Short Stories Read online

  “And…. what was it you saw, Mrs Deverett?”

  Wilson knew what was coming. So did Rachel Black, but the jurors and Judge Bowden did not. The slightest rustle breezed through the room as they all leaned forward to hear Ruth Deverett reveal the secrets of the study.

  She cleared her throat. Sipped from a glass of water.

  “One wall was lined with mannequins and against the far wall there was a small table underneath a mirror with small lights round the edging. You know? Like the ones you see in theatres. It was a makeup table.”

  “And the mannequins?”

  “Clothed in dresses. Ball gowns mostly. And on shelves behind them, wigs. I think I counted twelve. Different styles and different colours.”

  “Your husband was a member of the local theatre company, Mrs Deverett?”

  Ruth’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

  “Theatre? Oh no. He was a cross dresser. A transvestite.” Ruth’s eyes searched the jury as if to ascertain they had all understood her correctly. “Oh, but I’ve got to say a transvestite with….class. You see the clothes were of the finest quality. It seemed that even in the most perverse of states, Robert was unwavering in taste. He had always worn Italian suits and Italian shoes. Always an immaculate dresser so it was reasonable that when he dressed as a woman he would dress in the finest.”

  Wilson threw a sideways look at the judge then returned to Ruth.

  “And how did this make you feel?”

  “I was disappointed of course. Not because Robert was a transvestite but because I recognized the clothes. They were gowns I had selected when he had taken me shopping. I myself had never had such finery. Robert told me I had a good eye but lacked the flair to wear such things. To buy these gowns for me would be wasting money. Or to quote him I think he said, it’d be like casting pearls before swine. Something like that anyway.”

  Wilson picked up a paper from his table and gave it a quick scan.

  Without looking up he asked, “What happened next, Mrs Deverett?”

  “I heard noises. At first I ignored them, but the strangeness of them piqued my curiosity.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “It was like a bird had got trapped in the house and was trying to escape. That kind of noise.”

  “Where were the noises coming from?”

  “I followed them back to the sitting room.”

  “With the poker in your hand?” Wilson asked.

  “No. I had no use for it anymore.”

  “I see. And what did you see when you got to the sitting room?”

  “Robert was hanging himself. He had put the extension power cable used for the television over a beam. The television didn’t work anymore so he quite rightly found another use for it. Anyway, he had climbed onto a chair, put the noose around his neck and kicked the chair away. His legs were kicking wildly. Jerking, I suppose you’d say. And he made terrible gurgling sounds.”

  Wilson moved closer.

  “Did you make any attempt to cut him down? Did you call the police or a neighbor?”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t have done that. Robert didn’t like it when I interfered with his activities, but I did get a mop. Robert was urinating over the carpet and I had to keep the house clean. It would have upset Robert a great deal if I hadn’t.”

  Judge Bowden’s head was shaking. He had heard enough. This bitch had driven her husband to commit suicide. If she had left the relationship, this tragedy would never have happened. The woman’s husband was a Member of Parliament, for goodness sakes. She would have known all that transvestite business becoming public knowledge would ruin him. There is no excusing her actions. She was in the wrong and he would do his best to ensure that was how the jury saw it too.

  His train of thought was interrupted by Rachel Black springing to her feet.

  “Your Honour. The Prosecutor has produced not one iota of evidence of criminal intent on the part of Mrs Deverett. If anything her brutalizing at the hands of Robert Deverett fully justifies a claim of diminished capacity in all matters pertaining to her husband. The available evidence establishes only one incontestable fact. From deepest shame, Robert Deverett took his own life. I ask that all charges against Ruth Deverett be dismissed. Mrs Deverett needs counseling not a courtroom.”

  Bowden looked at Harvey Wilson. He was not objecting to the request. He had his head down. Fiddling with papers. Wilson was weak. Bowdon had never liked him. He looked at his watch. He had a party to get to and he couldn’t be late. He would delay the ruling and try to talk sense into Wilson in the morning.

