”
Her twin Lyle, as blonde as she put his arm around him. “I agree with Lyds. It’s so unnecessary when we could all talk downstairs in the parlour.”
“I assure you Mr Fortescue, Miss Fortescue that it is very, very necessary.”
Mr Blake Myers one elbow on the mantelpiece snorted.

“It was here Mr Fortesce that you found the body of your stepmother Mrs Loretta Fortescue sat slumped at her dressing table four mornings ago.”
“Please don’t call her my stepmother, its too ridiculous when she was five years my junior.”
“It was a surprise because you’d thought she’s stormed out and not returned.”

“No I knew she’d not returned home,” corrected Lyle, “Because I personally bolted the front door and I unbolted it first thing in the morning.”

“The only conclusion therefore is that Mrs Fortescue did not leave this house at all but rather she went upstairs to her room and it was here that she was murdered!”

“Murdered!” butted in Blake Myers. “That’s a bit of a leap isn’t it old chap. From what Lydia’s told me there wasn’t a mark on her.”
Johns fixed Blake with a hard glare. “Twenty three year old women do not just drop dead Mr Myers. Which is why I had some blood taken from Mrs Fortescue’s body. I got the toxicology report back this morning. Mrs Fortescue had a high level of a particularly deadly poison in her bloodstream.”
Lydia’s hand went to her mouth.

“By your own admittance Mr Fortescue, your stepmother met her death in a locked house. Which would rather suggest that one of you was the one who murdered her.”
Blake Myers, leant against the wall examined his nails, “Not me, old chap. I wasn’t here. I was at home waiting for the luscious Loretta to visit me as she promised.”
Lyle clenched his fists. “Well I ought to _.”
“Ought to what Lyle? Punch me?” he smiled. “For what? For taking an interest in a young widow? Where’s the harm in that?”
“But it’s only two months since papa died,” said Lydia.
“Which is what you were arguing about in the parlour?”
“Yes, yes it was,” admitted Lyle. “I’m not saying Lyds and I expected her to play at full mourning, all those archaic traditions. We knew she’d likely marry again but so soon? Well it’s not the done thing, is it?”

Inspector Johns agreed it was not. “This row got heated and Mrs Fortescue determined she was going to meet Mr Myles whatever you two thought.”
Lyle hung his head down, “Yes.”
“So Mr Fortescue, Miss Fortescue you were where?”
“In the parlour,” supplied Lydia. “We tried to play cards but neither of us could concentrate. I went up to bed at nine o clock. I had such a headache.”
“And you Mr Fortescue?”
“I smoked a cigar and went up about half past ten.”
The Inspector’s gaze fell on Blake. He gave a laugh. “It hardly matters what time I went to bed, I wasn’t here.”

“And so here we have the mystery. Two people who went up to bed alone, two people who had the opportunity to poison Mrs Fortescue.”
“I say!” a heated Lyle burst out, his cheeks red with indignation.
“Lady, Gentlemen. Please indulge me for but a moment. Take a look at this dressing table and tell me what is missing.”
“Nothing,” said Blake with a yawn. “Typical number of jars and potions. I’ve never discovered what they are all for.”
“Mr Fortescue?”
Lyle shrugged.
“Inspector!” said Lydia suddenly pointing at the dressing table. “There’s no mirror.”
The Inspector smiled. “Quite, well spotted Miss Fortescue. There is no mirror, what sort of lady has a dressing table without a mirror? No kind of lady is my answer.”

The door creaked open, “Ahh Sergeant Cuff you have it I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Cuff shuffled in, a mirror clasped between his hands.
“Hold it up here Sergeant . Now ladies and gentlemen do you see right here in the corner.”
Lyle was the first to see it, “A crack.”
“Now what might that have caused that crack? And why was it so important to dispose of this broken mirror?” I had the sergeant swab around it and indeed the toxicologist found traces of the exact same poison that killed Mrs Fortescue.”
A collective gasp.
“But how, what I don’t understand?” blustered Lydia. “The mirror was poisoned?”
The Inspector turned to Blake. “I understand you have travelled in the amazon basin?”
Blake shrugged, “so what?”
“The tribesmen there have an intriguing method of killing. They use a hollowed out pipe and load it with a dart dipped in poison. Then they put it to their lips and blow.” He mimicked the action. “Poof. The benefits of such a method is that you can kill your quarry from a distance, unseen. You don’t even have to be in the same building do you Mr Myers?”
He turned his eye on Blake.