  “Court is adjourned until tomorrow.”

  “Your honour!”

  “Tomorrow, Ms Black.”

  Judge Bowden stood and the rest of the courtroom stayed on their feet until he had left. Harvey Wilson looked across to Rachel Black and nodded. The unsaid message was clear. He would not object to the case being thrown out.

  ###

  Judge Bowden closed the front door and hung his coat on the rack behind it. A deep sigh signified to himself how glad he was the day was over. When he entered the kitchen, Jackie was standing beside the sink wiping her hands on a tea-towel.

  Her eyes focused on him.

  “You’re late, Gerald.”

  Bowden checked his watch.

  A chill of trepidation skittered up his spine.

  “Er…only ten minutes dear. See.”

  A pathetic twist of his wrist so that Jackie could see the time for herself but her glare didn’t leave his face.

  “Late is late, Gerald.”

  The glint in her eye he’d seen before and come to dread. Her shape had changed since she had won the Miss West Coast Bodybuilder competition. She had become bigger.

  And stronger.

  She moved towards him. He froze with fear. She swung her fist. He raised an arm to protect himself but she was too strong and easily broke through his defense striking him on the side of the head. Bowden collapsed onto the floor.

  He hated her.

  One day he would leave the fucking bitch.

  A plate smashed onto the floor beside his head covering him with pieces of cake. He knew it was carrot cake. Jackie only ever made carrot cake on his birthday.

  The End

  The World’s Biggest Bun

  The off-white walls of the lunchroom had yellowed. Kitchen ovens sat forlorn and unused. Only the stainless steel bench-top showed signs of use. Ants made tracks to a spillage of sugar and a chipped enamel jug sat in a clotting pool of milk. There were twelve tables and forty-eight chairs but only one table and two chairs showed any evidence of use. The owner had had grandiose ideas when he built his bakery in the village of Glockenspiel, but the orders from the big city never came and no more than two bakers had ever been employed.

  Günter and Herman, as always, ate their lunch in silence. After five years, the two friends had said all there was to be said. Each day they ate the same lunch – sausage, cheese, and a salad of red cabbage and beetroot. When this was done, they sat back in their chairs grunting and scratching bloated beer bellies.

  “I’m going to make the world’s biggest bun,” Herman announced.

  Günter looked up from his newspaper.

  “What sort of bun? Hamburger, hotdog, cinnamon, almond, sticky, plain, whole-meal? What type?”

  “I don’t know. What does it matter? Whatever bun I choose, it’s going to be the world’s biggest.”

  “Okay,” Günter said, warming to the conversation. “Where are you going to find the world’s biggest oven? Have you thought of that?”

  “Why do I need the world’s biggest oven?”

  “Because, you idiot, the bun has to be baked. You won’t be able to bake the world’s biggest bun in an ordinary oven. If you’re going to bake the world’s biggest bun, you have to have the world’s biggest oven. And there’s more.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Sure there’s more. You’re going to need the world’s biggest tray, for t
he dough.”

  “I’ll find a tray.”

  “It has to fit the oven.”

  “It’ll fit.”

  “And there’s more.”

  “There’s more?

  “Of course there’s more, Dummkopf. You’ll need to find the world’s biggest hands to knead the dough, otherwise it will never rise and all you’ll end up with is the world’s biggest pancake.”

  Herman sat thoughtful for a few minutes. Then he smiled.

  “That’s it, then, I’ll make the world’s biggest pancake.”

  ###

  Günter kicked the sleeping dog. It yelped and leapt from the top step of the porch onto the grey paving stones. Günter stooped and straightened the doormat, then stamped mud from his boots before sitting on the bench to remove them. The dog paced back and forth, panting; its tongue drooling saliva as it solicited affection from its master. Günter grunted and the dog moved forward, but Günter glared and held up a hand.

  “Stay, Belco.”

  Whining, Belco sat down, fidgeting and rubbing his rear end into the dirt.

  Günter stomped into his home, slamming the door shut on the disappointed dog.