“Because that’s how you did it isn’t it? From that balcony there, through that open window. Your first shot missed, hitting the mirror instead and causing that crack but your second hit her alright, didn’t it Mr Myers?”

“Rubbish, what possible reason would I have to kill Loretta? She was a fun girl.”

“Oh she was more than that to you Mr Myers. You loved her. But she didn’t love you did she?”

“Shut up,” said Blake between clenched teeth. “Shut up.”

“You were just a bit of fun, a bit of cheer after the loss of her husband. She didn’t love you at all and you couldn’t bear that. And that is why you killed Loretta Fortescue!”

Flash Fiction – prompt is Night Stalker

Have to say I thoroughly depressed myself in under a 1000 words writing this one. Think I was channelling a lot of very bleak sci fi films from the 70s and 80s.

The Night Stalkers

It was Bert who first called them Night Stalkers. Before then they’d had no name. We avoided talking of them altogether as if this omission would aid our plight.

Night Stalker seemed fitting, almost too fitting for it matched them so well that to speak it brought back all the horror of their being.
Why they came only at night we never knew. We’d thought in those early days when Philip and Petra were still living, that they were some type of bat. We became convinced for it explained what that strange clapping noise was that always preceded their arrival. It was their wings beating, Philip had said and it explained too how they departed so swiftly with their prey.

It’s easy to convince yourself of anything when you’re frightened. They have no wings. That we know for sure now. So the clapping must be something else altogether.

Philip believed they must have some kind of infra-red vision, it was the only way to explain why they were so successful in hunting us down.
Course Bert said that was rubbish, like he said everything was rubbish. Like when he’d told Mika that his trap would never work. He’d been proved wrong that time for the flash bulb went off and the image the camera took was how we know they have no wings.

I think I miss Bert the most of all of them. That relentless scorn he heaped upon our every theory, our every plan for escape. At least he gave us someone to rally against, to fire up our tempers, to feel something in our veins.

When Bert was gone and it was just and me and Mika, that was when we gave up. If that grizzled old veteran all leathery skin and hard eyes could be plucked so easily there really was no point in fighting them any more.

When daylight came Mika and I moved our stuff from the mansion house into the bunker. We’d found the bunker after the first couple of nights, Philip so sure that the Stalkers must have a nest, a warren, a something where they rested during the day where we would find them and destroy them all. Philip had watched too many vampire films Bert had said and I tended to agree with him.

We never found any sign of them, not anywhere. What we did find was this bunker. It dated back to the cold war, those days when the worst thing you could imagine was being vaporised off the earth. We knew better now.

We had tins of food, jerry cans of water, torches, a generator powered light supply. We bolted the door, an act of surrender.

Inside our concrete cell we couldn’t hear that dreadful clapping and the squeal the stalkers cried whenever they caught one of us. We couldn’t even tell if it were day or night. We’d thought that would be a relief, that it would lessen the abominable dread that grew as the sun lowered in the sky.
Except it didn’t, it merely prolonged that agony for we were now alert to every sound, any scratch or hiss or knock. We were always on our guard, taking turns to sleep. Except Mika didn’t sleep.

I don’t blame him for what he did. I really don’t. But it’s left me in a situation because Mika is starting to stink now, his skin is green, bloated. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. Soon it will ooze and in our sealed cell there is nowhere for that ooze to go.
So I will have to open that door and kick his body out. But I have no idea if its day or if its night.

I can bear it today I decide. But tomorrow, whenever tomorrow is, I shall open the door.