  “Günter, is that you?”

  “Who do you think it is? Of course it’s me. It is always me.”

  Günter trudged through to the lounge and slumped into his chair. Rosa appeared with a stein of cold beer and carefully placed it on the small table Günter had made at night class. It wobbled and needed a wedge of cardboard to steady it. When he had brought it home Rosa had praised her husband’s carpentry skills, not daring to comment that one leg was shorter than the others.

  Günter was not a man to accept criticism.

  He had cursed the builder of the house, calling him a son of a pig and swore that if he ever saw him again he would rip the skin off his arse for making the floor uneven. He had laughed when he said this and Rosa, worn down by years of subjugation, had laughed along with him. Even so, her nerves had jangled as his beady eyes honed in on her like the sonar guidance system of a bat, seeking out morsels of reticence to pounce upon. She backed away to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Once safe, fell to one knee, crossed herself and begged God to strike her shit of a husband dead.

  ###

  Rosa brought through a plate of red cabbage and liverwurst and placed it on the small table, next to the beer.

  “Please don’t eat too much, Günter. Your dinner is nearly ready.”

  Gunter held up a slice of liverwurst.

  “Foolish woman. This sausage is not at fault. The meals you cook would fill any stomach. You are extravagant. It is because I give you too much money. Maybe I will cut your allowance. Then you will respect my money. You will respect me.”

  He looked up at her. She stared back, standing tall, straight backed, defiant. Then, as always, her eyes fell away. Günter sneered at the sight of her quivering lip. He hated weak women. The hookers he screwed on Friday nights would not take the crap he dished out to Rosa. Well, what did he expect? Educated women were weak. Not like the village women. Not strong like him. Not strong like a baker.

  Rosa fiddled with the button on her faded paisley dress.

  “How was it today, Günter? Do you have any news?”

  “It is a bakery, Rosa. Why would there be news?”

  “You must have talked with your friend. You and Herman sometimes have amusing conversations.”

  Günter smiled. He decided it would not hurt to feed his miserable wife a few scraps of humanity. After all, he was a nice guy. Everybody said so.

  “There was something. Herman said he wanted to make the world’s biggest bun. Can you imagine? He is such a fool, but it was an entertaining idea and filled the lunch hour.”

  “Really? It would need a big oven.”

  “That’s what I said. Herman didn’t think that far ahead.”

  “He does not have your intelligence, Günter. You must be accommodating.”

  “Accommodating? Do I look like a hotel?”

  “I only meant that in a way it is a good idea. If he did make such a bun, he would be famous. He would be on television. Maybe they would take him to America and put him on Oprah. But there is only one problem with his plan.”

  Günter raised an eyebrow as he looked up at Rosa, his interest piqued.

  “What problem?”

  “I would have thought that to make the world’s largest bun you would need to be the world’s best baker and the world’s best baker is you, Günter. Everybody knows that. Everyone in the village says so. They point at you in the streets. Talk about you all the time.”

  Günter’s chest puffed out. It was true. The villagers did point at him. He saw the whispering. Now he knew why. They were in awe of him. And why shouldn’t they be? Rosa, for all her many faults, did know what she was talking about sometimes. This was one of those occasions. He was a great baker, and great bakers did great things. He owed it to the world to show his greatness.

  “You know, Rosa? You are right. I should make the world’s biggest bun. For Herman, this is a foolish idea. But for me, not so foolish at all.”

  “You make me so proud, Günter.”

  She smiled, but her lips were compressed. Gter’s tankard emptied then banged back onto the table.

  “I will do it. I will make the world’s biggest bun.”

  “But the oven?”

  “This I will make in the backyard, out of brick, and I will fire it with wood. Just like the bakers of old. Look at this table. I made it. Is it a not a symbol of real craftsmanship? Yes, if anyone can do this, I can. Bring me another beer, Rosa, and a pen and paper. I need to make a plan.”

  “So do I,” Rosa murmured as she hurried off to the kitchen and sought solace in the remnants of a bottle of gin.

  ###

  Word that a citizen of Glockenspiel was attempting to break a world record spread throughout the town. Each morning, on a small hillock behind the iron railing fence at the rear of Günter and Rosa’s house, the townsfolk gathered in ever increasing numbers to watch as Günter’s brick phoenix rose from a bed of freshly laid cement.

  Günter bought Rosa a new wheelbarrow.

  Her job was to cart bricks to the back of the house. His, to supervise her and to build. Each day a truck unloaded wood pallets laden with bricks until the rustic-red mountain was so high that it began to look like eclipsing the house itself.

  The construction was now the topic of conversation in all the village bars and cafés for many kilometers around. But, Günter’s oven was taking on such a level of importance that it threatened the fragile egos of the Mayor and his town council.

  A delegation from Town Hall, led by none other than the Mayor himself, stormed through Günter’s front gate like a juggernaut. The fat baker was not intimidated by the diminutive figure of authority draped in the gowns of office. He ordered the Mayor and the councilors off his property. The Mayor stood firm. He demanded to see Günter’s building permit. Rosa tried to reason with them. Everyone in the town liked Rosa, including the Mayor and his Councilors, but they did not like Günter and would not be dissuaded from their sworn duty to uphold town bylaws.

  Fortunately for Günter making the world’s biggest bun was news. Many news reporters and cameras were on hand. A reporter demanded to know if the biggest event ever in Glockenspiel history was about to be stopped. Some quick thinking was needed. The Mayor cast a nervous eye over the anxious faces of his gathered electorate then stepped up to the assemblage of microphones. Now all smiles, he assured the journalists that of course Günter had their support. And he pointed out that his name, Frankl, was spelt with no e.

  When the cameras swung Günter’s way, he froze like a deer caught in headlights. Instead of spouting forth words of great wisdom as he had done in the confines of his sitting room, the fat baker stood silent.

  Where was Rosa? Why wasn’t she here when he needed her most?

  “My husband has always had high ideals,” Rosa called out.

  All e
yes turned to the elegant woman walking towards them. Günter had to blink and refocus. Yes, it was Rosa. She wore the dress he had bought her last year when he needed her to look her best at the baker’s convention. She looked like the Rosa he had first met. She moved through the crowd with the poise of a dancer. The camera on Günter switched to Rosa. She looked directly into it.

  “We, all of us in this town, know that Günter Sachs is no ordinary man.

  The townsfolk nodded in agreement. Indeed, none of them had ever thought of Günter as an ordinary man.

  “He is a man of vision.”

  “Tele-vision, more like it,” a man’s voice yelled out.

  A round of general laughter greeted the comment.

  Günter glared, but he couldn’t identify the heckler amongst the mass of faces. He turned his attention back to Rosa. She had been to a hairdresser. She had spent his hard-earned money on hair, but…. she did look good. He had to admit that much to himself. Better even than his Friday night hookers. His anger waned as he thought it through. This was perfect. After all, the baker who made the world’s biggest bun would become the world’s most famous baker. And the world’s most famous baker deserved to have a beautiful wife didn’t he? For all her faults, it could not be disputed that Rosa was attractive.

  ###

  The next morning when Günter and Rosa stepped out of the house together, Rosa wore another new dress bought the previous evening. Günter had agreed that she was more use to him telling the world how great he was than toting bricks and mixing concrete. To represent the world’s greatest baker she must look her best. So he’d given her money for clothes and makeup, and hired schoolboys to do the heavy work.

  The crowd on the hill clapped and cheered as Rosa and Günter emerged.

  Günter beamed.

  The townsfolk had decided that they might as well support the asshole baker. He was bringing tourists to Glockenspiel. He was making them money.

  The more commercially-minded citizens were taking advantage of the sudden glut of visitors. Frau Pushberg sent her six children and husband to stay with her sister in the capital and rented out their rooms. For the first time in many years her good-for-nothing husband and worthless children were contributing to the upkeep of the household.