Flash Fiction – prompt is Stag/Hen do

The policeman doesn’t like me. I don’t blame him I don’t particularly like me much at the moment either. I can’t believe I have spent the night in the police cell, it is utterly unlike me. I’m usually quite popular with constabulary. I have an innate tendency towards excessive helpfulness when faced with the law. However today this appears to be annoying PC Stoat rather than assisting him.
“Do you want to tell me about the sheep now, sir?”
“Yes of course, Flossie_.”
“Flossie?”
“Yes, Flossie,” I nod my head with an overenthusiasm that sets off a ponding beneath my left eye. My hand goes up to it, feeling the swelling.
“Was it Flossie that did that to you, sir?”
I think he’s being sarcastic or maybe he’s just being extremely thorough, I can’t tell, something I put down to my lousy night.
He flips over a page of his notebook, “Let’s get back to the sheep, name of Flossie. Where did you come across this Flossie.”
“She, I’m supposing she was a she I didn’t get a chance to examine her. Not that I go around examining sheep as a habit or a hobby even. I live in London, there aren’t any sheep.”
“I suspect that’s a good thing, sir. Now Flossie?”
“Was with the Hen party.”
“And you were with this hen party?”
“No not really. I sort of happened upon them and I sort of became in their midst I suppose you’d say. They sort of swarmed me.”
“Does that happen to you a lot sir? Women swarming all over you?”
Definitely sarcasm, I’m not exactly George Clooney. My friends reliably inform me I most resemble that slightly fey one off Antiques Roadshow.
My very British desire to be helpful leads me into an overshare as I burst out. “I’m a homosexual!”
He notes this down in the notebook, either he has a knowledge of shorthand or he’s used a far shorter, more succinct word to describe my sexuality.
“So these hens swarm around you and then what happened?”
I’m not sure I want to say. There was a great deal of squealing from the hair extensioned, false lashed, faked tan gang of girls. My bottom was squeezed at least five times and given a couple of slaps. Frankly I’d been terrified fearing an imminent de-trousering, it was prep school all over again.
“Is this the time to mention they were dressed as I guess what you’d call sexy bo-peeps?”
“It’s as good a time as any, sir.”
A pause.
“Well they were dressed as sexy bo-peeps and one of them had a sheet under her arm.”
“And this would be Flossie?”
“Yes,” I confirm pleased with my answer. “Flossie was with Tricia, I believe that was her name was and then that’s when the stag party approached.”
PC Stoat looks up with interest as we finally get to the meat of the story.
“And Jack Evans was one of this party?”
“So you’ve told me. I just know him as the bully who ripped Flossie from under Tricia’s arm.”
“And how did Flossie respond to this?”
Sarcasm I deduce, so I move back to Jack and Tricia. “He was holding Flossie out of her and her friend’s reach. And he and his mates were laughing. It really wasn’t very nice.”
“Would this be when you got the idea that you would rescue Flossie?”
Actually my idea had been to slope away whilst nobody was looking at me. “I’m not sure I really had the idea, it was sort of pressed upon me. “ By ten squealing girls in bonnets and dresses short enough to show off their frilly knickers.
“They’d hired the costumes and they were worried they’d lose their deposit if they returned their outfits without the sheep, sorry Flossie.”
“How very noble of you, sir.”
“And then, well then I sort of ran at him.”
“Ran?”
“Into his stomach, head first.”
And nearly knocked myself out in the process not expecting Jack to have such hard stomach muscles.
“And this would be when Mr Evans called you a,” he consults his notebook. “A total knobhead and punched you in the face.”
“Yes that would be the moment.” My hand goes up to my sore eye again.
“And Mr Evans came about his injuries how, sir?”
“It was self defence!” I protest. “I was lying in the gutter and Mr Evans is towering over me with his hand ready to punch me again and I just grabbed the nearest thing to hand.”
“Which was Flossie?”
“Yes.”
“Who you proceeded to use to beat Mr Evans about the head with?”
“Yes,” I lower my head in shame.
“At what point did you realise that Flossie wasn’t an inflatable sheep but rather constructed out of fibre glass?”
“I think it was when he started to bleeed. What kind of fancy dress shop hires out fibreglass sheep – one run by Damien Hirst?”
“That would be assault, sir.”
“Yes I guess it would be,” I hang my head down again.
The door of the interview room opens and a woman PC enters, she whispers something in PC Stoat’s ear that makes him sigh with exasperation.
“You can go,” he tells me.
“I can?”
“Yes. Please do so.”

I enter the foyer to be greeted by ten squealing girls in sexy bo-peep outfits who envelope me a huge hug declaring me their hero.
It turns out they’d filmed the whole incident on their mobiles, threating Jack that they’d make the footage of his assault by Flossie public.